Drawing a line through the flooded soil, Jim’s dirt-coated fingernails traced a pathway of the canyons I was about to carve. Luckily, the rain changed to mist and the buckets of water falling from the sky began to dissipate. However, the ground was still not dry, so with every inch deeper my shovel traveled, a larger pool of liquid formed. Regardless, I had a task to complete. I continued digging along the prolonged pathway through various garden beds and under dense wood planks, instinctively schlepping muck beside my holey shoes. After hours of craft, it was time to run new pipes through Cami’s Canyon and complete construction.
Two hours earlier, I had approached two strangers at Micah 6 Community Gardens with a head full of wet hair and a smile on my face. Jim and Frank explained to me that I would be digging trenches for the irrigation system we would be implementing. Without hesitation or question of how to do this, I simply asked where I could find a shovel. Now, following countless dirt kisses on my skin and a pipe burial later, it was complete. The habitual sigh of relief and contentment enveloped my body, a reaction that is second nature to me.
Growing up, there wasn’t that much of a difference between the rhythm of my grandparent’s farm which I visited often, and the rhythm of my Bloomfield suburbs home. The values that were held by my mom’s side of the family were ones that became programmed as “normal” in my brain. Working was never a chore for me, but rather an opportunity for me to strengthen my mind and body.
On my grandparent’s farm, expectations are that you will always chip in. Circumstances aside, if there is a task that needs to be completed, then it is understood that it will get done.
My 87-year-old Pop-Pop drove tractors in the distance as I meticulously retrieved fallen branches around the sprawling field. “Make sure to throw those in the burn pile when you’re done!” Grammy called out from the barn. I surveyed the graveyard of tree limbs around me, rolled my sleeves up, and continued reflexively collecting with my small gloves. After all, it was just another job to do around the farm.
These values from a rural upbringing, where everything is built from the ground up, have transferred over to my suburban life in Bloomfield Hills.
Back at home, the list of tasks never seems to shorten. Before the sky’s tears have a chance to dance upon the parched grass, I rush over to my neighbor’s lawn and yank the recoil starter. Michael Jackson sings in my ears as I march to the beat of the music, my actions puppeteered by a focused intent on mowing perfectly straight lines.
I have become conditioned to work for purpose. That little girl scrupulously picking up sticks was taught to love the satisfaction of completing a job, but more importantly, to value the difference she made. There is a certain rhythm to be found in the process of completion, permeating from challenging beginnings to satisfying finalities, an ebb and flow for even the most mundane task. My dance teacher used to tell me that with patience, focus, and dedication at the ballet bar, my technique would improve—a skill that transfers over to all aspects of my life. The precision of a pirouette teaches me to approach every challenge with grace, while the improvisation inherent in dance sharpens my ability to adapt. I built that irrigation system not only because I knew how to dig trenches, but because I understood how to think on my toes—both literally and figuratively. And if the weather forecast ever predicts a storm during my next irrigation project, I’ll be ready to handle it with the same finesse as I handle a curtain call—with a backup pair of shoes.
