drudgery (n).

We like to talk about success. We like to talk about adventure. We like to talk about triumph and accomplishment and achievements and great feats that have been overcome. We like to talk once the work is done and the trophy is on the shelf. We like to talk about holidays and dreamy vacation spots and really fancy dinners. We like to look at the harvest.

We do not like to talk about the countless nights that keep us awake and worried, sending us back to the drawing board. We do not like to talk about the hours we've clocked at nothing jobs that pay our rent, the mind-numbing tasks that are included (stocking straws, mopping floors, sharpening crayons [seriously.], filling printers full of papers, 4-5 page (or 1200 word) book reports, not on "what did this teach you" but "regurgitate the text please." Scooping ice cream. Inputting data. Stacking box upon box. Pouring concrete. Polishing glassware. 4am start times/ 4am quitting times).  People on transit at 4am are the definition of doing the grind.

We don't like to talk about the season that is tilling the soil because, think about it, all it is is massaging shit into the earth, really. Blisters in our hands. A breaking in our backs, making us feel old. Sweat soaking shirts. Furrowing brows as we think about all of the work that's left to do. Doubting the rains will ever come, doubting the seeds will take, cursing our lot. Cursing our land.

It's not pretty. It is not swift. This grossmiraculous process that bodies do that makes eight-year-olds giggle whenever they say the word. This is what Life grows in.

We do not like to tell the stories about the time of year when we massage shit into the earth. But this is the time of year that names us, proves us, makes us sprout.