Smells Like Potential
Episode 2: Back to Earth.
March 8, 2022
March graced us with a warmish weekend at the front, as it’s done the last couple of years. Anticipating this thanks to my pal Chambana Weather, I reserved last Saturday afternoon for slow-moving* garden cleanup. There was (and remains) much to do - last year’s garden was nothing to write home about, but the perennials (and the weeds) did their thing during the growing season, and I just left everything at the end, other than planting garlic in November. [High five, Past Me!]
Anyway. It was windy. The sun felt magnificent. I reveled in the comforting scents of the earth, straw, dead leaves. I listened to this episode of Fresh Air and frowned a lot until Jim joined me outside. We didn’t talk much. Our work was soundtracked by Rancho Relaxo. Our arms and legs got a little scraped up as we cut down perennial sunflower stalks and pulled dead vines from the tomato cages. We quit working when it made sense, put on hoodies since the sun was on its way down, and had beers in the driveway.
As they have for everyone else, the last 2+ years at 909 have had their ups and downs. Things have mostly hovered somewhere between up and down. Our jobs have held steady and our relationships (each other, family, friends) remain strong; we’re extraordinarily lucky and I’m so so so grateful. But I’ve also noticed huge changes can quietly take place in a person while nothing appears to be happening, when time doesn’t really feel like it’s passing. Low energy and stasis can become the rule rather than the exception. The occasional doomscroll becomes the habitual doomscroll at 3 AM. Brows knit more tightly together. Exercise is incidental. So are cooking and reading and having courage. That’s me. What about you?
Lately, though, I’m returning to being alive in this dumb overwhelming world, even though I’m not the same person making this return. I’m not 2019 me, so how could I be? I’m literally and figuratively standing on the back steps, looking at the mess of a backyard with my hands on my hips, taking stock of the situation and then doing, however slowly, what needs to be done. Starting seeds. Getting an eye exam. Yoga practice. Tentatively approaching my massive TBR pile. Trying new recipes on the weekends. Sharing. Making a few plans. Sending this newsletter into the world. Because, as the characters in the magnificent novel Station Eleven believe (and as my friend E has reminded me), “survival in insufficient.” [The phrase originates from an episode of Star Trek: Voyager.] [I hear the Station Eleven TV series is magnificent as well.]
This all feels very navel-gazey while the terrifying invasion of and war in Ukraine worsens (there’s a sentence, sheesh). I also know this work of nudging tiny self-reliances is important. The war in Ukraine is very close to home in at least one respect, wherever home is. From scientist/writer Hope Jahren last week, via Twitter:
I think about this every day, multiple times a day. Starting seeds in the basement and maybe planting radishes and peas next week and clearing the garden to make way for food and flowers feels so incredibly insignificant. But when we do this, or things like this, we’re exercising muscles like patience, curiosity, planning, a little bit of discipline, and the satisfaction of accomplishment. That shit matters, especially now.
I love sunflowers and plant some every year. I love their sturdiness and height. I love how their cheerful faces are always turning toward the sun. I love their common-ness. I love the way they feed people and birds and are there, always, for the pollinators. I love their embodiment of optimism and their incredible diversity.
BYI: Going ham on sunflowers in 2022.
LOTSA (Lisa’s Open Tabs, Saved Aggressively):
None. I’m sorry. They somehow were eaten by Substack. I’ll be more careful next week.
*slow-moving because tennis elbow & arthritis in both hands demand it!
I'm so damn happy to have this in my inbox!