The Gift

The day before yesterday it arrived. I held Rose, my 17 month old daughter, and Mida, one of our neighbor's daughters, stood next to me as we watched the dump truck dwarfing our driveway disgorge its load. White Ash, Hawthorne and Birch. Once seemingly distinct trees, now all mingled and particulated as strips, bits and shreds. They were warm and smelled of spices-like Christmas in a Moroccan spice market on warm gentle humid morning. Most of the small mountain was the color of honey but one side was a light cream. There were curly strips, and twigs with funny Styrofoam looking pith, a few undigested chunks, and myriad perfect little nuggets of honey. All of us, the workmen too, scooped handfuls and washed ourselves with the fragrance. Rose, too, grabbed a little itty bitty fist full and made her tiny audible sniff. For a moment we were all bound together in the body of the heavenliness of the fragrance. I thanked the men.

The next morning the mound was steaming. I smiled and thanked the wood. I thanked the Earth, Sun and Air for bringing this gift to us. I thanked the men, again, and their growling ancient organism eating monster of a truck.

Yesterday, Theresa (the neighbor's other daughter), Rose and I spread the wood around the base of the Hibiscus, the bamboo, and in my wife's Peace Garden. Saturday we used half the mound to spread around the backyard to keep down the dust from the bare dirt created by our marauding mutts. Rose toddled around the wood chips and became an expert spreader finally able to use those inherent entropic skills without hindrance from her order craving parents.

I will miss the steamy presence of the wood and their shocking scents.

May you be blessed with gifts this spring.

In peace,
Tim and the rest of the Dirt! gang