Yesterday, I bought five or six items to be planted -- mostly flowers, but a couple of tomato shoots as well. I bought perennial flowers so I don't have to be going through the same routine every spring. I like flowers, but not enough to pay endless attention to them or play Mozart for them. The tomatoes are a nod to luxury: A juicy tomato, fresh off the vine, rivals chocolate for its decadent delight.
I look forward to planting. I don't really know why I like it, but digging in the dirt, coming away with grubby fingernails, feeling the earth, using knees that will later complain, creating something I see as beautiful ... it all amounts to some sort of delightful hymn. I hate praising it because it is more delightful, direct and honest than praise. And I sure as hell don't plan to sit down and wallow in Thoreau.
Anyway, the sun is shining as if inviting me to come out an play. Hot damn!