In the dirt

At least three folks this morning exclaimed that the farming we were doing - planting basil in raised beds, cutting back artichokes, harvesting green onions - was better than their real jobs. We all loved it, getting dirty. Even with Sunday's sunburn, I wore shorts to feel the dirt better, though I did bring my gardening gloves and bandaids to protect what appear to be second degree chemical burns on my right hand. Sitting there between the rows of zucchini blossoms and basil grown from seed just felt so right.

Other people wondered wistfully what it might be like to do this full time, sighing about the mountains of debt anchoring them to indoor pursuits. Wouldn't it get old after a while, they offered, consoling themselves. But I'm in love. I loved holding the dirty onions to my chest. Or squatting with a hand saw under the artichoke plants. Or pressing baby basil plants into the earth.

And to think this farm (part of the Alameda Point Collaborative) is just a five mile bike ride from my apartment. I'm tempted to try to squeeze another volunteer stint into my classless Wednesdays.

I still wonder sometimes if going back to school is the right thing, if this is the right time to do it, but work feels more and more distant to me, as if my coworkers are on a beach getting farther away, faded to a pale pastel in the sea spray and sun. I'll be off soon enough, and I'm pretty confident I will feel nothing but good about it, tired and busy as I'll be.

At the moment, I'm half signed up to WWOOF in Iceland, listening to Five Farms on NPR, convinced there is something in the stars.