You are able to sneak away for a little bit--just a handful of minutes really--to tend your garden. You tune out everything except the hum of bees and the crackle of things growing. You smell nothing but damp earth and rosemary; feel thick roots twine themselves around your fingers and tender radish leaves kiss your wrists.
You know there are stacks of papers waiting for you on your writing desk along with a fresh pot of tea. But for now, you take a moment to be still, to tune into the thoughts and feelings that have been pushed to the bottom of your spine as you go about your work day. You release each lesser one as you would the weeds you pluck from your garden so that your tomatoes, as with your joy, may be plentiful. And you keep the good ones, planting them alongside your strawberries so they may grow as ripe and lush as those ruby berries.
With your bare feet on the earth, you feel the soul in your soles connecting you to that vast web of roots and minerals, leaves and petals and--soon--fruit. When your hands are blackened by dirt and your shirt splattered with water, you no longer feel the tendril of tiredness in your bones; and though you know you must clean yourself up before returning to your work, you allow your hair to be messy and loose around you, a half-curled nest like the spring onions you tended only moments ago, a reminder that you are earth and roots as much as words and tea.
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