An eight year old just traipsed through this small living space here....with a 20 pound bag of potting soil.
Carrying it from the garage to the backyard - he clearly has a plan and place for that bag of fancy earth.
After he slides through the back storm door and lugs his bag of planting dirt to the far corner of our yard...I get up from the table and watch from the window.
Getting all manner of black rich soil over the tops of his feet, and doesn't mind it.
Back all hunched in focus.
He stoops there, and allows his fingers to join his toes in mounds of dirt.
Raking those growing fingers through this healthy earth - he breaks up clods and mixes up nutrients and prepares the ground for planting.
As he bows low and tends the ground - Mama here is touched.
His interest in all things land, his love of nature, his contentment to work the plot he has.
And his hope.
His hope of green sprouting up through earth - he waits for harvest.
And it blesses me.
Between soil preparation and planting - a bee decides to descend.
There's a bush blooming right next to my boy's garden area - full in it's glory with white and purple flowers and scents of heaven.
The bee, of course, is drawn to this.
The boy, of course, flees!
" I don't want to get stung, Mama. But I don't want to kill the bee either."
So he puts on a dark colored coat to protect his epidermis from a stinger, and makes haste to fill small holes with tiny seedlings.
Grabbing his makeshift watering can...an old Ozarka bottle with holes punched through the lid... he lets water quench the ground.
He comes in - leaving the lone serenity of the garden - and immediately starts squabbling with his sister.
But now, with early morning work done and secure...
He sits at my table and eats breakfast.
And I sit and thank God for the boy.