I hate gloves, too. The feel of dirt is bliss.
Consider every weed bodhi-full. It’s the nature of Nature.
When the sounds of wind surf through your Douglas firs, stop to hear the
rhythms of the universe.
What’s my favorite image for rebirth? One flame, many candles. Silence? A
raindrop hidden in a gingko leaf. History? A braided river twisting, weaving,
winding through marshes, along valleys, over waterfalls searching for the
ocean it calls home.
Don’t bring a frantic urgency into your yard. It drowns out mindfulness and
agitates the sangha of excellent flying friends.
One gladiola bulb planted mindfully is worth more than a thousand seeds
scattered by the wind. Although, with all due respect, the wind has a wisdom
of its own.
Do no harm to moles and slugs. They have work to do.
After a rain, tread lightly on your lawn. Earthworms are right-sizing in the sun.
Boredom can’t exist if you are curious. Become the ripple in a pond searching
for its stone of origin.
Even fog has a clarity of its own.
Uprooting someone’s peace of mind is as harmful as uprooting their flowering
plum.
Of course, you can read the Farmer’s Almanac or any garden book, but
experience will dictate volumes of your own.