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Posts Tagged ‘home’

I’m a fan of dirt, as a person who spent their childhood growing up in the country I pretty much had to be. There’s just something about it, something about the way it feels on my hands pressed deep beneath my finger nails defining the textures of my skin. It just feels good… feels right. Like holding a piece of the world in my hands, the real world, the natural world. With all the concrete and cement, tile floors and second story bedrooms I forget how rare it can be to actually touch the earth. To feel it… Skin to Nature… Nature to Skin…

So I plant. In my Tropical Suburban paradise I plant, one single terracotta pot, a small confinement of a little piece of nature, a pledge to not only live on this earth, but to try to remember to be a part of it as well.

So now I share it with you. My dirty nails typing away at clean electronics… This is my first Dirty Nail Blog!

…Now to get started…

.Potting soil.plants.terracotta pot.

.A few rocks to line the bottom(so all the dirt wont fall out the hole) and several inches of potting soil.

.Marigolds are some of my favorite garden flowers and they should stand tall against the wickedness of the slugs.

.Their roots are overgrown and ready to stretch each little cramped tendril into the expanses of rich fresh soil.

.Plant tags to be filed away for future reference.

.Arranged and waiting to be permanently placed.

.Lots of water to soak the soil and make all those constricted little roots grow.

THE END

Well not really THE END, only the beginning. With a little love and some Hawaiian luck my plants will flourish and grow encouraging me to expand and to always remember that the earth is home to all of us… and sometime it’s nice to take a moment and just go home…

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Sometimes you want it, sometimes you need it, and sometimes you just plain gotta have it.

Hawaii gets to me, living in a place were you can only drive for so long before you end up right back were you started drives me crazy. Not to mention the dirt is the wrong color, the apples at the supermarket suck and don’t they know that beaches are supposed to be cold, gray and completely deserted short of the occasional surfer, dog walker and van full of stoner kids?

I miss the rain, and the fog, I miss waking up in the morning and having to muster up the strength to leave the warmth of the covers long enough to stoke the fire. I miss acres and acres of natural forests filled with tall trees, and the kind of lush greenery that thrives on a climate of cold wet winters and hot dry summers. I miss honey bees, and butterflies, the way the babbling of a creek in the distance can melt into the peaceful sounds of serene silence, and I miss my dogs.

photo by Castlelyn Carmona

I even miss the things I never liked in the first place… like seagulls. Now I’d say I hate seagulls, but hate is such a strong word so I’ll go with dislike, I very strongly dislike seagulls they’re like the rats of the sky, pesky, loud, always begging for bits of food, then blemishing your vehicle ungratefully whether you feed them or not, but somehow lately I even find myself wondering… where are the seagulls?

for me island fever is like finding a small splinter in the tip of my finger when there are no tweezers to be found. Without a quick fix I just try to ignore it hoping in the back of my mind that it will be purged by the natural functions of my body… a naïve short lived hope at the very least. When I wake up the next morning it’s been momentarily forgotten, I get out of bed and head for the shower. Still groggy I reach for the tap and… F*CK! I look to my hand and there it is right where I left it, but now it’s not only a little splinter, but it’s a little splinter on a finger that is throbbing and red with infection. I head to the medicine cabinet for a band-aid and some ointment, but there’s nothing to be found, no band-aids, no rubbing alcohol, and still no tweezers. So I give in, I turn off the tap, throw on some clothes and head downstairs to where my laptop is perched precariously on the edge of the couch. I sit myself down and arrange it on my lap as I let out a reluctant sigh of shrewd acceptance. I flip open the screen, and head for my favorite travel site, I type date a few days from now, and wait for the ridiculously expensive numbers to appear so that I can laugh at myself suck the splinter from my thumb, and move on with my life, but they never come the only numbers that grace my screen are reasonable… really really reasonable.

One phone call and a 500 dollar credit card purchase later the throbbing in my finger has stopped, and I’m on my way to a whole Humboldt full of metaphorical antiseptic.

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There is nothing more comforting than knowing you have a place to come home to, and I’m fortunate enough to know that I always will. My home isn’t an apartment somewhere, or a cozy little cabin tucked back in the woods. It’s not a big house full of room mates, or a duplex on a military installation. It’s much bigger than that, it’s not a building, or a town, it’s a whole county, Humboldt County to be exact.

Humboldt County isn’t just a place; it’s a feeling, a passion kept alive by the people who’ve come to love it. Bordered by the Pacific Ocean, and nestled in the redwood forests of Northern California, Humboldt is beautiful, serene, tranquil, a picture perfect post card of wilderness, and the late night fantasy of anyone who loves the outdoors.

Known for a subculture of beautiful plants that flower prosperously all year-round thanks to the over abundance of hydroponic and horticultural shops that litter its cities and towns. Humboldt is a wonderland for the College freshman looking for a chance to prove their independence by growing their hair long, and washing their jeans… well… “never”… The clean-cut suburban city kid can put prep schools and winter formals behind them for a chance to spend day after day eating brownies and contemplating the vast intrigues of a Grateful Dead poster. Don’t get me wrong, College in Humboldt is a wonderful nurturing place to come into your own and find out who you really are, but many young adults take a little bit of a smoke-filled detour on the way.

Humboldt is the place my life started, where I took my first breath, lost my first tooth, spoke my first word, got my first kiss, fell in love for the very first time. I’ve lost and gained all those things that make up a childhood in Humboldt, and it will always be my first love. From summer days spend lazing by a murky pond, to winter nights bundled up under the stars, there’s no place I’d rather call home, and though my life may take me away, I will always find comfort in knowing that whenever I choose she’ll be there with arms open waiting to pull me right back into the warm embrace that is knowing where you come from, and where you belong.

“Humboldt is like a sweet kiss on a rainy day, you never know where it might lead, but you’re glad to be with the one you love”

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