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I spent the entire weekend--every waking minute of daylight outside. Mostly in the garden--currently rows of bare dirt, all the magic is happening underground.  I begrudgingly had to go inside to eat, and heaven forbid, get some sleep. But even in my dreams I was navigating the jungle of pumpkins stretching across the rows, and blossoms reaching up towards the sky (this may have had something to do with the fact that I fell asleep with seed packets on my nightstand). I woke in the morning excited and eager--like Christmas! Is it too early to get up? 

I pushed and pulled, shoveled and moved the earth with my hands. I sat myself in the dirt, scooted on hands and knees, carefully tucking delicate seeds into their warm beds, whispering “I’ll see you again in a few weeks, work hard”.

I watered each by hand, laughing as it started to rain, then hail, then sunshine again in a matter of minutes. Spring in the mountains. 

When I finally came inside Sunday night, I was sunsoaked, caked with dirt--hands stained, bare feet wearing an extra layer, and soggy with spring rain. I smelled like the garden. I smiled. 

I too had been planted. 

{here’s to a bountiful summer--for the garden, for myself} 

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