Tiller of the Soil

Last week, during my un-bloggy-ous-nous (I believe this word should be added to the Webster's Dictionary), I promised that once I got back in the saddle again, I would have another giveaway this week. Well, it ain't gonna happen! (I got my schoolin' in the back woods of Wyomin')

And why, may you ask? The end of the school year shenanigans have taken up much of my OCD intervals (around the house, that is) and my OCD intervals have now spilled over to the outside of my humble abode.

Lately, I have become 'one' with the soil. (Ommmmmmmmmm. This would be me, meditating the mysteries of dirt). This happens every year. And quite frankly, I thoroughly enjoy it. For the past couple of years, I have been pre-occupied with baby-dom. That will do it, to a gardner wanna-be. But now my inner gardner has re-emerged and I have been busy sowing the earth and my wild oats. Okay, maybe not my wild oats. Because apparently, according to the majority of trashy romance novels, sowing my wild oats channels unmentionable tendencies and habits.

Martha will not stand for the sowing of wild oats.

Beautiful signs of spring!

My heart flutters looking at the vibrant colors of spring!

Hello, friend.

Now that my inner gardner has emerged, I have been adding a lot of organic material to enrich the much disfavored, clay-like dirt of Utah. Which is only good for the making of ancient, Indian pots.

Feast your eyes on this lovely organic material! Seeing the dark, fibrous material blanketing my flower beds make me happy. It fills my inner- sanctum with peace. (Ommmmmmmmm. Again, with the meditating!)

Isn't there nothing more lovely than watching the sprinklers at the break of dawn? (Okay, I'm getting carried away with my 'waxing philosophical' self)