FOR EONS, WOMEN HAVE TILLED THE SOIL WITH DIGGING STICKS. And now that I know the wisdom of the shovel, and have a collection of digging sticks of my own, I wonder if the women before me were also tilling soil, and self. 15 years ago at age forty, I imagined myself buried in an underground cave. It was dark, lonely, and I was afraid because my essential self was buried under the leavings of teachings, losses, loves, responsibilities and experiences. Captured in the cavern, I was desperate, and as I stood in my garden and leaned on my shovel, I saw the sunflowers, beans, tomatoes and corn growing towards the light. I asked, “Where am I hiding? Why am I not growing towards the light? When did I lose sight of me? What tool do I need to rediscover Sunday?” You also may be gripping the tool of self-rediscovery in your hands, because when something is buried, be it gold, potatoes or yourself, usually the best way to find it is to dig.

I was four-years-old when my father handed me a small shovel and said, “Sunday, the wisest people know that the shovel is the staff of wisdom, not the stick of ignorance. So whenever you have a question, a problem to solve, or a decision to make, dig a big hole in the garden, and by the time you fill it back up, you’ll have found your answers.” Apparently I asked too many “why” questions that morning, and Daddy needed time to work. So I dug my first hole and after filling it back up, I said, “Daddy, I have the answer to my question and you were wrong. There aren’t any root-children living under the apple tree. Why?”

Thirty-five years later, I stood in my garden with a shovel in my hand. Again I asked, “Why? Only this time it was, “Why me?” My life had been exhilarating, filled with world-travel, intriguing clients and artistic and financial fulfillment as an internationally exhibited jewelry-designer and goldsmith. Yet, faced with marital instability and unprocessed grief, my soul longed for the garden. And in a simple twist of fate, the garden found me.

After becoming enchanted with the surrounding wetlands, thirty fruit trees and a funky grandma-style house, I purchased an acre of land with four rental cottages and a greenhouse. Always romantic in nature, I did so without considering my considerable inexperience, and my first afternoon as owner, I stood in my back yard and cried. I knew I had assumed a task far beyond my physical capability and skill level. The lawns needed mowing, the cottages were in disrepair, the weeds were rampant, and I was a foolish woman alone, without a tool-belt or a lawnmower. However, I did have a shovel, and I did have some problems, some questions, and some decisions to make.

Apparently it’s true that blood will tell, because when I saw the vast wastelands ahead (both personal and professional), I mustered the audacity and courage of my pioneer ancestors to carry me forth into the unknown. In the name of love, my foremothers, pampered southern-belles accustomed to slaves and household help, made the journey west from Virginia in wagons and on foot. “ If they could do that, then I can do this,” became my mantra.

The previous owner had sadly neglected the garden, and although there were more pressing matters, sweaty and dirty, I dug into the soft soil, twirling in ecstasy when I struck gold, potato gold. This was a sign, a sign of the abundance left behind for me to discover. However, I didn’t stop digging until the hole was two feet deep. Later, as I filled the hole, an inkling of confidence wiggled inside of me. So according to my female imperative, my next decision was to befriend my land, thank her, and give her a name. I named her “Compostella”, heavenly earth.

I dug more, widening flower beds, delivering grief for the loss of loves and my son to the earth to be processed, and transformed into sunflowers, grapevines and hollyhocks. Soon many of the lawns were gone, and fields of sunflowers grew hopeful, as did I. Foregoing a tiller, I turned the earth for my organic garden with my shovel, and at harvest time delivered the abundance to neighbors, tenants and friends. One can never have too many fruit trees, so I dug holes, planted more, and in late summer picked and bottled the fruit of my labor.

Another sage, Annie Pack, a wise mountain-woman from the hills of Tennessee, gifted me with her wisdom when she told me, “Sunny, every act you take with your body; you also take with your mind and heart.” So as I dug for gold in my garden, I found me. I now think of Compostella as the best university I ever attended, and I consider my shovel to be the staff of wisdom, just like Daddy said.

Today, I dig in the garden with my favorite hand-painted shovel and digging stick, and I also dig into the interior of my self with words. And when I look at the many riches in my life, I often say, “Daddy, thank you for teaching me about the staff of wisdom, and you were right after all. I finally had a peek at the root children, and you have no idea the riches they shared when my digging stick tilled my questions, problems and decisions. And one of the richest riches I found while digging was me, Sunday.” Your soil is fertile, your garden is growing, and your self is longing for the light, now, where is your digging stick?

© 2003 Sunday Larson

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sunday Larson was taught to reach for the stars, and never worry about changing life direction. She walked before she could crawl and spoke with a fearless voice early. Sunday takes every experience as fuel to empower and transform her life. Somebody up there has their eye on Sunday, because she has been struck by lightning, survived a near-death-experience, and been married four times (twice to the same man). Sunday Larson, author of The Spinning Game: A Sedona Story, teaches WordShops in Perspective based her forthcoming book “Free Your Fearless Voice”. Sunday lives in Sedona, AZ and SLC, UT and can be contacted through her website. Sunday’s Perspective of the Fearless Voice online column is www.EveryWeekBeginsWithSunday.com