Play/Work. Plork. It is doing the thing that needs done with joy, and mixing the thing that needs done with other things that go with it.
When I was a child I had to weed. Now I weed for therapy. I remember deciding to learn to garden, because it was what grown people do, and tilling a half acre. All the things I learned, then. Whoa doggies. Now I kick my shoes off and revel in the dirt between my toes as that wonderful machine churns the soil to rich brown froth. I imagine tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers and cantaloupe and squashes (yes, I eat them now) and herbs and beans and peas and whatever else I want. Instead of setting my shoulders and doing my duty, I go play.
Tonight we tilled and planted pots and prepped and then we had a cookout and played badminton. We worked on ours, then we worked on Christa’s and Ammon’s, and we laughed and talked and loved. Flats and flats of flowers, running their roots down into pots at my place make me smile in childish wonder.
This is plork. I like plork.