Gardening is good for the soul. I'm sure of it. It did wonders for my grandma, who planted and flowered and blossomed for most of her life and long after her rounded back and arthritic fingers told her to stop. She just couldn't help herself -- the fruits of the earth brought her such joy that the toll hard labor took on her body was somehow worth every trace of dirt that crumbled beneath her fingertips.

In my own small way, I can't resist either. I'm no lifelong gardener or anything. I'm more of a spur-of-the-moment kind of girl. And I haven't a green thumb on either of my hands. My flowers always seem to die. Because no matter how much I love them at the beginning of the warm season, I end up neglecting them.

I tell my husband every year, "Please remind me not to buy flowers this year." It just seems silly to spend so much money only to toss my dead blooms after they wither and shrivel. So my husband reminds me. And I go right back out and buy more. Like I did today.

I spent about an hour with my little boys shoveling dirt and arranging red and orange and yellow and white flowers in all sorts of pots. It was a priceless hour -- although really it cost me about 60 bucks. It was refreshing and rejuvenating and in a way, healing.

I know the effects of today's flower therapy will fade, just as the flowers themselves will fail to thrive. But I also know I will do it all again next year. Because it's good for my soul. And I just can't resist.