A few weeks ago I was gardening. That’s a fancy word for pulling plants out of the ground that I don’t like, especially when they are next to plants I do like. I noticed a large area of the garden that could use mulch. And I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be great if relationships were like gardening? Like the time I drank too much and made inappropriate comments to my son about his grades, wouldn’t it have been great if I could have just cut that puppy back and then covered it with mulch?
But that wasn’t my serious thought. I was gardening wearing my son’s sweatshirt. My hair was dirty. My face had various smudges all over it. I hadn’t tweezed my chin. (Gross, huh?)
So the neighbor’s cute little girl, maybe 4 years old, was outside. I waved at her. She sort of waved back. This was my serious thought. It occurred to me that this is how the stories of witches were born. Middle aged women doing tasks without regard to how they look. But boy dirt smells good in Northern California when the sun comes out in early spring. Since early spring starts, well, early here.
Clearly I should have worn Lilly.