English is a tricky language. I’ve been living in the UK for nearly a year and I still get confused. I’m not having 70 bags of dirt delivered to the university tomorrow, because that would be very strange AND I’m not a hoarder. I am, however, having nearly 9,000L of compost or soil delivered this afternoon. sneaky…tricky…dirty words.
These last couple of months have been quite stressful. Generally, I try to have a semi-positive outlook on what’s to come. However, as my final degree performance for the MA is quickly upon me, I find myself worrying about things I cannot control…ever! During this month, my mantra has been: “I have control over my body. I have control over the compost. I don’t have control over anyone or anything else.”—at this time, at least.
Admittedly, I’ve been away from the soil for a while. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve left cerebral-mode and decided to (literally) plunge my whole being into the earth in my rehearsal space at Uni. I have not been my best self; I have not been happy-go-lucky Ryan—perhaps I never was that person. hmmm? Being back in the compost, though, has alleviated a lot of tension in my heart and mind. I can’t really explain it any other way, but the soil is intoxicating in the most natural sense of that word. Touching it. Breathing it in. Lying down in it. I love it!