for the dirt alone

​Today I spent over an hour digging in Arkansas dirt in search for diamonds. I, and my red Hunter boots, had my butt firmly planted on mud, as I used my bare hands to dig. My neck craned and my focus was on just one area. I buried my fingers into the dirt and dug them out. I didn’t shift position for a long time.
 
My boys joined the fun as well, but after a short time, they were ready to go. Not I. I felt like a little girl, digging in the mud without a care in the world. I knew my chances in finding a diamond were very slim. Nonetheless, it was exciting. It probably was the closest sense I had to “being” grounded.
 
It was life in its grandest gesture, to find a diamond in the rough. Which, oftentimes, pretty much is a tease and leaves you with nothing but a bunch of rocks.
 
I know this. I left the park muddied and with several tiny rocks in labeled brown paper bags.
 
Still, I smiled. And my smile was for the dirt, the dirt alone.

hello, dirt.