work of my hands

They call me dreamer... Anyone who has known me, really known me, must undeniably acknowledge that my head doesnt belong to the ground. How i love to use my vision and change the world. I paint the ground in sunnier shades and see things in people that might never have been there at all. Though i cannot say i regret that about myself. I choose to look for the good; wouldnt you? Love hopes all things i suppose. Ill just leave it at that.

Well, allow me to give you some connection to my purpose for writing. I am finding a deep seated joy in the work of my hands. The earth is beautiful in its goodness. The ground holds all of us up and grows the food we need to live abundantly. Though my little 10 acres isnt anything to brag about, it's still mine to do what i want with. To tend to and to infuse myself into. Unlike the imperfection of man, the earth is resiliently pure. The concept of finding fulfillment in my work is something i cannot quite explain. Not to go all confucius on you but its really true. Working with the earth isnt really work at all. How i envied the simplicity of the ground keeper on the other side of that window. Now i can plant and cultivate and beautify my world. The ideas that swirl around my head is a tornado of possibility and the best part is that it all rests in my two hands. I can do anything with this land that i choose to do. There are no more chains to bind me up in doubt. I have tried so hard to live an honorable life. Just to be an honorable man... Sometimes i got lost in the midst of it all but that is finally done. The perenial earth is all the honor i could ever hope to master. Finally i can seek out my forever by setting my hands to growing in love. May my efforts nurish both myself and those i care for.