For the first time in my adult life, I planted a garden last week.
It was arduous.
56 feet long, 2 feet deep, you do the math.
Nothing but cracked, dry ground. I had to fight for every inch. I turned it all over by hand, de-weeded, made a beautiful border, mixed top soil, planted, watered, and then collapsed into an exhausted heep. Two days of work. My quads will never be the same.
Now normally I have a hate-on for all things creepy crawly but for some reason, while gardening, my girly squeals are somewhat manageable. There were worms galore, spiders, and even a ladybug I managed to not freak out over.
I love my garden.
And just the other day, the first few teeny tiny little buds began to break ground. Then I allowed myself to squeal like a girl. In delight, of course.
Gardens and spring go hand in hand, don't they?
Renewal, rebirth.
I love the symbolism in this.
Because at its core is the idea that no matter what, anything can be made new.
No matter how broken, no matter how wretched, no matter how hopeless... everything can be made new, can be made better, can be made beautiful again.
It has been over 15 months since my life imploded. It feels like 15 years.
Hours spent trapped in loneliness, isolation, and heartache. Sorrow covers you and swallows you up, leaving no room for anything else.
But time elapsed.
Slowly. Very, very slowly.
I had to put in so much work. Fight for every inch.
I was lucky enough to have some wonderful people in my life to pluck me out of my grief and set me shakily back on the ground.
I even had one close friendship that sparked into a wonderful new relationship, my future husband.
My life is changing, being made over.
New experiences, new places, new people.
I feel like a different person now.
New.
And it feels really good.
