A Jar of Dirt

Intelligence exists in equal denomination in every geographic area. A simple jar of dirt embodies the humble wisdom residing outside of formal education.

I have a jar of dirt on a table in my house. Not a fancy jar, just a clear jar with a plain black lid. Its purpose is not to grow anything, nor to be decorative. After all, it is just a jar of dirt. But where that dirt came from and its connection to me and my ancestors is deeply meaningful.

Far from the city and the sprawling suburbs, tucked beyond interstate exits with little to offer passers through, are the rural parts of the state. Places where the dirt continues to yield harvests that travel father and wider than any of those whose hands planted, tended, plucked, and loaded it. For generations, the dirt has simultaneously nourished and sustained lives, while threatening and limiting opportunities for countless others.

The word dirt does not carry an overly positive or inspiring connotation. Take dirt roads, dirt poor, and dirty. Sure, you can elevate it by substituting the term earth for dirt and the corresponding associations of down to earth, salt of the earth, and earthy come to mind. Two different words describing two totally different visions of the same substance.

Let’s speak plainly. Knowledge exists in equal denomination in every geographic area. It may look different based on language, ways of living and surviving, and cultural practices, but the absence of a degree or letters after a name does not discount anyone’s level of intelligence. After all, the teachings of local wise women and men have guided us collectively as human beings for far longer than the existence of colleges and universities.

All of us must continue to seek knowledge in alternative and unconventional spaces. Knowledge is how we continue to grow when our physical bodies stop. Considering notions that challenge our belief systems is not to be avoided but embraced. We attain a level of understanding not otherwise possible.

Let’s return to that jar of dirt I began this article with. By now, my husband is used to my at times eccentric notions, so when I told him I wanted to dig some dirt when we went back to the rural part of South Georgia I am from, he did not ask questions or try to talk me out of it. Instead, he walked with me down the dirt road and helped me dig.

The location that dirt is from? It’s from what once was the swept front yard of an old farmhouse. The farmhouse no longer exists, only its ghost. And a descendant of those who once inhabited this land and made a living from it, from the dirt. Were they wise in the ways of a global society? No. Were they wise in all the ways that mattered? Yes.

The world today is awash in status symbols, name brands, and one-upmanship. I prefer this simple symbol of understated knowledge and humility.

A jar of dirt.