Dirt for me, please!

Sitting in the sunshine in my back yard, I close my eyes and listen to the wind chimes on the porch as they play a sweet tune, while the breeze rustles its way through the treetops and the neighborhood birds cheerfully belt out their songs of love. Fairly warm, it is around 64 degrees on this 12th day of April, 2016. I open my eyes, and look down at my feet as I shuffle them in the earth before me. Something sparkles and flashes around the edges of them as the sun plays hide and seek with the clouds – minerals of some kind, I think, and I smile. Minerals, good. Dirt, good. Sunshine, good. All concepts I had understood either as a child, or from reading one of the multitudes of books on the subject of health I’d devoured over the last 30 years, but somehow had deemed unimportant enough to embrace in my daily life.

Now, here I sit, the memory of last night’s agony from the latest allergic reaction still somewhat fresh, but fading now as the healing elements of sunlight, dappled shadows and birdsong surround and soothe me, bathing me with their healing embrace.

I breathe in deeply and sigh, letting out all the pent up fear, sadness, frustration, and hurt brought on by so many years of ill health. It is spring now. The perfect time to shed the terrible cloak of sickness I’ve worn for way too many years. Time to let go the death grip of that garment that I have allowed to both define me and enslave me. But, who AM I without those things? I tremble for a moment, afraid to let go those habits, thoughts, ways, foods, hobbies, and passions that have shaped the avatar I present to the world. Raised on gumbo, Po-boys, strong coffee, fried food, and with an eat, drink and be merry attitude summed up by the classic Cajun battle cry “Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler!” (Let the good times roll!), I wonder how I will ever enjoy my life without them. Or how I will walk away for any length of time from my art - that joyful, frustrating, colorful, all absorbing passion of mine that is rife with chemicals, and off gassing paints. Deep sigh again. Look, I tell myself. Most of this will only be temporary. Do what you need to do to get well – eat bone broth, take probiotics, follow the Eat Dirt program for leaky gut, then maybe you can enjoy at least some of those things again someday. (Life without Brie and Brioche is hard to imagine, so please, God, please, help me find a way to let those back in at least once a year.)

But what choice do I have? To choose Brie and Brioche and all those other things that are poisoning me at present, is to choose death. I have known for some time as my health has spiraled downward, that it was just going to go from bad to worse if something didn’t change. So for now, I do have a choice. Do I want to wait until I can no longer take care of myself, or make decisions for myself before I “choose”? Uh, NO…. I don’t.

So here I stand before the proverbial fork in the road – which one do I take? The one, a heavily travelled, petroleum-based, drug-laden, blacktop road with shiny yellow lines, or the other, an unassuming little dirt two-track, barely used now since the arrival of the shiny new highway. Just a hint of a road, barely wide enough for two to pass, whose edges blur into the wildflower fields to its right, and a sparkling, stream on its left. It’s a no-brainer for me. I’ll take the road less travelled, and that, I am sure, will make all the difference in my world. Dirt for me, please!