I Am Not Happy Unless My Hands are Dirty

Whenever I find myself getting discontented in life, it usually means my hands just aren't dirty enough.

In today's world, everything is supposed to shine, glisten, and glimmer. Everything ought to be made out of chromium, aluminum, and steel. But I guess I belong to an older earth, you know, the one made of stone, fire, earth, and water. 

Ever since I was a kid, nothing made me happier than putting my hands in the sand, making things out of mud, or letting water run through my fingers. I would be delighted if I was told today, "Go make a cabin in the woods. Go away from this place of hustle and bustle, this hum drum of city/suburban life, and eat what you grow." But, I feel that I would soon become bored with nothing and no one to talk to but the birds. Perhaps I am cursed by living in this oh so busy generation, or maybe I simply crave human contact. 

I wasn't always this way. I was a bookworm through and through, too busy writing, too interested in my own thoughts to be consumed with the everyday lives of people. But amidst all my reading and writing, through all my thoughts, I was led to a beautiful discovery. We are the dirt. We are the essence of earth. We are beautiful, and boring; waiting to be shaped, destined to be demolished. 

Just like dust, we can be viewed as a prize or a problem. Resting on the mantle or scattered on the floor, dust is but a nuisance. But that same dust and dirt mixed in barrels and loaded onto trucks is the yet unborn masterpiece of an architect. In working with children especially, I get to see first hand what happens when children are treated as pests, turning into problems. But in the right hands, those same children, their character worked on by purpose and design, will blossom into the greatest prizes. 

So many people nowadays are in a rush to run away from life's problems. Selfishly, we seek our own comfort, not understanding that are purpose (and greatest joy) is to comfort and empower others. We ignore divorce, we shove uncomfortable subjects in the closet, we sweep a lot of anguish under the rug, and we disregard basic human needs in exchange for a false reality. But I want real problems. Call me crazy, but I want the dirt, not for the thrill of getting dirty, but for the knowledge that it is the real thing.

Wake up my dear, you were made to grow things up from the dirt.