The Power of Dirt (and How to Heal from Polarization)
Renewal in a time of division
This year, at age forty, I discovered gardening. I began to notice things seeding and growing in the dirt — stuff I didn’t want to let linger if I hoped to salvage my yard. Creeping bellflower and cheatgrass flourished. Tiny, unwelcome trees sprouted along our northern fence.
I’m a workaholic in recovery — the kind of addict who needs to attend meetings, set intentions, and be honest about my relapse triggers to stay healthy. Many of my fellow workaholics embrace gardening as a cornerstone of their recovery, describing it as a nurturing process.
I’ve weeded before, mowed the lawn, and tended to (and neglected) many Home Depot houseplants. But generally, I’ve spent my life dissociating from the earth, keeping a comfortable distance from nature.
When we moved into our home almost 12 months ago, tending to the yard was low on my partner’s and my priorities.
Less than 24 hours before we closed on the house, our beloved dog, Sadie, died. Signing the closing paperwork, sobbing, the thought of moving into our new home with its fenced-in backyard — picked with Sadie in mind — felt almost cruel. We couldn’t imagine our backyard without Sadie.
When we moved into our new home, we allowed the yard to fall into neglect. Invasive grubs ate what little Kentucky bluegrass remained, and a warm, wet winter turned the backyard into a mud pit, so we covered it in landscape fabric.
But her death brought me back into the yard. “Let’s plant a tree,” I suggested, staring at our fabric-covered, weed-lined yard. We could honor her by placing her ashes at its roots, returning her to the earth while supporting new life.
First, though, I had to dig a hole.
I took a shovel and dug up grass in peak sun. I must have looked ridiculous to anyone who knew about gardening, but I didn’t care. Something about turning over the earth, the repetitive action, and the visible results proved exactly what I needed. Shoveling dirt, I felt a sense of release.
There is no “them” in nature. There are only ideas we might nurture and ways we might cultivate our thinking that will ultimately delude us into isolation.
While Sadie’s tree took root in the middle of our fabric-covered mud, our yard became encircled by a thriving perimeter of weeds. But what would we replace the weeds with?
“You could do a butterfly garden,” my mom suggested. Luckily, she moved to my neighborhood this year.
So, off we went — my husband, my mom, and me — to Home Depot, where we filled two shopping carts with plant containers: dill, peonies, hollyhocks, daylilies, cat mint, and other things. Then we crammed ourselves and the plants back into our Subaru and headed home, feeling thrilled. Buying plants is fun!
Yet once we were home, the cold reality hit as we faced the thriving weeds.
Before we could plant a thing, we needed to turn the earth over.
We spent two good days clearing the weeds and replacing the old landscape fabric. The plants remained in their containers while we worked. Some began to droop and wilt. We stopped once it started to rain.
I promised my mom I would turn the earth over so we could plant the containers the following weekend.
But my promise was easy to keep. The more I shoveled dirt, the more I felt something healing within me.
I never understood — until I turned the earth over — how much tension I hold in my body. Working in the soil releases me from the burden of that tension. Now, I dig and turn over piles of dirt, throw rocks into a pile, and leverage old dead roots with my shovel.
The roots are tough and stubborn. Many of them are old tree roots surrounded by the detritus of the last residents of this house. Trash from the alley has made its way into the dirt over the years, too. I find many things — an old golf ball, broken pottery, shards of glass, an old tarp. I toss these into a pile as well.
Now, in my sun hat and garden gloves, I feel satisfied. I’m happy.
And I realize this is the feeling I chased — hopelessly — whenever I adrenalized myself with work.
Work addiction diverted my vitality into non-productive persistence — scheming, drafting, and planning. Overworking felt like a way to protect myself from fear. But the more I worked, the more lost and frightened I became.
At the heart of it, all addictions are the same. We end up alone in our containers, rootbound, choking our vitality as we ensnare ourselves in cycles of shame.
And I think of how so many of us feel lost in our silos right now, isolated from one another.
In June 2024, we are not in a place of collective sentiment. Polarization haunts our existence. Collective fear siphons our vitality as we protect ourselves from “them.”
There is no “them” in nature. There are only ideas we might nurture and ways we might cultivate our thinking that will ultimately delude us into isolation.
“Them” is a toxic seed planted in our minds, a poisonous idea that takes root and grows, convincing us that certain people are unworthy of life, love, or compassion.
Perhaps this idea fires and fuels you — it excites your senses. That’s how I feel when I’m in my addiction: indignant, fired up, somewhat invincible.
That’s when addiction thrives — when we hover between rage and shame, cycling through fears again and again.
Weeds spread and take root as we cultivate beliefs about our separateness. We overwhelm our life force with self-destructive (and misdirected) neglect.
But digging in the dirt is a recovery practice, reminding us that we can choose how we nurture the garden of our mind and soul.
What will it take for us to restore our relationships with one another?
I don’t know, but I imagine it must involve making amends for our relationship with the earth. Making amends is Step 9 in the 12 Steps of Recovery. The first step is to admit our relationship with the earth has become unmanageable.
We are siloed off in our containers, preparing for battle. But whenever we prepare for battle, we become embattled. And I find myself no longer willing to fight.
In fact, I surrender.
Recovery is about surrender — releasing ourselves from our containers — letting our humanity take root in our shared garden. Love is surrender that strengthens. Digging dirt and nurturing our garden, fears are easily released. As we grow stronger in our surrender, our collective vitality expands.
Love allows us to release what we no longer need, returning it to the earth to be tended and made new.
Surrender takes practice. With discipline, we can cultivate respect for this life — for ourselves: in relation to, with, and alongside. Turning the earth, we can find our way back to something like unity.
Thank you for reading my story. Sharing my experience, strength, and hope is part of my recovery, and I am grateful for your support. If it resonated with you, please share it and leave your thoughts below. Sending lots of love. ❤️
