If you took a peak into the pages of my personal history, you'd probably agree. But my story doesn't start off as expected.
Growing up in the suburbs right outside Seattle, I didn't have many opportunities to dig my hands into fertile soil, let alone fertile animal manure. My parents kept a modest garden when I was pretty young, but my memories of it are few, and in them I was never the one getting dirty. It wasn't until high school that I even began to think about what it would be like to grow my own food, and not until a few years later, as a college student, that I had my first-hand experience working in a friend's garden plot.
Now the pages of my history reveal my life and times as a volunteer at Songaia. It's winter time. The soil may be frosted over, but it would be a mistake to think that there isn't life under there, wriggling about, stirring up something spectacular for seasons to come. I know, because in the little less than two months I've been at Songaia, I've witnessed the resilience of the plants. I've seen dormant garden beds breathe to life again after healthy shovelfuls of rabbit manure. I've watched the tiny, weather chapped plants change from pea soup yellow to vibrant, almost electric, green, just from lifting their winter cloches, announcing their rearrival in the garden. But best of all, I'm in a special position to witness the resiliency and vibrancy of the community of people who live here. Slowly, trustingly, they let me in to their lives, and I sense their heartaches, their joys, their commitment to one another, their ear for the land; the web of life they are creating together.
Here, I find myself becoming a part of their web, and I feel gratitude. I rub the rabbit manure between my fingers, and yes, maybe this was inevitable. All of it.