Digging the dirt

My Pen friend, who is an explorer of things astrological, tells me I have no earth in my mix. I am unsure whether to feel short-changed or special. I am also unclear whether this great whack of other elemental influences leaves me with a compensatory job to do in this life. Would it be soulishly good for me to get more dirt under my fingernails; to fork the compost; to talk to my vegetables. It is true that I am growing to love my garden; I love the way it keeps delivering up new and ever-changing displays of colour and form. My confession is that I have no, and I mean no interest in harvesting food. In an act of compliance with all that I reckon I should (of course) do, I have prepared a plot, with 100 percent contribution from my seaweed hunting, pig poo dumping daughter, and a month or two ago I planted some vegies. Tellingly, I didn't plant the plastic descriptors, and there are some I can't recognise. Now I visit it only occasionally, driven by a sense of duty. I have little hope or expectation of produce. My fingers would far rather be tapping on this key board than dangling in the soil. Am I resisting the opportunity to align more deeply? Would the greening of my thumbs nourish my soul as well as my body? Would I be a better ecofriend? In my piscean way, I would rather float on the questions than dig for the answer.