For the past couple of weeks, I have been trying to kill myself. The slow, painful way: In the kitchen.
At this time, I am sporting a dozen or so injuries. I have sliced, burned, chopped, and grated the fingers of my hands. I have burned my forearms. I have dropped things onto my head and feet. I am not sure why the sudden suicidal tendencies, but there you have it. I have just not been on my game. I wish I knew the secret to reverse this, but for now, I will simply have to bandage myself up and hope that I live to tell about it.
In order to avoid more injury, I am taking it outside. To my garden. It is that time again anyway. I have been working on plans and getting my seeds in order. With the help of my youngest boy, we started all of our indoor seeds yesterday. My dining room table, which tends to be overrun by homework, laptops, and other projects, is now additionally covered with about 60 pots. I spent the past several days removing weeds and attempting to prep my beds for future planting. It wasn’t raining, for a change, but it certainly wasn’t warm either.
In addition to all the back-breaking labor (man, I feel old when my back hurts like this!), I also pulled the last of my golden beets, a ton of chard and my personal favorite, the purple Brussels sprouts. They were so lovely that I was literally distracted by their beauty while I was getting them off the stock. Overall, I think that I may be well on my way to finding a reason to live again.