Playing in the Dirt

I sit cross-legged on a foam kneeling pad in the middle of the yard. For the last few weeks, I’ve spent 30 minutes to an hour pulling weeds each afternoon. The afternoon showers have helped loosen the roots in the generally dry dirt. 

I started with the dandelions, bagging the fluffy seed pods that I loved to blow across the yard as a child. Now, I’m working on the mallow, the kochia, and the filaree. 

As I look up the names of the plants, I discover that the common mallow is also referred to as “cheese weed,” due to its round, edible fruits. I haven’t seen the fruits yet, but after trying to pull it from the soil, I don’t want to let it get any larger. It is tough. In response to a post about the plant, reddit users quip “that bastard again” and comment “hate those.” One swears “those roots touch the center of the earth.” I dig into the soil around the plant and try to extract as much of the root as possible. I use my body as leverage and pull backward. I try using the dandelion weeder, pushing its sharp end into the soil in every direction around the plant. I try cutting the root with the end of a spade. Still, I am mostly unsuccessful. I’ll come back to these, I promise myself.

Common Mallow

On the other hand, I enjoy pulling the kochia. Gripping the soft leaves is easy, and the threadlike root usually pops easily from the soil. After I clear an area, I run my hands across the dirt plucking the remaining threads and tossing the pebbles back onto the path. When I was younger, I would have been scared of the earwigs that scurry by, looking for a chance to bury back into the ground. I can see the tips of the roots that I missed, and I pull them out one by one. Sometimes, there is a firmer, dried root that I can snatch up. Eventually, the soil is smooth, and I run my hands back and forth.

Kochia

Last year, after my treatment, I was forbidden from doing any garden work. “Wait at least a year. There are so many microorganisms in the soil. Your immune system isn’t ready, yet.” This year, the act of running my hands over the soil feels both like an act of rebellion and a sign of progress. It’s like ordering my first beer in England at 19. I’m not doing anything wrong, but the its recent prohibition makes it more thrilling

My son joins me. “Can I help?” It’s normally like pulling teeth to get him to help with chores, so the offer of assistance without prompting is unusual. “Sure,” I tell him, even though I was about to head inside to start dinner. I turn off my podcast and place my headphones on top of my phone. Time with a pre-teen is sacred. 

I hand him the weeder and point him to the filaree. Sometimes referred to as storksbill, the plant has fern-like leaves and small pink flowers. The roots are thick, but more forgiving than the common mallow. He pushes the tool into the ground and uses his full body as leverage, so that the plant, root and all, comes flying out of the ground. “Satisfying.” He pushes the weeder back into the ground. As more of the surface is cleared, he notices the millipedes, grubs, and other critters moving through the dirt. The goal changes from flinging the plants to discovering “creatures.” The results are the same.

Filaree

Previously, I thought of gardening as something that had to be done. When we bought our house in 2021, lot size was among our top priorities. We wanted a space where our son could run and play and practice sports. However, the size meant that the yard never looked polished. When my parents came to our house, they would make suggestions about what flowers to plant where or how to manage a particular issue. I felt pressure from the neighbors as they replaced grass or tackled the weeds in their own yards. 

Now, however, I understand how people start to enjoy this work. 

In 2024, I spent a total of three months in three different hospitals. In each of these spaces, I was generally restricted to at least a single floor of the hospital and in one case to the small alcove outside my room. For weeks on end, I did not feel the sun or breeze on my skin. I walked only on level surfaces, carefully cleaned to prevent the transmission of disease. I certainly did not touch the earth or feel the varied textures of plants growing from its surface. 

Today, pulling weeds feels much more like the playing in the dirt of my childhood or the sifting through sand at the beach. The discovery of the “creatures” delights me almost as much as it delights my son. I pick up a fat worm and let it slither over my hands. I watch a garden spider consume a millipede. I point out the hole from which the earwigs are emerging.

Soon, the moment is over. The family is getting hungry and dinner preparation must begin. I return the weeder and spade to the porch and the mat to its spot right inside the sliding glass door. I look out in the yard and see the patch of dirt where we’ve removed the kochia and filaree today. It looks barren; I hope that the grass starts to grow soon. (It has in the places I weeded a few weeks ago.) At the same time, the patch of dirt is evidence of time well spent regardless of what ends up growing on its surface. It is time outside, in the dirt, being present with myself and a boy who in just over a year will be a teenager.