Not knitting, not writing...

This is what I've been doing instead of writing...instead of knitting. The interior view of my new greenhouse might not look that impressive now, but it's my favorite playground these days -- 960 square feet of dirt. A blank canvas, so to speak. I've great plans for every bit of it. The artistry began last weekend when I finished double-digging the tulip bed. I planted 200 bulbs of tulips, early and late varieties.

The process was invigorating. I worked up a good sweat, shed a couple of layers of winter warm clothing, and was tempted to join my daughter in kicking off the boots to wriggle my toes through the dirt. Since I was the one operating the shovel, I left the boots on.

While I was grubbing around, busting clods and positioning bulbs, I started naming the color patterns that prevailed. Rich shades of brown, bits of stubborn green grass, a winter reddened sprout of an even more stubborn blackberry bush. I started thinking of sweaters, mittens, hats, and scarves in nature's colorways. And now, everywhere I go, I'm mentally naming the colorways I see in the land around me. Morning Prairie Mist. Cardinals in the Snow. Prairie Snowmelt. Yada yada yada. Then the colorways bloomed into words and more words, descriptions, conversations, and scenes . . . and I was no longer stuck on a problem with the current book either.

Why is it always such a surprise to me that an afternoon of hard work will blow the cobwebs out of my brain?