You know, back in 2020, everyone was looking for a guide, something to tell them what to do, how to feel, how to just get through a week. Horoscopes, daily news, expert advice – people were grabbing onto anything that promised a bit of clarity. Me? I wasn’t really checking my stars much, to be honest. My personal guide to a “great week” that year, or at least a few decent hours, started not with a celestial chart but with a rusty old shovel and a stretch of overgrown mess in my backyard that had been mocking me for years.
That spring, stuck at home, day after day, that patch of weeds just called to me. It wasn’t just a garden plot, it was a symbol of all the things I’d put off, all the small battles I’d avoided. And suddenly, with the world going sideways, I figured, “What better time to tackle something I can actually control?” So, I decided, right then and there, that this ugly, forgotten corner was going to be my project. My “practice,” if you will. I was going to turn it into something decent, maybe even grow some food.
Wrestling with the Weeds: The Start of My “Practice”
I started by just walking out there and staring at it. For days, maybe. Just trying to figure out where to even begin. This wasn’t some neat little box garden; it was wild, tangled with roots, old bricks, and who knows what else buried under years of neglect. Finally, one Saturday, I just said, “Screw it.” I pulled on some old gloves – probably had holes in them – grabbed that shovel, and just started digging.
- I ripped out huge clumps of crabgrass.
- I dug up roots thicker than my arm.
- I found old bits of plastic, broken pots, and even a couple of ancient, rusty tools.
Man, it was tough going. My back screamed after an hour. My hands, even with the gloves, started to blister. I kept hitting rocks, big ones, that felt like they were cemented into the earth. I cursed at those rocks. I swore at the stubborn roots. I wanted to just throw the shovel down and stomp back inside, declare defeat. More than once, I actually did. I’d come in, gulp down some water, feeling utterly defeated, convinced I’d bitten off way more than I could chew. But then, after cooling down, I’d see that small patch, just a tiny bit clearer, and something inside me would just nudge me back out there.
Small Victories and Shifting Gears
I realized pretty quick that I couldn’t clear the whole thing in one go, or even two. So, I started breaking it down. Each day, I’d pick a small square, maybe just a couple of feet by a couple of feet, and I’d commit to clearing just that. I kept a bucket next to me, just tossing everything I pulled out – weeds, rocks, garbage – into it. When the bucket was full, I’d take a break. That became my rhythm. It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t pretty, but it was progress.
I started noticing patterns in the weeds, how some were easier to pull than others. I learned to use the shovel to lever up the bigger rocks instead of just prying at them with my hands. Little tricks I picked up by just doing the work. I didn’t read any books. Didn’t watch any fancy videos. Just figured it out as I went, through sheer stubbornness.
After a few weeks, I finally had a cleared area that looked somewhat like a garden bed. It was lumpy, uneven, and probably still had a million tiny weed roots waiting to pop back up. But it was my lumpy, uneven, cleared area. I bought some cheap bags of topsoil and some vegetable seeds – tomatoes, zucchini, a few herbs. I’d never really grown anything from seed before, just bought established plants. This was another kind of practice entirely.
I dug little holes with my fingers.
I carefully dropped in the tiny seeds.
I covered them gently with soil.
I watered them every single morning.
It felt so fragile, putting those little seeds in the ground. Like a massive gamble. Would anything even grow? What if I was doing it all wrong? More doubts crept in, but I just kept at it. Consistent, small actions. That was the key, I realized. Not massive efforts, but just showing up, day after day.
The Harvest of My Labor: More Than Just Vegetables
And you know what? Those little seeds started sprouting. Tiny green shoots pushed through the soil. First, just a few, then more and more. It was nothing short of miraculous to me. I watched them grow, watered them, talked to them sometimes (yeah, don’t judge). I actually started getting excited to go out to the backyard in the mornings. It felt like I had a purpose, a small, tangible thing I was nurturing in a world that felt very much not nurturing at the time.
When the first tomato started to ripen, a bright red spot against the green leaves, I felt a rush of pride that was honestly a bit silly for a single tomato. But it wasn’t just a tomato; it was proof. Proof that I could take something ugly and neglected, put in the work, and create something good. I harvested a ton of zucchini that summer, more than I knew what to do with. Gave some away to neighbors, cooked it every which way. The herbs were fantastic.
That garden, that messy, difficult project, became my unexpected “guide to a great week” during that strange year. It taught me that even when the big picture feels overwhelming, you can always pick a small patch, grab a simple tool, and just start digging. You might sweat, you might curse, and you’ll definitely hit some unexpected rocks. But if you keep at it, one small step at a time, you’ll eventually cultivate something worth having. And that felt a whole lot better than any horoscope could have predicted for me.
