Hiding out in the tiny greenhouse, longing to be alone.  The rain drops splash on the plastic roof beating a relaxing tempo.  Warm and humid, the musty sent of damp dirt and fresh woodchips permeate the air.  The reason patchouli is worn, I think.  The day is grey, but in my mind the greenhouse is bright, glowing with happiness and warmth, like a Thomas Kincaid painting.   

As I move the misting wand from tray to tray, I watch the soil drink greedily.  My facial muscles work their way into a forgotten smile as I count the seedlings stretching for the sun.  The seedlings are as fragile as I feel.  They don’t all make it.  Thin blades of bunny grass, furry sunflowers, and the heart shaped first leaves of the warmth-craving basil textures the wire shelves. My daughter tells me “dicots have cotyledons.”   She knows.  I just want to watch the plants grow.

I look ahead to the day the seedlings can move outside under Gatorade jug cloches.  Like people, some are hardy enough to go it alone. Some need extra care.  Sometimes it depends on the fickle or fair weather, on whether the support is stable or wobbly, or on the intensity and location of the aches and pains.   

I breathe deep.  Peace beams from my soil.  Could that funny feeling be acceptance coursing through my veins?  Hope glimmers within reach.  The seedlings give me joy as they crane their necks to see who will get tallest fastest.  They are easy. They don’t negotiate every point.  They don’t borrow my tools and leave them in the rain to ruin.  The worst thing they do is force me outside for if I neglect them, they die.  But their demands are subtle.  Neglected, their death may be sudden or lingering, but it is quiet.  If that happens, I will not be despondent.  I will grab another bag of soil, a packet of seeds, and my do or die attitude to begin the cycle of life again.   

In the cramped aisle, I turn to exit my sanctuary.  The spray of the hose gifts me with a private rainbow.  Surely, I can find someone who wants to dig beneath the surface with me.

Sitting on the floor before the windowed, front-loading washer, the bob-tailed black kitten watches the sudsy laundry tumble.  Right, then left.  His eyes intent; his ears perked.  How can he spend hours watching that?  

The dingy sleeping bag has been in my car for weeks waiting for me to decide the time was right to take it to the Laundromat.  A dog peed on it.  I don’t own a dog.  Somehow, as mom, I am designated to do these sorts of odd and undesirable jobs.

A $5 bill goes in, like a slot machine the change machine spills out 20 quarters.  “Big Bertha” sits, her mouth yawning wide, just begging me to cram the bag in and feed her 15 quarters.   There she goes.  Right, then left.  My eyes intent; my ears, I suppose, perked. 

Today it seems as if I could spend hours neglecting my basket of homework, enjoying the warmth of the dryer and the sudsy smells, watching "Big Bertha" go 'round in the meditative trance I learned from the cat.  Down the drain goes the dog pee and some of my tension.  The buzzer startles me signaling that it is time to load the damp bag into the car.  Home I go with a sense of tranquility I didn’t have before.