After my latest post about opening myself up to whatever comes next in my life...I ran across a quote from Mariann Edgar Budde on Facebook that fits the moment so well!
"Dare to believe that seeds of new possibilities, invisible to us now, have already been planted in the soil of our lives, and they are slowly taking root. New life will emerge from the ashes of what is lost."
Following the little breadcrumbs being dropped in my path...
I have a routine every morning, where I get up, read my scriptures, have breakfast, check my messages, and then allow myself a little time on YouTube. Mostly I watch ASL training videos and some political commentary. Lately, though, I've been drawn to the decluttering and realigning-yourself-with-your-values videos. I've actually written a book on that topic, but it's good to see what others have to say and refresh my own views now and then. Sometimes it's just a reminder, but sometimes someone will say something in a new way that moves me further along on my own journey.
One year ago today, I was downsized from my job of 30 years. I've written in the past on this blog about that experience and coming to terms with the idea of being retired. My career/working life has entered a new phase. My hobbies are changing as well, moving from production and more toward fulfillment. Added to that, my 21-year contract with my publisher has come to an end and I now have complete control over what I write going forward. And not long ago, I was called as a ward missionary in my church, which will force me to come out of my shell to serve others more than I'm used to. So... almost every aspect of my life is undergoing a change.
They talk about being in a "season" of your life. I'm leaving old seasons behind, but I'm not sure yet what my new season will look like. It's still being defined. And so when it comes to decluttering, letting go of the things that belonged to a previous season, I'm left with the situation where I'm letting go without knowing what comes next. The inclination is to hang onto everything in case I need it for the next stage of life. But...
Maybe I should look at it as clearing out space so that there's room to accept whatever presents itself next. A sort of "If you build it, they will come" mentality. Make room for the new, even if I'm not sure what that new thing will be. It requires trust, and a belief that something new will come along. That that new thing will be good and happy and fulfilling. I'm not generally an optimist, but maybe I need to be in this case. Let go. Open my tight fists so that they're able to accept...and to give.
Must think about this some more... I feel like I'm on the edge of something. I just know I'm feeling more and more lately that the things I'm hanging onto belonged to the old me, and the future me will require entirely different stuff.
This year, we skipped spring and went right to summer (again). The radishes and bok choy bolted to seed without producing anything edible (other than the radish seed pods themselves). Surprisingly, the lettuce is only now beginning to sour. The peas are browning, and the beans have barely surfaced. The zucchini are producing well, and this has been a great year for raspberries, but other things are a bit slower. Including myself. I'm reluctant to go out in the brain-melting heat, but if you wait for a cooler day, it's only cooler because it's pouring rain.
I'm not that old, and I'm still able to do the physical labour that's required in the garden. I still love the feel of dirt on my hands and the smell of green, growing things. I relish being able to step outside and collect food for supper, to graze the strawberry patches, to snap off fresh peas and pop them in my mouth without bothering to take them into the house. I love putting up food for the winter. I'm filled with ideas for plantings and plant varieties to try.
At the same time, I can foresee a day when this will be too much to continue. The seasons will only grow hotter and the rain will only grow heavier, as the climate changes. My joints won't always feel as good as they do today. I'm no longer feeding hordes of people every day. And some of my raised beds are beginning to fall apart and need refurbishing. So...
I'm thinking it's time to re-envision the garden. Maybe as I remove or replace the beds, I should incorporate dwarf fruit trees, more fruiting shrubs. Replace annuals with perennials. Reconfigure the watering. Add more flowers. Make it lower maintenance. Think shade and places to sit more than abundance. I can still get what I need from the farmers' market when it comes to bottling tomatoes or putting up fava beans. Maybe I don't need to grow it all myself.
There's something almost scary about rethinking the garden. It's letting go of assumptions and, maybe, self-identity. For 35+ years, I've been the person who grows a lot of her own food. Who knows her way around plants. But just because you've done something all your life, it doesn't mean you have to go on doing it. I've let go of my career and don't intend to go back to it. Maybe it's time to reconsider gardening in the same way. I'll always want green space and a place to putter outdoors, but maybe it doesn't have to be Green Acres. And maybe someday, it doesn't even have to be a place I own and control. It means giving up my self-perception. Some independence. Maybe some security. At a time when the world is facing food shortages, is this the time to slack off? These are the thoughts that keep me up at night.
I'll focus on soft places to land more than packing every inch with food, or growing every variety from amaranth to zucchini. I'll let myself trust the farmers' market to supply what I need in bulk, and only grow the specialty stuff. Focus on beauty as much as production.
I think this reflects the change I'm undergoing in the rest of my life, too. Slow down. Sit sometimes. Think about what's important and not just keep busy. Enjoy walking in nature without feeling the compunction to cultivate it or control it. Same with the people in my life -- enjoy but don't control. Let the kids grow up. Let me grow up, too. Enjoy this new stage of my life.
Well, it's a nice thought, but we'll see. I suspect come February, I'll be clawing through the seed catalogues as usual, envisioning where to plant the eighteen varieties of beans I want to try. It's a balance between setting myself realistic limits and wanting to dream beyond limits. But maybe now it's more about letting myself dream differently.
My grandson has been staying the week, and to give him some variety aside from playing board games and swimming with Grandma, I took him to a drop-in Play in the Park program run by Parks 'n Rec. When I picked him up afterward, he reported he'd played soccer for about three hours with the other kids and had loved it.
As we were walking home, though, he said something rather startling. He said, "I learned I was human." Wait, what? When I asked him what he meant, he explained, "When I was playing, my eyes were on the game. But when I came back into myself, I noticed I was tired and sweaty and thirsty."
And that, dear readers, is the best description of flow I can think of.
I took my grandson for a wander through Rattray Marsh in Mississauga. I go there often, whenever I need a dose of nature, but I enjoyed seeing it through a ten-year-old's eyes. We'd gone about fifty feet in when we encountered four deer, three adults and a speckled fawn. At first they were difficult to distinguish in the tall grass, and then they moved out into the open and you wondered how that fox-red could have possibly hidden in the greenery. They seemed completely oblivious to us, other than one who stopped and blinked at us for a minute before walking calmly on. I imagined him around the dinner table that night, telling his family "Guess what I saw today? Two humans!"
The diversity of birds was great fun, including particularly loud red-winged blackbirds, mallards, and a couple of swans (possibly with cygnets -- I couldn't tell at that distance, with my eyesight). We saw a very large bird swoop past and weren't sure if it was a hawk or an eagle. We met another hiker who was examining a teeny tiny frog, the size of my fingernail. We met a lot of people walking their dogs. We saw squirrels and chipmunks. Water skeeters in the river. My grandson thought it would be very grand to live in one of the houses overlooking the marsh, so you could see "all the green."
On the shore, we skipped rocks a couple of times and watched two paddleboarders go by, looking stately. We stopped to play on the swings and spinny chair (i.e. the sick chair) at the playground. We admired the view of Toronto and I secretly gloated that I no longer have to commute there, ever again. We practised walking on the boardwalk as quietly as we could, which was surprisingly impossible. We hiked up through the pines on a path softened by fallen needles.
We came home saturated with sun and rehearsed for his dad all the animals we had seen. We agreed we should go again, and this time go further on the western path up the hill.
A very satisfactory day.
Recently I heard someone ask what big, memorable moments in our lives will stand out to us when we look back at it at age 80. I had to really think about it. To me, the best moments of life haven't been the "biggies" -- graduation, school in Wales, marriage, moving to Canada, giving birth, trips to Hawaii or Italy, books coming out. I'm surprised to discover that the most memorable things to me, the things I'll look back on with deep satisfaction, are these: My mom's blueberry cheesecake. The clouds moving in over the lake. My kids laughing together in the basement. Singing bedtime songs to my grandkids, knowing which ones they always request. Lying in the hammock with my banjo. Swimming at Helaman Halls with my cousin Janice while "I Can't See Me Lovin' Nobody But You" plays (ungrammatically) on the sound system, and someone somewhere is grilling burgers. My dog's soft head warm under my palm. A musical jam session with my parents and siblings, complete with yodeling. Grandma's sloppy joes. Stumbling across a really well-written book. Listening to the wind in the trees. The jolt and rattle of riding on the back of my dad's bike. Sharing Grandpa's recliner while watching Johnny Cash. Sledding down the snowy slope behind my parents' house. The thump and shove of my loom. Clogging to Bluegrass music. The view of Mount Timpanogos from my childhood bedroom window. My dad's brothers gathered singing around the piano while their mother played. Hiking at Riverwood. Homemade bread.
These are the things that make up my life, the really important parts of it, anyway. These are the things I need most, and that I'll miss most when this life is over. If I look back at age 80 and nothing more exciting has happened to me than these, I'll consider it the best possible life.
