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I should have been working on the book chapter that was coming due. Or finishing up that talk I have to give in a few days. Or at least doing some free writing to give voice to the thousands of ideas in my head. Instead, I was on my knees in the dirt, battling crown vetch seedlings that had cleverly wrapped their roots around the iris tubers, and insinuated themselves amongst other perennials beginning to emerge from the newly thawed earth. “Just one more weed, and then I’ll go in and write,” I said, about a half dozen times, smearing dirt on my face as I wiped the sweat. Was I procrastinating?  Or was it a subtle form of self sabotage: I say I want to write, but end up in the garden. Or maybe, just maybe, on a beautiful day in early spring, there is nothing better than sitting in the dirt talking to weeds. New research says that playing in the dirt interacts with my microbiomes, calming the nervous system and clearing the mind. 
I looked across the flower bed and saw that there were literally thousands of crown vetch seedlings scattered across the garden, a Sisyphean task at best. In that moment, I saw that I was viewing my other tasks: writing a chapter, writing a book, as just as gigantic. But unlike the garden, where I know I’ll never be done and it’s just fine, I had paralyzed myself with an idea of enormity. If I could just have some fun, play with separating my weedy thoughts from my budding ideas, not worry about the challenge of completion, things would be much easier. 
Small steps, no need to do it well, enjoy the process, hmmm, where have I heard that before? I bet if I did some Awareness Through Movement in the garden (Rolling in the weeds?) the resulting microbiome feast would sustain the writing of the great American novel.