The thaw has come. And with it – snaking across the brown-yellow-green mud field that passes for a front lawn – mole hills.

Waiting for the school bus this morning, I saw a new set and wondered, is there something to do about this?

It’d be fun to stomp them – the organic version of popping bubble wrap.

But a living creature made those mounds. That’s probably a bedroom. A nest of wee ones. Heck, the lawn is likely riddled with such passageways, the vast underworld of worms and grubs and critters large and small, only noticed when they disturb the surface or tunnel into the garden, nibbling away at our harvest before we get the chance.

Kinda like my habits. My unconscious beliefs. Do I stomp them when they surface? Are they tilling my soil, making fertile ground below? Or taking bites out of my productivity?

Must I do something about them? Or can I simply notice with curiosity, welcome and bless? This fertile ground has room.