Watering My Garden

There was some resistance. I didn’t have the energy and I just wanted to relax. I’d be lying if I said that particular mental argument hadn’t been put forth before. But that day in particular I was especially worn-out, recovering from being sick all week. However, as I looked out my window I could see the truth; my flowers desperately needed water and I would be broken-hearted if they died in tomorrow’s sudden summer heat because of me.

And so I did, what I often do, when I’m having trouble finding the motivation to do any given task. I scrolled through Libby until I found an audiobook to listen to. And then, with my mind caught up in the story, I grabbed my watering can.

With an ever expanding garden of mostly potted flowers and shrubs, watering everything with a watering can takes time. A certain rhythm is established: fill, water, retrace steps, repeat. In this way, walking through the garden is it’s own kind of meditation.

I carried the watering can past my lavender and nodded to the large bumble bee bobbing on the reaching blooms. I glanced at the signs I hand-painted for my pollinator garden as I walked under the Star Jasmin that I have trained to climb up and over the trellis above my front gate. And I approached the plants growing out of a row of green vintage dresser drawers turned planters. I emptied half the watering can into one drawer and half into another and I retraced my steps back through the garden.

I was listening to Zorrie by Laird Hunt while I watered. It was a quiet kind of story, that honored the simple things that make up the texture of a person’s life with delightful descriptions.

As I stooped, waiting for the water to fill the can, I felt full with the echo of comfort this ritual had given me as I grieved the loss of my Grandma. A woman who, in her day, had had her own colorful gardens that I’d enjoyed every summer as a child. I had discovered recently that she had also liked to listen to audio books while she did tasks around the house. And just like that, the smallest cosmic threads had cinched tighter between her and I. My eyes spilled over at the thought of it.

Then I was retracing my steps through my garden, watering my flowers, listening to the story, and it was a comfort – that quiet ritual.

Me in my Grandma’s garden

Olive You

It was Christmas Eve and my Grandma was working her magic in the kitchen. The dining room glowed with warm light and good smells were wafting down the hall. If I craned my neck I could make out the Poinsettia tablecloth and a couple of small, cut glass dishes - one filled with cranberry sauce and the other with black olives.

Liking black olives was on a long list of things I had in common with my Grandpa. And so it was with a wink and a knowing smile that my Grandpa would sneak them out and into my hands before the big meal was ready.

Becoming A Bird Nerd

Books have a tremendous capacity to surprise and delight us. For example, recently I read a book (The Genius Of Birds) about birds and I was touched to discover that there are birds that sing for the joy of it, birds that use tools, and birds that collect things in the color blue. I’m becoming an entry level bird nerd, what’s your favorite fun fact about birds?

Yeehaw

I’m a horse girl, I told them that on the application. I explained in detail how I started riding at a young age and how my skills advanced quickly because my horse was, to put it simply, challenging. It had been several years since I’d been in the saddle but I still felt confident about my horsemanship and I was excited to get involved with a horse rescue as an adult.

I showed up to volunteer wearing reasonable leather boots, but not cowboy boots specifically. In fact everything I had on was perfectly functional for the occasion. But I could tell they’d made up their mind about me just by looking at me. They didn’t think I knew shit and treated me poorly.

Before the day was out I did have a chance to ride. They put me on a horse that didn’t want to go anywhere without a mean kick in the side. I believe in training horses to respond to a gentler touch and so I was disappointed to discover how this horse had been treated.

We road around the paddock a bit before hitting the trail. At which point another rider knocked over a jump very near to my horses legs. It spooked my horse, causing it to buck like a mustang at a rodeo. I stayed in the saddle and reigned in the horse, no problem.

And that was when they quit judging me by my ‘city’ boots and skinny jeans.

One outfit doesn’t always do justice to our multitudes.

Afternoon Coffee

Our time together used to disappear into hot coffee, dipped like a pastry and savored. I have no idea what we talked about most of the time, but the conversation was easy.

Hurts Like Love

Towards the end, I saw her stars winking out in bright flashes. The sparks rained down around my ears. My pockets pulled hard on the edges of my coat, too full, as I tried so hard to pick up and hang on to more than I could possibly carry of everything she was.