Digging

I wonder if it has some deep psychological meaning. 

There's not an age group nor a gender distinction that I can discern. Grandma's Garden hosts cool kids and lonely kids and popular kids and odd kids and quiet kids, science kids and culinary kids and the occasional gardening kid, but they are all, each and every one of them, digging kids.

Look at that face. 

He's doing nothing but making holes in the ground with a plastic trowel. He is the essence of joy.  

So is he. 

It's not a planned activity.  In fact, many of the holes have to be filled in because they are in the middle of the path where people walk and I don't want anyone to trip and fall.  

Somehow, that's just as much fun. They dig them,  they stick prickerless cactus pads into them,  I tell them they are placed dangerously,  and back to work they go. 

There are lots of places to dig and plant. 

The birds and the wind and the trampling of little feet will uproot them so that tomorrow they can be planted and ticked in tight once again. 

They will be just as excited as they were today. 

It's gotta be hardwired into our shared human genetic pool.