As far as I know, most of my people were farmers. On both my parents' sides, my Scandinavian ancestors came across the ocean looking for better topsoil. I know immigrants came for many reasons -- to start businesses and escape oppression and to avoid starvation. But, as far as I know, my ancestors were in search of better dirt. And they found it. A full foot of topsoil was a treasure beyond measure to these farmers who had tried to make a living on rocky soil.
Perhaps it is why I am not a gardener. I suspect I have a lot of my ancestors still in me. Perhaps I am rebelling against the work that was in my family's life blood. But however I might feel about planting and weeding, I think there is something within me that recognizes the cycles of the seasons, the coming of summer and the pause that comes in the middle of the summer.
Every year, I try to celebrate the summer solstice. I start a new journal. I read my journal from the last six months. I take a long walk late in the evening. I try to make note of the fact that this is the longest day of the year to be more mindful of the passage of time. And since I grew up in a northern state, I always felt I should take advantage of the short, warm months.
