A handful of dirt

A handful of dirt teems with life. I'm sure that if I went outside right now into the cold damp winter day -- I could fill my fingers with worms and wet earth. I might encounter seeds I've forgotten or bulbs the squirrels moved when I wasn't looking. And I know there would be the inevitable weeds.

A handful of dirt is also what many of us throw into a newly dug grave. Is it the beginning of letting go? A final gift? Or indeed a ritual acknowledgement that we all decompose in the end?

I want to hold on to images of life and garden. I don't want to think of the mud-slinging that fills the news right now. I don't want to think of earth and ash filling the mouths of people overwhelmed by fire or flood. My mind drifts there, though.

I want a handful of earth to offer life and promise and hope. I yearn for possibility. Today I might go outside and dig my hands into the earth just to remind myself that she is there, oblivious to the news that fills my head and my heart.