Indiana clay. Rich Mullins sings about it:
Talk about your miracles
Talk about your faith
My dad he could make things grow
Out of Indiana clay
Mom could make a gourmet meal
Out of just cornbread and beans
And they worked to give faith hands and feet
And somehow gave it wings
He's not kidding.
After work on Monday, I took my new tiller attachment and went to the side of the garage where I'm going to put the new perennial bed. The tiller roughed up the grass a bit, but that was all. I was physically not strong enough to put the weight on the tiller that was needed to penetrate the soil.
Andrew's going to work on it this weekend because he's a lovely, kind person. I have no illusions that it will be easy. I am extremely frustrated to be limited by my own strength in this project.
I've been working in a friend's yard this week, and her soil is delightful. I've been feeling jealous and crabby with a good dose of poor, pitiful me.
Then I read this article about the problems of poor soil in Africa.
Africa--where they grow food to survive. Africa--where their soil is crap and the farmers often don't have access to fertilizers. Africa--where the cost of fertilizers is much higher than in Europe and the people are less able to pay for them. Africa--where politics determines whether or not people can grow food.
I'm complaining about my soil for a perennial flower garden.
I apologize to the universe for being an asshole. Things are back into perspective, and I will try to hold on to that.