Last week I found myself chatting on the phone with my mom a few times.
We talked about the glorious and ridiculous mid-March weather, and she was telling me about her gardening adventures and progress and then, (maybe waiting in vain for me to return the volley with a few gardening tales of my own?) after a pause she asked me if I was feeling depressed. This happened twice, I think, and on the afternoon of the second phone call, a man and his portable rototiller showed up in my yard.
If there actually was any gardening-induced depression, it's now gone.
After watching my seven-year-old wrestle the rototiller through the soil, it might be time to invest in one of my own.