Dirt Therapy

Mental Health Courtesy of Mother Earth and Mary Lou

Once upon an Eastertide, a little boy came home singing the Pete Seeger song Inch by inch, row by row, Lord, please help my garden grow. At school the little boy, along with his class, had planted bean seeds in jelly jars. Each day they tended their little glass gardens, checking the moist dark earth. Some drowned their seeds with love. Some let them wither from neglect. Some miraculously sprouted.

These fortunate tiny green shoots poked their heads into the fluorescent light. Their slender green vines wound around the inside of the jars.

And then one day — the little boy proudly brought his home and set it down on the kitchen table. His mom asked, “Okay, my little sweet potato, what’s this?” And the little boy replied:

”That’s Jesus, mom. That’s Jesus in a jar.”

It wasn’t exactly “Now the green blade rises” but it was sweet. That sweet little boy was my son Jacob now 37 years old. Sadly the little Jesus vine did not survive very long — but don’t blame Jacob.

Though long ago, I worked at a plant store called Great Plants Alive, most of the plants that have crossed my threshold have come home to die.

And back in the day when I still had a backyard, I was quite happy to just let Mother Earth be my gardener. So whatever grew – grew – and whatever withered – withered. My yard was a little city patch of green. And since I had no green thumb, this was my rule:

If it’s green let it grow.

My lawn was covered with crab grass, wild violets, clover, and dandelions. The fence was covered with tangled honeysuckle vines, a struggling maple tree, and poison ivy. Plastic baseball bats and dead tennis balls dotted my lawn.

Occasionally I would attempt to tame this wilding place with a push mower and a weed whacker. But much more often, I would retreat and recline in a plastic chair on the patio to read a good book.

If it’s green let it grow.

My manic-depressive mom, Mary Lou was quite the gardener. While I have been blessed with her bipolar brain, I did not inherit her green thumb. And hers was very green indeed.

When I was growing up, my mother could lash out like lightning just as easily as she could erupt in joy. Her highs and lows were beyond her control. And my mom did the best she could.

And she did her very best in the garden.

Mary Lou was totally at home in her rock garden. She relished her trips to the local greenhouses and she spared no expense at the nursery. I can still hear my dad yelling about the bills!

The back of my mom’s station wagon would be overloaded with peat moss and potting soil, flats of flowers, hydrangeas and azaleas, and a shrub or two — or three.

The lawn would be littered with empty plastic pots, as she dug down deep in the dirt planting geraniums, petunias, and marigolds. I have a snapshot of her doing just this. Her sun kissed skin is freckled and bronze; her auburn hair peaks out from her scarf; and golden hoops dangle from her ears.

Resplendent and radiant, digging in the dirt, all was right with her soul.

Digging in the dirt is therapy.

Sowing seeds is therapy.

Fertilizing the soil is therapy.

Watering the ground is therapy.

Gardening is therapy.

Dirt therapy.

Wordless, holistic, holy, hopeful, dirty therapy.

My mother’s daughter, namely me, no longer has a backyard. But until recently I had a little balcony. And each Eastertide I would plant my little English garden in window boxes and half a dozen clay pots. I am partial to bright colors: Shasta daises; hibiscus; and geraniums. I am partial to plants of the forgiving kind, the kind that forgive me if I don’t water them as often as I should.

A little Miracle Grow, a little sunshine, a little dirt, and all is right with my soul. At least for a little while.

When the world is spinning out of your control — it is more than therapeutic to touch the ground — to commune with Mother Earth.

Especially right now.

Under the current regime, it seems that every crappy thing possible is happening everywhere to just about everyone all at once. That is their goal —to overwhelm —so that we will give up hope, that we will surrender.

But be of good faith, my friends. We are here to rejoice in the Gardener of our Souls. We are believers in a RISEN LORD.

Yes, we are overwhelmed but we are not defeated. We are EASTER PEOPLE.

Go out in your backyard — if you have one — and sit in the sun.

Go out into the night and gaze up at the moon.

Listen to the wind, birdsong, buzzing bees.

Pull up some weeds. Turn over some stones.

Observe industrious ants and wriggling worms.

Save seeds. Plant them. Who knows what might come up.

Compost apple cores, potato peelings, and coffee grounds.

You get the idea, right?

Therapeutic little acts to resurrect our souls

To stay grounded and rooted in our Creator, Redeemer & Giver of Life.

Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,
Wheat that in the dark earth many days has lain;
Love lives again,  that with the dead has been:
Love has come again like wheat that springeth green.
- John MacLeod Campbell Crum (1872-1958)