…and a time to dig in the dirt?It’s been a rough month. For reasons I haven’t quite figured out myself, let alone found words to explain. So this weekend, feeling the angst I am accustomed to when the pressure to write builds—the need to explain  what life has meant to me of late, I could not do so. I had no words. I felt both depleted and “full” (of emotions and longings, if hopes and dreams, and of shames and regrets).So instead of doing anything that seemed to me to be productive, I dug in the bare and frozen dirt around our home. And I planted bulbs.The results of my labour (and yes, as an inexperienced gardener, it was with a good deal of grunting and straining that I accomplished the task) leave little to be desired-outwardly at least. A row of presently dead leaves above the frozen ground around our peeling-paint “quirky” home perimeter. A row that has no guarantees of blooming into anything resembling a cheery springtime floral display. A possible “waste” of an afternoon.And yet, when I look at these bulbs, I somehow see beauty in its wintery hibernation. Is beauty in the eye of the beholder? Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply overly optimistic, clinging instantly to anything that might give a sense of purpose to my days. Perhaps.But what if there is more to our purpose than producing what is practical, and what is obviously appealing to look at, to listen to, or to take in?What if there is value in the act itself-the act of digging in the dirt, or whatever other form of putting ones hands to Creation? And what if even the time spent (“wasted” time?) is a part of what we were created to do? What if the small stuff matters more than we know?Wishful thinking?Perhaps.But maybe not.