The last time I wrote, I was attempting to deal with my melancholy by reminding myself that happiness is a choice. So I went on a 90-ish day journey to celebrate the happy moments. As it turns out, all my good intentions were short lived. As soon as I stepped away from the weaving of words, as soon as there was no object to describe, the joy of the project faded.
I have since learned that the best treatment for my malaise is activity. I have decided to get back to writing about anything and everything. I have no interest in making it entertaining or insightful. In fact, most of it might be drab accounts of the new house or my inquisitive mutts. I hope, this time, I can keep it going. Any activity is useful but back-breaking manual labour seems to work best. I'm glad that we just moved house and that the house is not quite finished. I need the 30 minutes of gardening or lugging of bricks or chasing after the dogs. It gives me something to think about beyond the hum drum of office work.
Yesterday, for example, I made the first step towards setting up my kitchen vegetable/herb garden, that is, besides buying the seeds and seedlings. I heard thunder roaring in the distance and could almost literally smell the opportunity for a welcome distraction. We rarely receive rain at the same time at the rest of the city [I suspect that we might be on the leeward side of some hill]. Thus, I was giddy with excitement - yes, I am the type of [amateur] farmer who dances when it rains because I do not have to water the crops today and I can store "free" water for the next few days. I had my eye on a spot at the back of the house that I wanted to use for the kitchen garden. However, based on my previous attempts at breaking ground, I had resolved to wait for the next rain to soften it before I did any major work.
While it rained, I used my lunch break to restock our pantry and fridge. I discovered that, as I suspected, the market on the other side of the hill was very dry and unaffected by the rain. Later in the day, I set out to work on the space with a garden rake, a hand hoe and decked in my yellow gum boots. For the first hour, my little Tita was cheering me on with a bark or two every couple of minutes. She must have gotten bored of doing the same thing for so long and dosed off on the kitchen floor. Another hour later, I had done only half of the digging I had planned to do and I was feeling a bit light headed. I poured the compost I had been collecting for weeks into the hole, piled on the rest of the soil and left it to rest. I was done for the day.
I have massive respect for rural folk that do this every day. In the 6 weeks since our move, I have worked out more often and more effectively than the whole year before that. Yet, all I did was weed, plant flowers, water the yard, move bricks around, shovel sand, clear heaps of rubbish and now, set up a little patch of land. There were no squats or push-ups or fancy zumba routines.
What does all this have to do with mutts? This morning, I work up to find that Zeus [our dark knight of a golden retriever/rottweiler] and little Miss Tita [who, I suspect, is a terrier of some sort] thought that it was unfair of me to enjoy all the digging myself. They spent all night clearing a little patch of their own and digging up some of the compost I had buried.
Well, more work for me to do today.
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