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.
just a mother who fled from society's constraints and is super excited to wake up to the outdoors, remain braless daily and teach her boys the art of boredom and discovery.