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When I was little, my grandmother wrote to me.  I was so excited to be the recipient of letters from the most wonderful person in the world.  These were simple, hand-printed letters that described the flowers, trees, grass, and birds in her garden.  At the time I was puzzled by her obsession with gardening, and it wasn’t until I had my own garden that I finally understood.
Yesterday the weather was cool and cloudy, so I got out in my garden and did some much-needed weeding.  Donning hat, gloves, rubber boots, and knee pads, I pulled my handy little wagon (complete with shovel, hoe, trowels, hose, trash can, etc.) out of the garage and into the back yard.  Then I got to work on digging and pulling.  As I worked something interesting happened.  I began to relax.  Tension and loneliness were gradually replaced by peace as my surroundings soaked into me.  I took note of the cool, moisture-laden air, the brilliant green of the trees and grass, the rich smell of the moist, crumbling earth, the sound of the wind rustling the leaves, the chirping of the birds in the trees.  Small spiders and bugs scurried out of my way as I dug, and I let them be.  I looked with satisfaction on the rows of onions and the bushy tomato plants that have already given me a delicious harvest.  I began to envision a planter where I could put acidic soil and where some blueberry bushes and other acid-loving plants would thrive.  I also began to plan an herb garden and annual flowers for next year.  Hours later when I cleaned up and put away my tools, I was sore, but rested and happy.
I love to work in the garden.  The inevitable aching muscles are a small price to pay for the peace I experience and the joy of creating a beautiful, living place.  Thank you, Granny.

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