God, I love my garden. People who know me know this. They would derive this from a simple visit to our home and enjoying the loose, lively and lovely spread of color, the heady scents, the overabundance of beauty.

But, it's not just the beauty that tells me I love my garden. It's the devotion, the excitement, the thrill I get when I work in it.

Yesterday, my granddaughter came over (4 years old). She and I opened a box that had come to the house a week ago. I saw that what was in it were the Green Envy coneflowers I had ordered. "Holy cow!" I said. "I gotta get these in the ground! They've been sitting in this box all week!"

Now, the place I had planned for these was in a rounded corner of my herb garden. Thing is, I had to RIP OUT 10-year-old citronella plants to make room for the coneflowers. This area was between two sage bushes and next to two fledgling Hawthorn trees. My granddaughter Maggie LOVES to garden, so, she and I grabbed shovels and gloves and went out to get started.

Ripping out spreading, old roots is HARD work. I got to it, prying patches out of the garden little by little, digging deep enough to get the roots, hauling out huge clumps and shaking off soil and worms. Just after I pointed out to Maggie the 1-inch long (no kidding!) thorns on the Hawthorn tree, and please be careful, I leaned my hand on the ground and was pierced - I swear, think crucifixion — right in the palm of the hand. It went w-a-y in. Dang. 'Pulled it out and got back to work.

About a half hour in, with the digging, the pulling, the groaning and laughing, I am making a mental note to take Aleve as soon as possible, because this is gonna hurt later.

An hour or so after we started Maggie and I had finally cleared a spot and we were ready to plant. I planted. She watered. We hauled 3 boxes full of weeds and roots and garden debris out of the herb garden in just this one little project. We put away the shovels. We washed up, checked for ticks, and had ourselves a refreshing drink.

My muscles ached. A lot. And it felt wonderful. My daughter Mary used to take pride in the huge, colorful bruises she acquired during a hard soccer game. Badges of honor. That's how the sore muscles feel after the first gardening project of the year. It feels wonderful.

It was chilly as we worked. I found out earlier this year that I have a hiatal hernia, and that means that when I do a lot of bending, such as with gardening, it gets kind of, uh, uncomfortable. None of that mattered. The scents of the herbs surrounding me - sage, citronella, lavendar — were heady, a benediction. The sunlight on our shoulders was glorious. The breezes made my granddaughter's almost-white blonde hair lift and swirl. The earth smelled good. We named the earthworms we found as we disturbed their homes, and gently returned them to the dark. We took the fledgling little coneflower plants, just three of them, and placed them in their new home, visions of early summer glory in my mind.

This experience is close to heaven for me. It is the hardest work I love. The only endeavors that are similar, in that they are crazy-hard, often solitary, and that they require blind enthusiasm and devotion would be: raising kids, writing a piece I "simply must write," and loving my husband and family. Hard work, to the point of exhaustion. Others see the fruit and enjoy it. "You have such great kids," or "you two are good together," or "I so enjoyed that article you wrote, or "Mom, we had the best time together this weekend." All of that is welcome and certainly one of the reasons for, and one of the rewards for, all the work.

But, I guess my point here is that, I not only love the results, I love the process. I have been known to garden for 8 hours straight without a break and not even realize what time it is. I am supposed to limit my time in the sun (one of those delightful demands that comes with getting older) so I can easily be found gardening in a steady, light rain. For hours. "Carrie, come in! You're going to catch cold!" Never happens. I have found myself gardening into twilight and had to give up because I couldn't see what I was doing. When Spring pruning of trees and bushes comes, I go into the office at work with scrapes and bruises up and down my arms. Like Mary, I look on them with affection!

Am I crazy? Obsessed? Nah. As I mentioned, this is not all that different from the devotion and hard knocks and long hours we put in on anything we love (childbirth; being up all night with a sick child; preparing a kick-ass presentation; or talking about dreams with your partner).

God, I love my garden. Welcome Spring!

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