Here’s little bit of writing for fun that I came up with during a bout of insomnia this week.
My mama always said you need to dig deep to really find yourself. What I didn’t realize was that she meant it literally.
The first warm weekend in New England, I found myself at Home Depot, my eyes scanning along the garden shelves looking for that perfect plant to take home with me. I had finally coaxed myself out into the sunlight and had witnessed what the winter had done to my yard, and knew it was time to help it heal. It didn’t take long for some hardy flower types to catch my eye and I quickly placed a bunch in my cart and wheeled them to the register. On the way I paused to think if I should buy gardening gloves, but then decided again it.
Soon I was at home, kneeling on the lawn scraping away layers of rock and gravel and old stiff mulch from my beds. As I gardened bare-handed I realized the dirt was getting everywhere, in my tiny cuts, stuck along the dry skin flakes, immersing my hands in their loamy fertileness. Though it was nothing like soaking in a warm bath, I felt comforted by the sun beaming down and the dirt encasing my hands. It felt natural and right, even though my hands were no less dry than any other day.
Later that afternoon as I washed the dirt off with soap, I realized my hands were cracking less and less itchy post-wash, unlike my usual discomfort from water and soap encounters. Though I still applied moisturizer, the effects of my gardening had already reduced some of the more persistent symptoms of my stagnant eczema, and I felt good. Obviously it was no cure, but the benefits of getting down and dirty with the dirt seemed to be somewhat relieving from the usual eczema grind.
It was nice to know that my non-flares hands were still down in their under the scrapes and wrinkles and redness and flakes, even if I had to dig down in the dirt to get to re-meet them.