The other day I came home—frazzled, irritable, and ready to check out. But, of course, life had a different plan. My day wasn’t quite over, and I need a reset.

So, I made a choice. I decided that, thanks to all the rain the universe had sent our way while I was on a much-needed voyage to Colorado, I would go outside—and I would weed.

Oh dear! The horror.
Or is it?

I recall beginning a relationship with weeding at a young age—probably around 12. One of my first “jobs” was to weed my neighbor Evelyn’s very long gravel driveway throughout the spring and summer. I remember the feeling of satisfaction as I carefully plucked each plant, one by one, all while noticing the bounty of life around me: pill bugs and ants abounded!

To some, this may seem tedious and boring—and yes, at times, I felt that deeply. But more often than not, I found myself invested in the action. I found myself noticing—my hands moving through the soil, my focus shifting to identifying and removing each weed. My attention drifted away from unpleasant or busy thoughts and settled into the rhythm of the task.

As I sat outside earlier this week, I found myself back in that place. Inhaling the earthy scent—it had just rained, so the soil was soft, fragrant, and alive. I could feel the texture of the roots, the leaves, the combination of sand, dirt, and clay that make up the soil. I leaned into the repetitive motion and the sensory experience that rooted me in the present. It invited me into a state of quiet focus and gentle repetition.

Unlike tasks that demand multitasking or mental strain, weeding is straightforward. It offers clear, visible results with each tug: the removal of a weed, the clearing of space, the restoration of order. This simplicity allows the mind to slow down. You’re not required to solve, explain, or perform—just observe, act, and breathe. Or: bend, reach, pull.

It was difficult to only carve out 30 minutes. During that time, I noticed so many marvelous things. Crows cawing. A chipmunk, completely unaware of my presence, making its way to a water bowl we leave out for small creatures. I saw and heard robins, mourning doves, and house sparrows all around me. Their calls and conversations prompted me to sit still and just listen.

The scent of the salvia, abundant in our garden, mingled with the sweet smell of sage and the nearby blooming geranium. I find I have a particular fondness for the smell of damp earth—it actually has a name: petrichor. It once signaled to our ancestors the availability of fresh water and fertile land. Today, it signaled to me that I was exactly where I was supposed to be—and that I had everything I needed.

My ears filled with the humming of native bees and the sounds of neighborhood dogs enjoying their evening walks. My hands were cool and wet in the earth—a welcome reprieve from the sun bearing down from above.

I only had 30 minutes, and made the best of that time. Life reminded me: weeding provides a quiet structure for stillness, a physical outlet for restlessness, and a gentle reminder that, with a bit of care and attention, space can be cleared—internally and externally. And just like that, I was ready to move on.

This is the joy of mindfulness: the ability to experience life more vividly, to notice beauty in the ordinary.