Late-Winter Thoughts

 

I haven't felt much like writing lately. The sameness of the days has put me in a trance, and I find myself wandering the rocky riverbank (the water is so low this year; maybe there won't be flooding) and watching falcons (peregrine, I think) dive through the bare cottonwood branches. Birdsong fills the air, and I tell myself that this year I'll learn to put names with voices, even though I tell myself that every year. But mostly, I'm mute, placid as an ice floe on the river, melting in the approaching spring.

Back at home, my garden is waking up: comfrey poking up shoots through last year's dead leaves, tiny ruffled buds on the elders, kale sending out new growth from their stems, carpets of chickweed and vetch greening up the in-between spaces. I'll cast some seeds on the ground this week, and let the sky water them; I haven't felt much like gardening lately, either.

It's not apathy, exactly— it feels more like a survival mechanism, a way to stave off the heartbreak of not feeling 100% committed to the pieces of life that I've been clutching against myself to create identify. Who am I, if not a writer? Who am I without my garden? Every time someone enthusiastically asks me about my garden and I can't muster any excitement in return, I feel like I'm letting down them and the world. Every time I stare at the half-written blog post that's been sitting in drafts for six months, I feel like I'm letting down myself. But lately, I've been trying to be honest about these emotions, or lack thereof. I have no expectations to live up to. Life is full of phases.

Is this numbness, or acceptance? I honestly can't tell. But, as I told a friend, "I can either not garden and feel bad about it, or not garden and not feel bad about it, so I'm doing the latter." 

Fortunately for me, my past self planted literal seeds that are bearing me up now: the French sorrel and kale and currants and strawberries and nectarine and mulberry and cherry and asparagus and elder and hazelnuts will all come back without my help. The spring crops from last year will self-sow, and the flower seeds that I tucked into plastic bags last autumn need only to be scattered, and they will grow. I'm grateful to my past self for her gifts, and grateful to the seeds and plants for their quiet presence. I'm grateful for our rainy springs that coax life from the ground, the rich river-bottom soil, and the Creator who ingrained in each seed a will to live that can break concrete.

I've gotten permission to dumpster-dive at a food pantry three times a week. The past two Fridays there have been six full banana boxes of produce— and while many of the apples, pears, bananas, peppers, and plums are immediately destined for the compost pile, many more are perfectly usable. Cut out a bruise, toss a moldy one from the bag, peel off an outer layer, and the fruit comes to life, rescued from the dumpster to end up in my belly, or Zach's, or our neighbor's, or my parents. I've spent my Fridays chopping vegetables and begging people to come take some free food before it goes bad, and this activity, the physicality and repetition of making apple chips, the brain work required to sort peppers by compost-giveaway-moldy-but-not-too-bad, is both exhausting and peaceful. It's something to do, and on weeks where I feel like I've accomplished nothing, I can tell myself that at least I rescued some food from a landfill. Maybe that's all I need to do right now.

In the meantime, I fill the spaces of my day with taking things in: the river and the birdsong and the sight of crocuses; long books and long articles and social media nonsense; apple chips and burritos and slices of sourdough toast. I think that perhaps I am resting. 

And perhaps for now, resting is enough.

~~~