I like pulling weeds.
I like the feeling of the roots letting go from the soil with one smooth tug. I like the smell of the earth as it turns over. I'm proud of the dirt stains on the knees of my old blue jeans.
I like the tools I have for digging and tilling. They've been passed along from parents and grandparents, worn smooth by many hands.
I like the quiet and repetition of weeding. I find myself pulling up worries along with the weeds.
At the end of the day, I dump the bucket filled with weeds and worries at the edge of the yard where the the brambles grow wild.