For all my urbanity, sometimes I dream hazy fantasies of a place where my short-fingernailed hands can comb through dirt. In these dreams, I’m wearing gauzy cotton or linen, and a graceful straw hat sits atop my head. Part Katharine Hepburn, part Martha Stewart, in these visions I’m experiencing some communal moment with Mother Earth as I till the soil and plant crops aplenty.

The likelihood of that actually happening is directly proportional to my getting older and moving further away from The Core.
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