Becoming Whispers | The Dirt Under my Nails

I'm kneeling in the garden this afternoon, my hands in the soil, and I realize I've been here for twenty minutes without thinking about anything.

Not in a meditative way. Not in an "I'm being present" way.

Just... here. Hands in the dirt. Pulling weeds. Feeling the earth cool and damp

against my palms.

The sun is warm on my back, and I can hear birds somewhere above me, and the smell of the soil is rich and dark and alive. I press my fingers deeper, feeling the texture, gritty and soft at the same time, and I think about how long it's been since I let myself do something like this.

Something slow. Something that doesn't produce anything except clean soil and tired hands.

I pull another weed, and the roots come up easily, trailing dirt. I shake them off and set them aside, and my hands move to the next one without me having to think about it.

And then I notice something.

I'm here—really here, hands in the dirt, sun on my back—but I'm not feeling it.

Not the way I thought I would. Not the way I've been feeling things lately.

I'm present, but I'm... muted. Like there's a thin layer of glass between me and the world again. Not thick, just enough that everything feels slightly distant.

Slightly safe.

I sit back on my heels and look at my hands. They're covered in dirt, nails dark with soil, and I realize: I've been so careful.

So careful to notice things. So careful to be present. So careful to practice what I learned.

But somewhere in all that carefulness, I started protecting myself again.

Not from the world, from feeling the world too much.

Like if I let myself feel too much, I might break. Or slip backward. Or lose the clarity I've been holding so carefully.

So I've been here, but not all the way here.

Present, but not fully alive.

I press my hands back into the soil, and this time I let myself feel it. Really feel it. The coolness. The texture. The way it gives under my fingers. The way it smells like rain and growth and something ancient I can't name.

And it's almost too much.

Not in a bad way, just... big. Bigger than I expected. Like the world has been waiting for me to stop protecting myself from it.

I breathe. Slowly. Deeply.

I don't shame myself for the glass I put up. I don't try to force it away. I just notice: Oh. I've been holding back. I've been afraid to feel this fully.

And then I let my hands stay in the dirt. I let the sun warm my back. I let the birds sing above me. I let the aliveness be as big as it wants to be.

I'm not sure how long I stay there, kneeling in the garden, hands in the soil, letting myself feel everything without trying to control it or understand it or make it mean something.

But when I finally stand, my knees are stiff and my hands are filthy and I feel... awake.

Not in the careful, practiced way I've been awake.

In the raw, unprotected way. The way that feels like risk and trust and being here without armor.

I look down at the dirt under my nails, and I think about the little girl I used to be. The one who existed without permission. The one who felt everything fully, even when it hurt.

I thought I'd lost her.

But maybe I didn't lose her. Maybe I just learned to protect her. And maybe now I'm learning that she doesn't need protection anymore.

She just needs to be here. Fully. Without the glass.

I wipe my hands on my pants, they'll probably stain, but I don't care, and I walk back inside, leaving the garden behind but carrying the dirt on me.

And something is waking up.

Not the careful, practiced waking I've been doing. Something deeper. Something that doesn't ask permission or wait for the right moment.

Something that just... is.

I don't know what it is yet. I don't know where it's leading.

But I'm here for it.

All the way here.

Without the glass.