Getting Spiritually Dirty

Spirituality is similar to religion, but different. Religion is a bit like BigAg, spirituality is a bit like gardening.

Many people love the idea of spirituality, as do I, much like people might like the idea of gardening. Some people they don't feel the deep angst toward religion or BigAg as they embrace their love of spirituality and gardening.


BigAg farmers get all up in their fancy tractors and plough down county after county. They don't have the slightest bit of angst about chopping off the tails of piglets, crunching up rooster chicks in a grinder, stinking up the neighborhood with lakes full of pungent blood, poisoning the rain, endangering species and ecosystems, etc... you get my drift and my attitude about it... and I feel the same about religion in general. They are both nearly impossible to avoid and they both claim to be the only way to feed the masses.


A person can browse seed catalogs, buy seeds, draw up gardening plans, designate a space... they can do a lot of the stages of gardening that are really an upper, but until they get down on their knees in the dirt, until they realize how affected their efforts are by the weather, until they are tempted to dowse the asparagus beetles with poison and fence out the bunny rabbits from the carrots and cabbages, they just really don't understand the downers... Perhaps they even enjoy walking through the efforts of others, the beautiful gardens of the professionals, and they feel so gardenery, but that buzz doesn't make them a gardener.

Spirituality is much like that, seems to me. People can enjoy the thoughts, read the articles, perhaps even pay the fee to enjoy the work of the experts, but until they get down and dirty in their own deep psychological messes and figure out how to balance the nature of things without becoming toxic and fragmented, they are just playing games with their imagination, not that these are terrible games, and sooner or later they probably will grow a potted tomato or scatter about some sunflower seeds, and its all good.... sort of.

And then there is permaculture, learning from the wisdom of nature to create a domestic similarity. I am personally searching for the metaphorical equivalent...

I Wish I Could Sew

I Wish I Could Sew

When Erin’s gift to me for my 8th birthday was a Cabbage Patch outfit made by her mom that was cuter than the store-bought varieties, I thought, 

I wish I could sew.

When I visited Grandma Womer and realized the magic of her creativity, I thought, 

I wish I could sew. 

When I sat at home as a teenager without a sewing machine, I thought,

I wish I could sew.

When Jill loaned us a sewing machine and I made my first shirt and skirt, an ugly, uncomfortable set that no one would willingly wear, I thought, 

I wish I could sew.

When I joined the jumper making craze and impressed my friends with my super fast jumper making skills, they said,

I wish I could sew.

When I made flower girl dresses at the bridal shop, and made children’s clothing for friends, the moms said, 

I wish I could sew. 

The loan became a gift, but one day it took a tumble down the stairs and didn’t sew straight after that and I thought,

I wish I could sew.

When my life fell apart and back together, and then I had children of my own, but no sewing machine, I thought, 

I wish I could sew.

When a sewing machine entered my life, but I was so busy raising babies, I thought, 

I wish I could sew.

When I found time during naps and staying up all night while Jason worked late shifts, the creativity kicked in better than ever and I remembered the days when I thought, 

I wish I could sew.

Turns out that sewing is not something that many people can do, many of those people will say,

I wish I could sew. 

Some of them I took the time to teach, but unless you have the qualities of stubborn persistence and an addictive personality, sewing might not be right for you. After a whole week of teaching someone to sew, and I thought she seemed to have learned the basics, she said to all of her friends, 

I wish someone would teach me how to sew.

I stopped sewing. I heard more nasty rumors about me. Sewing didn’t feel as fun anymore. 

Grandma Womer died a few years later, she had taught me how to sew, and she really loved me. The thought of sewing felt inseparable from thoughts of her, and her unique blankets, the ones that kept me warm in my childhood, the ones I cherish now. I was grieving many things. It felt sad to sew, and I thought again, 

I wish I could sew.

Today, I tried again, to sew, and I did, and it was overwhelming. So many memories came flooding in with every stitch, like steps down memory lane, in a blizzard. A course came up on the computer, like a gift from the universe, “Overcoming Creative Anxiety,” and I signed up. 

I will feel.

I will heal.

I will wish.

I will sew. 

I made this slipcover today....