Procrastination Can Be Lovely

I’ve been planting a lot lately.  Putting little blips in the ground, covering them up, hoping they sprout.

It’s a satisfying endeavor.  I yank weeds out by the root, shaking them free of dirt so they can’t rob the precious soil from my seedlings.  Some of the dirt flies back into the ground, a good deal ends up under my fingernails.  I don’t mind.  I wear my dirty half-moons proudly, stepping into Home Depot adorned in my grungiest shirt and tennis shoes that are ripping at the seams and stained with earth.  I fit in here, among the project-doers and tinkerers.  We walk around each other with ease, like a group of people at a political rally.  We’re all here for the same purpose; there’s no need to talk about it much.

At some point–in between yanking and watering–I wonder what I am doing.  What’s the point of all this planting?  Why do I care about the things I place in the ground?

I suspect it all has something to do with my need to nurture.  To care for, to watch something grow, to love.  It satisfies some primordial urge to mother.  And it feeds my desire to root around in the dirt and create something out of little.

And then, there’s the progress.  I enjoy watching the tiny heads sprout out of the ground and unfurl into something beautiful or something I can eventually eat.  That tiny sprout will be a radish someday.  And that one, a forget-me-not.  And that one, a beet. It’s satisfying to see such measurable progress while my writing is languishing.

And then I realize, that’s the point, isn’t it?  It’s all a distraction from what I should be doing.  It’s a way to procrastinate when I should be spending more time with my third novel.  I ignore my pangs of guilt, turn away from my laptop, and go outside to pull some weeds.

Taken on Nicollet Island, Minneapolis

In the past, I might have been hard on myself for my inattentiveness.  I might have been horrified by my lack of writing.  But this time, I decided to forgive myself.  I decided I lend myself a month of flitting around the foliage before I return to ink and paper.  After all, how can a writer draw on her experiences if she has none?  So, for the rest of June, I will experience my garden.  And I will nourish my roots so that something lovely may grow.

What’s your favorite way to procrastinate?