I believe I will me made whole when I once again fully embrace all the hobbies I practiced as a twelve-year-old. My latest rediscovery is gardening.
Childhood forays into the pastime included the construction of a "Japanese" garden in the middle of a pasture, replete with stone steps, a bamboo patch, and rock outcroppings. (The sheep eventually ate the bamboo.) But—due to the complex whirring and clicking of some inner-clockwork I don't entirely understand—gardening fell by the wayside and suffered a two-decade-plus period of neglect. (Drawing, cooking, and geekery all experienced similar dry spells.)
Now though—as part of our post-diluvian zeal for all things domestic—we have thrown ourselves headlong into the glorious world of flora. I spent the weekend trekking back and forth to nurseries, digging countless holes, mulching, watering, weeding, and pruning. (And I have the sore muscles and farmer's tan to prove it.) To the previously planted weeping willow, red-leaf plum, angel's trumpet, oleander, irises, and confederate jasmine we've added a bottle brush, two crepe myrtles, a bird of paradise, a variety of variegated grasses, and three types of bamboo. (I have something of a bamboo fetish.) And we're not done yet.*
I must say, I prefer it to the off-brown "flood and construction chic" we were previously sporting.
* One of the weirder aspects of this reconstruction has been the massive scale of everything we do. I thought this sort of wholesale blank-canvas domestic makeover was the exclusive domain of home-improvement TV shows and bored wives of the super-rich.