Perspective

My yard has terrible soil. I often complain that it's equal parts clay, rocks, and roots. There are odd clumps of shiny black stuff, lots and lots of white rock from the construction drive, and so. much. clay.  I built a raised garden and haul compost to my house every year to put in areas where I try to grow perennials.

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.

Stupid clay.

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.