I’ve decided, people! We’re going for it. Another row of lettuce. More beets. And spinach, if I can find seeds. Round two. I was down but I’m not out.
I spent the week fretting and denying myself all of my joys because they’re “not writing.” I have to finish this book! I need to focus! Lock myself up and make myself and everybody else miserable! If I don’t, I will fail!
I would be so happy, I tell myself, if I could just garden and write. But I am not Barbara Kingsolver or Joyce Carol Oates or Annie Dillard or Rick Bass. I never will be. But part of me always hopes! If I made it big I’d… Another unreal “if” blocking the here and now. The weeds. The pages. The heartbreak necessary to quietly get down to doing the work in front of me.
Did I tell you how much I dream in the garden?
The nasturtium surprised me with its flower. I had given up on it. Marigolds I tore up are budding.
I get to be here. No matter what.
In Japan I saw on a notebook: “Don’t stop, the failure will be a good lesson!”
I just have to remember to be. Here.