You’ve been outside digging a large hole for several hours when you realize that you can’t recall why you are digging it. Retrace your steps to try to discover your motivation.
The steel blade of the shovel cracks through another crusty level of dirt as I scoop, then heave the soil up over my shoulder to the growing pile up and behind me. Is this the thousandth time or second I've repeated this motion? The fruits of my labor are a growing pile of loose earth that stands proudly next to the shallow pit that was once it's home.
As blisters begin to form on my palms, a sudden realization strikes me. I do not know why I am digging this hole.
Tossing my shovel to my side I sat down on the edge of my hole and stare into it's lackluster depth. Perched on the edge as I am, with my feet resting on the bottom my hole is just deep enough to contain my lower legs but three times wider than deep. My hole could hold many things, treasure, flowers, death. But which one was I planning for?
Before I began digging, I had walked to this spot. Ten or so yards from my front door, in a bare patch of garden. Earlier than that I had picked my shovel out of a pile of other garden tools; trowels, rakes and gloves.
Perspiration runs down the back of my neck as the sun beats down above me. Why did I dig this hole?
A car horn startles me from my thoughts and I see an orange pick up truck rattle down my driveway and slow to a stop. In green script on the side the truck is labeled "Gary's Pond Maintenance".
Suddenly it comes back to me. My hole is for a pond in my garden.
The steel blade of the shovel cracks through another crusty level of dirt as I scoop, then heave the soil up over my shoulder to the growing pile up and behind me. Is this the thousandth time or second I've repeated this motion? The fruits of my labor are a growing pile of loose earth that stands proudly next to the shallow pit that was once it's home.
As blisters begin to form on my palms, a sudden realization strikes me. I do not know why I am digging this hole.
Tossing my shovel to my side I sat down on the edge of my hole and stare into it's lackluster depth. Perched on the edge as I am, with my feet resting on the bottom my hole is just deep enough to contain my lower legs but three times wider than deep. My hole could hold many things, treasure, flowers, death. But which one was I planning for?
Before I began digging, I had walked to this spot. Ten or so yards from my front door, in a bare patch of garden. Earlier than that I had picked my shovel out of a pile of other garden tools; trowels, rakes and gloves.
Perspiration runs down the back of my neck as the sun beats down above me. Why did I dig this hole?
A car horn startles me from my thoughts and I see an orange pick up truck rattle down my driveway and slow to a stop. In green script on the side the truck is labeled "Gary's Pond Maintenance".
Suddenly it comes back to me. My hole is for a pond in my garden.
