When I was a kid I loved playing in the dirt.
My friend had a dirt yard under his side porch where we built a hideout, played with trucks, shot toy guns and hung out all summer long. I’d go home with dirt in the creases of my elbows, dirt on my knees, dirt under my fingernails and in my har.
Other days, we’d play in the woods. We’d hike, climb trees, and ride bikes. We’d log roll down long grassy hills. We’d wade through streams and slop through mud. We’d play on the monkey bars, ride the swings and try to climb poles. We’d come home filthy at dinnertime.
In winter, we’d play football. Grass stains, knees torn out of jeans and bloody elbows were a art of everyday life. In summer, it was baseball with dusty shoes and dirt covered mitts. In the fall, it was yoyo and buckeye season full of running, biking and collecting before winter set in.
Dirt was the fun part of life.
Then I grew up and dirt disappeared.
When I worked in low pay, labor jobs it was dirty. But I did my best to hide the dirt and scrub clean immediately when I got home. My peers and neighbors were all professionals and I was ashamed of my station in life and the dirt that accompanied it.
Years later, when had I finally worked my way into the white collar world, dirt was replaced by office politics, dress codes and corporate policies.
Any trace of the outdoor world was eliminated. Windows didn’t open. Climate control circulated the air. Sunlight and windows was reserved for lucky few – everyone else was lit up with fluorescent lights.
There was no dirt. No nature. No real fun.
But I had made it – hadn’t I? Wasn’t this the successful life I was striving for?
I liked making more money. I liked looking, feeling and dressing like I was a success. But something was missing. That something drove me to ride a bike year round through all kinds of weather and to hike for hours in the woods every weekend with my dogs.
In my second week on the road, I’ve realized that my new life will contain a lot of dirt – more than I’ve had since I was a little kid.
It is inevitable when living outdoors in the desert (and I suspect in the forest, the mountains, the beach and anywhere else).
Considering that I am living in a 6’ x 8’ micro trailer that’s only tall enough to crawl into and that you have to crawl over my bed to reach anything, it’s a recipe for a human dirt sandwich.
Dirt is in my bed. It’s on the floor. Little dusty paw prints track across my bed when Snickers comes inside. Big dusty boot prints track inside behind me.
If I step out in the middle of the night for a bathroom break, guess what comes back in with me? Dirt.
My shoes are all now a shade of desert orange dust. My clothes have a fine powder coating plus streaks of heavier dirt where I’ve brushed against something.
My fingernails and hands now only occasionally reach a vague state of cleanliness before quickly returning to their normal state of dirt encrusted.
Even when I wash something, the wind immediately blows sand and dirt on it – as if the desert is fighting me to claim it.
Plus I am outside all day. I brush my teeth outside. I shower outside. I workout outside. I eat outside. I do the dishes outside.
Unless I am sleeping or hiding from a storm, I’m outside. Usually getting covered in dirt.
When I go to town for supplies, I fit in with the locals.
They are ranchers, farmers, laborers and oil workers. They’re all covered in dirt too. So are their trucks, their boots and their gear.
I always felt like I belonged in the world of mechanics, construction workers, laborers and blue collar men. There’s an honesty, a lack of pretension, and a satisfaction that comes with doing the hard labor of this world. I did it for many years before moving into the white collar world. The money wasn’t good, but it never felt fake.
There’s something honest about dirt.
I lost touch with this for many years.
My wife never did. She was a gardener who played in the dirt her entire life. Whenever the first signs of spring came, she’d don her gloves, grab her trowel and get outside in the dirt. She’d shiver in the cold, sweat in the sun and run inside when it rained. It didn’t matter whether we were rich or poor, she was always the same playing in the dirt.
I on the other hand, carefully crafted a life far removed from dirt, inconvenience or struggle. I lived an air conditioned, pampered and pristine life in the suburbs.
And yet, when my wife died and my world fell apart, I came back to the dirt. I hope I find what I am missing here.