Dirt
This year, unlike other years—or perhaps only moreso than, I don't keep track—I'm just digging into the dirt with my hands when transplanting things in the garden. The small things, at least. The things that don't require a proper shovel to get into scraped suburban clay. But in the small gardens, where the dirt is softer, I rarely use tools. Dig right in. Grab the plant, dirt ball on the roots or not, and then set it where it ought to go—or perhaps only where I want it to go, I don't keep track.
The absence of mechanical tools might be a regression. It might not be. But it feels like a thing has been done. And the evidence follows me around, in the cracks of my fingers and under my nails, like it or not. I wouldn't say that the presence of tools leads to the absence of feeling, but I would suggest that there might be, in degree, an inverse relationship, if not in all cases, at least on balance.