I’m having a little talk with myself. Make that my two selves.
And it isn’t going well.
House Devil: “Look at this living room. Your dust balls are multi-storied. The kitchen floor is so sticky you left one sock behind when you attempted to walk through it. And what is that film on the bathroom mirror that obscures half your face? Woman, get your house in order.”
Garden Angel: “Dear, forget all that housework. What a glorious day to be in the garden.”
Guess who wins this argument?
Once I’m in the garden, all of that chatter stops. The solitary act of planting, weeding and hoeing calms my clattering mind, and I am focused on a singular act. A meditation to dirt, perfumed by spring flowers and lashings of warm winds as the sun warms my back.
I’m my better self in the garden.
Don’t get me wrong; I do housework. I vacuum and dust in between sighs and looks of longing for the outside world. My house devil is a whiny woman who can build a fortress of resentment if her husband doesn’t pitch in with the housework. Which, thank god, he does.
It’s a common affliction: “house devil & garden angel” syndrome. And I’m a sufferer. So is my husband. Only he suffers more.
When darkness finally drives me inside, I always wish the dust balls wouldn’t scatter when I walk through rooms. I wish I could pry my left sock from that sticky mystery blob. I wish the dishes were done, the beds were made. . .
But mostly I wish for one more day to comingle with the earthworms, leave a little corner of beauty, and tread lightly on this lovely earth.