Soil and Spirit

Dirt-- in the US it is something we hear about, or we vacume up, or we wash off of our cars. Sometimes a child brings dirt in from that totally separate world-- the OUTSIDE. Even in yards and lawns, a person can roll around on the grass without getting dirty. The first thing I think about in Uganda, however, is dirt. Dust, mud, crud, stuff that smells like urine and excrement (and I know partially is)-- especially when less than half of the population has access to an outhouse, when goats and chickens and naked children roam freely, is everywhere. In houses made of dirt, and where doors and door frames, windows and window frames, ceilings and walls don't fit, you cannot escape. I mop my house every day, and after a few barefoot steps, my feet are always filthy.
Dirt is also soil, however, and in the rich, red- black soil in which I garden lies the food I eat. In a country of over 80% subsistence farmers, this soil is life. Sometimes I think that people come from it, and I know that when they die, they don't go to cemented cemetery plots. Instead, they are buried under the garden, in a wooden coffin, into the soil.
This is why, when the sisters found that a member of the parish refused to leave her house, they visited her. For a person to stay indoors and refuse the soul (and body) nourishing act of gardening-- something is serious! A recent widow, it pertained to the death of her husband, but was a more serious reaction than anyone else they had seen. After four long years of trying and pleading, she remained inside (yes, I want to diagnose according to the DSM-IV, but you find the psychiatrist that can come out here!)
Last year, therefore, one sister had an idea, bring the muzungu (white person)! Sure enough, when I came, with a camera, we made a deal-- if she can come out, she gets a picture. She came out and took a picture OUTSIDE of her house with her children and one of the sisters, as shown above.
For Easter, we were in for a special surprise, as she came to mass and decided to end her days inside. So, last week, I went with two sisters to re-initiate that very essential task-- gardening. Her daughter had been previously farming their 7 acres -by hand- alone. We came out and did a gardening bee.
We walked about 5 miles guided by small, swift children (there is no childhood obesity in this village!) to her house. There, after a prayer, we begun the work. We were six women in all, weeding beans, swiftly, barefoot, and with laughter and giggles. I am afraid that I uprooted three bean plants, but, all in all, I wasn't so bad. After the 5 mile walk home again, and beans and maize for supper, I was in paradise. What if every person suffering from depression and any other mental illness could be cared for in the same way? I swear that this soil is better than the mental wards I've seen. I was also, however, ready for a long bucket bath-- guess I'm not totally in love with all of the soil :)