why I love to pull weeds.
why I love to clear ground.
Could it be my farmer genes?
Or could it be an old childhood memory,
one of the many memories buried deep inside of me?
I was a small child
when Grandpa Garratt had
a wonderful garden of
flowers and vegetables
at the front and at the back
of the house.
Did I help him pull weeds?
Did he show me
which was a weed and
what was a flower?
Did he tell me
the names of the little bugs
curling and crawling under
rocks and boards?
When I saw a clod of earth with a hole in it the size of a pencil,
did he tell me that a fat worm had slithered through?
Was it always summertime on the prairies with Grandpa?
Memories, like water on garden soil,
dampen our lives and
soak into our beings
only to reappear in
some other way
some other time.
Going deep into my life
Am I trying to dig the memories out?
"Wondering’s healthy. Broadens the mind. Opens
you up to all sorts of stray thoughts and possibilities."
~ Charles de Lint
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