I love digging. I couldn’t imagine going a day without at least doing some digging. If I had all the time in the world, I would spend every second excavating wherever I can. Of course, as a 14-year-old, I have all the time in the world, so I can spend a lot of it turning over dirt. I won’t lie though, it can get somewhat tiresome. And, for fear of losing those valuable seconds taking a break, I find it useful spending some of that time thinking about the next place I want to dig and planning accordingly. You might ask yourself, “Why the hell would you want to be digging all the time? That sounds like a lot of effort.” Well, I don’t quite know. I suppose I just always have dug, so it’s just a part of me now. Like an itch in my middle back that I can’t seem to reach, no matter what angle I bend. It’s honestly a compulsion more than anything at this point. It feels akin to my need to eat, or drink, or sleep. While others are mingling about on the surface, I’m always wondering what’s going on underneath.

My mum has always been supportive, well, as supportive as you can be when you have a limited understanding of the motives behind your child’s actions. She definitely thought it strange of me to be constantly digging. Although she eventually came around on the matter, the tone in her voice in these early conversations often felt both befuddled and concerned. Like the idea of digging holes was simply a waste of my time. 

“Everything we need is here on the surface. Why would you bother getting your hands filthy digging in the dirt?” she would say. 

My response would invariably be both unsatisfying and a little confusing to both of us. Which didn’t help my case. After some debate and despite her early grievances, in time she began to understand. Truth is, I didn’t know why I was digging either.  My need to dig felt like some divine task assigned to me by an otherworldly being. It outlined that if I was to dig deep and diligently enough, it would begin the unending pursuit of answering all of my questions. 

I do like asking questions. And trust me, I have a million of them. One thing I realised early on in my efforts is the act of digging may be the question, but the things you find don’t always necessitate a definitive answer. It’s far more likely that any answer you receive, will simply lead to more questions. It feels like only continued excavations could hope to get you anywhere near something that might resemble an answer. Or sometimes there simply isn’t an answer at all. Sometimes physical and mental limitations will hold you back from discovering whatever it is you are looking for, and the thrill of the continued search will be the only thing that motivates you to keep going. 

I started digging when I was young. In fact, the moment that I became conscious of the idea of being conscious, I started my journey downward. I always felt like there was something there, something interesting that others could not see, or too lazy to look for. Even in that infantile stage, I found it perplexing how others, especially adults, were so inattentive. They would move about the surface, not once thinking about the treasures that could hide just below their feet. While other kids were milling around pushing crayons up their noses and making macaroni pictures, I’d be outside digging. While their parents would be watching Days of Our Lives and paying income taxes, I would be outside digging. At the time, I was too small to use my dad’s shovel, so I would use my bare hands. Which seems to me, both now and then, an inefficient and ineffective method. I would try to use the shovel, but as you can imagine, it was far too big and cumbersome for a child to wield. My dad, knowing how much I loved digging, would come out and help me from time to time. We would dig a hole big enough for me to stand in and then fill it back in before dinner. These holes were simple and inelegant; dad was just following my lead and I had no idea what I was doing, but what I lacked in know-how, I made up for with pure unbridled enthusiasm. 

 I sometimes find things. Pieces of metal, plastic, bone. Most things I unearth hold very little value, but sometimes they’re worth a lot of money. Of course, money is only one measure of value and it’s certainly not the metric that I use. Although, when I do find things worth a lot of money, people seem to be a lot more interested in my holes. I don’t really care how much money something is worth and honestly, the idea of putting a dollar value on what I dig up feels like it misses the point. It’s all the same to me. I really don’t do it to find things. It’s more about the journey, and the pure satisfaction of a job well done. I always know there are more holes to dig, or even holes I’ve already dug that I could always go deeper. With all that said, don’t get me wrong, finding things can be exceedingly exciting. I just try to remember that the best holes contain many things, which means you need to approach each discovery with a subdued enthusiasm. More often than not, there is more to be found just below. 

 Some holes are easier to dig than others, which is to say, not all holes are fun to dig. When I was about 9, my pet rabbit died. His name, which I’ll admit was a little on the nose, was Doug. I wanted to dig a hole for him to be buried in, but I just couldn’t find the right spot. It seemed to me impossible to find the right spot. The “right” spot just simply didn’t exist. Every hole I dug seemed inadequate to contain the multitude of experience that was Doug. So I just kept digging and digging. In the end, Dad just dug a small hole to put him in and said, “Some holes will never seem appropriate. Sometimes you’ve just got to be satisfied with whatever hole you’ve dug and try to move forward with your life.” This seemed to be entirely unsatisfactory and in that moment I decided I would make great strides to continue to dig holes for Doug until I found one that was adequate. Why did his death feel so unceremonious? And for that matter, why did he have to die at all? I was, and still am, completely unable to get anywhere near an answer. And I was sure this question had an answer, after all, if it didn’t, then what was the point? I firmly believed that digging could solve any problem, so I would do this in his honour. Eventually, I would surely find something that would indicate to me I was digging in the right place. 

I often think about the future. I’m sure I’ll continue to work out how to be more efficient and effective in my pursuit of excavational glory. Enlisting the efforts of a team of people, seemed like an obvious and largely beneficial next step. The team would comprise individuals who are also experienced hole diggers, and together we would dig holes much larger than what one person could achieve. A group of people all focused on the same goal could, and no doubt would, achieve great things. Maybe then I could find the right hole for Doug. We’d be able to work on large-scale projects, larger than anything I’m capable of on my own. The biggest hole I ever dug was deeper than the top of my head, and wider than both my arms extended from my side but I still feel like I barely scratched the surface. Even though I’m big enough now to use my dad’s shovel,  I still feel like I’m digging with my bare hands. Which, I’ll admit, is an idea that used to really upset me. It occurred to me that it might never be enough. It’s likely that every improvement or advancement I make will be made redundant by the proceeding improvement or advancement. And while part of me is saddened by that thought, It seems entirely preferable. The idea of the “perfect hole” is so final. It indicates an end point that I never really want to see. There is no such thing as perfection and nor should there be. The striving for perfection gives me a constantly moving goal post and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

I’m so thankful for my parents’ encouragement. Despite occasional reluctance, they have never hindered me and have always shown overwhelming support for my pursuit. While they clearly don’t always understand why I do the things I do, I feel like at their core, they just want me to pursue what makes me happy. They have bought me all the tools necessary for my craft and have nurtured my engagement in digging in a way that has allowed for projects at a greater magnitude than thought previously possible. At its core, digging is honestly just fun, so I’m going to keep doing it. I don’t know what else I would be doing and I really don’t feel like I need to over think it. Im going to keep digging until I’m old and frail, and while it likely still wouldn’t be good enough for Doug, maybe one day they’ll bury me in one of my holes. I think that sounds nice. It’ll put a nice little bow on what was a life well lived. I just hope they bury me with a shovel, so I can continue to dig in the after-life.