Good Dirt

I do not like NEW places. I don’t mean places I’m unfamiliar with, although that is also a struggle for me sometimes. I mean places that are just actually new.

Now, I have nothing against new houses; I wouldn’t mind having one of those. But I would want it built in an old place. And I like the smell of newly constructed and painted buildings of other sorts. I love the fresh unspoiledness inside those places. It is in the outdoors that I hate newness.

I refer to areas that have been recently scraped raw of all nature, then built upon, then little tiny trees planted in strategic places, and squares of sod laid down to begin to allow nature back in a controlled, pre-planned pattern. Being in a place like that makes me feel on edge. It’s creepy.

Give me a piece of earth with big, old trees who grew there because they decided to, and rich, dark dirt that smells good and will grow anything because of generation after generation of leaves falling and decomposing in countless layers. The deeper I dig the less I see recognizable leaf remains and the more beautiful soil, so deliciously smelly that I feel the urge to rub my face in it and breathe it in. Maybe an old, pretty, antique style fence, grown up with something I need to get out there and trim back before it pulls the fence down. A densely shaded corner where I can plant something that doesn’t need much sun . . . or maybe just hang a swing from the huge tree causing the shade. And some sunny spots where I can plant something colorful that wants to be there.

I want to live again on a place in nature already in motion and undisturbed for long before my entrance into it, a place that has been busy being and growing and becoming what it will, but happy to have me join, gently,  in the process.

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About dahnajeen

I'm Donna Jean Hunter. My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Patterson told me I was a great writer and would be an author when I grew up. She always had me read my stories to the class, and even took me around to the other classrooms to have me read to them. I'm pretty sure the other kids all hated me that year. I don't care though. I love Mrs. Patterson. Of course she did not know then about the Internet and blogging and how much of what people read would no longer be on paper when I grew up. I have had a few things published in a college literary journal, and once, for a few weeks--until it threatened to kill me with boredom and I quit--I actually received pay for working as a technical writer. But so far, I have not been able to say that I'm a writer in the sense that it is what I do for a living. I still sort of dream of that happening one day. But in the meantime, I teach high school English, and can't stop being a writer whether anyone reads it or not. I hope someone enjoys some of it.
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