I love dirt. It wasn't love at first sight (or taste, or mud pie). I have been aware of dirt for the better part of my thirty-five years now. It didn't impress me until recently. And now, I must admit it, I have fallen for dirt.

I have conversations about my dirt with my neighbor. She has some strong opinions about the dirt in her yard. I don't blame her. Dirt can be frustrating. It can put limitations on the hopes and dreams we develop for our yards. In our mind's eye we may see lilies bursting forth with colors that eradicate the very idea of a Minnesota winter. But when we focus away from our minds eye onto the harsh reality of a silty, anemic little patch of soil under our favorite window (the one where all the good light comes in), sometimes we find only brown. And that's disappointing.

Despite my neighbor's warnings communicated shortly after I moved into this home a year ago, I did not make any assumptions about the fertility of my soil. She seemed a wise woman, however, and so I did invest modestly in a few bags of commercial dirt to mix in (just in case). I am pleased with the results.

Whether my soil was already nutrient rich, or whether the glorious booty of my tiny flower bed gives its thanks to the Lowe's gods, I do not know or care. My soil is fecund: it supports gorgeous plant life with its bounty. I love my dirt.

Noticing the joy and loyalty I now feel for my miniscule patch of this good earth, I cannot help but wonder how different our environmental policy would be if everyone stateside fell in love with dirt.