Warm spring days make me think of my digging spot.
I don’t really know how it came to be, but there was a patch of dirt behind the garage in the house I grew up in that was just for digging. It was a place for making tunnels and finding bugs and the kind of digging that was somehow completely pointless and the most important thing in the world at the same time.
Adulthood comes with this idea that if you dig a hole it has to be for some reason, but on the first spring days of the year, once the ground is soft enough that it is possible, there is always this puppy-dog part of me that just wants to spend my time digging a big ol’ hole like I did when I was five, for no other reason than just to dig.
My Take: By Gordon Lambie
