Come Shovel Dirt With Me?

Photo by Caroline O'Brien on Unsplash‍ ‍

I’m supposed to have a salary at this stage in my life. I’m supposed to write at least a thousand words a day. I’m supposed to be figuring out the next five years of my life. I’m supposed to be making a difference in the world. I’m supposed to be an expert at something by now. I’m supposed to be healed and set free. I’m supposed to know what I want. I’m supposed to be starting my own business. I’m supposed to be confident and brave. I’m supposed to speak up and have opinions, and create content.

The pressure and fear come to a head and then release through a small trickle of tears down my cheeks. The supposed to’s push me into a corner with their pointy fingers, mocking me until I fall apart.

I’m okay with the collapse, though. My unconventional, non-linear life has given me years of practice. I'm not afraid of falling apart, coming undone, because I know who catches me now.

The earth.

Instead of a car, I have a huge pile of dirt in my driveway.

My boys still don’t have any drawers to put their clothes in, but I have soil for planting. I envisioned my backyard garden and vibrant flower beds before I even bought myself a proper bed frame.

In the face of the relentless supposed-tos in life, I’ve learned to cultivate a garden and be with nature.

When I break into a million pieces and cannot hold myself up against the constant pressure to make something of myself, to make progress, and a profit, I tuck myself into the dirt. I nestle up next to the source, inhale her musky sweet scent, and find myself among the pink, squiggly worms and delicate dahlia shoots.

I grab a shovel and haul soil back and forth into my garden, creating a fresh space for new growth and colorful dreams to appear.

If I am supposed to be somewhere, doing something, sorry, but I am here. And maybe here is exactly where we flourish.