"That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life and is pursuing a descending and darkening way."
Henry David Thoreau
This morning, after seeing my husband off to work I went out into my garden and flung myself into it's improvement. Weeds poked up between the slumping tomatoes, slugs oozed towards the summer squash, compost spilled from the overwhelmed bin. Armed with rubber boots, gardening gloves, and salt, I attacked the mess and conquered with an hour left to the morning.
It was beautiful. Greeting the cold early morning air before the basketball boys next-door began their day, before the smoking college students sat on thier porch for the first cigarette of the day. I loved working as the day woke and warmed around me; I loved my sore feet, and dirty hands; I loved looking over the fruit of my labors and rejoicing in my soul that I had made this messy garden in a lovelier spot.