Immersed in Fertilizer

Sometimes there is nothing else to do, except to just accept that fertilizer, stinky and choking and gag-worthy, is the foundation for growth.

I try…

We speak, we falter and then change the subject and underneath we are both thinking about the weeds but ignoring them for the beauty of the flowers.

We share, a connection rebuilt, a bridge shored up, a paddle retrieved from the creek… and even in the tenseness there is comfort.

But I must say… why was I the one to apologize?  Why were YOU the one to nod your head, sigh, and tell me that forgiveness was a process.  Do you not, will you ever, is it possible… that you could see your own forest in spite of the trees?

Why is it that I can point out the storm, coming in from the south, and you can point to the clear sky in the north and say, “Well, if it wern’t clear there, the storm wouldn’t come” or “There is a breeze offshore created by the pull of the moon and the shifting global economy so we should expect a lot of storms and be prepared to meet them”.

Could you never admit that your storm, your fury unleashed, your fragile climate so uncontrolled, is at the root of the damage done?  That possibly my original garden plan was not up to the standards required, but that it was the storm that destroyed the garden, and not the flimsy design?

Anger wells underneath the frail tenuous peace… uncertainty bubbles like a slow simmer of toxic chemicals over a bunsen burner, looking so much like a healing chicken soup but smelling so much like the regurgitated remains of ecoli infested vegetation… deadly.

And you sleep, well satisfied, having decided that your garden is just fine the way it is… while I stomp around my fresh fill dirt, kicking at rocks and cursing at the tunneling rodents and wondering why it is that I have to even bother caring so much.  T’would be so much easier to just let it all go.

 

Independence

Here I am, sitting in the dark of someone elses living room at 9pm.  I’m sitting on someone elses couch, sweating on someone elses couch cover and accent pillows, sipping cold white wine out of someone elses carefully chosen wine glasses.

I am alone.

My children reside at home with their father.  OBoy12 and OGirl10, snug at home with daddy, thinking mommy is “babysitting” someone else’s children… MGirl 18 is home with Oboy12 and Ogirl10… and someone elses babybaby.  Babybaby might be legally someone elses, but heartfully totally mine.  So much of my life seems to belong to someone else. 

Except that it really is mine.  Independantly, I have to accept that MY life is made up of someone else’s love and acceptance, someone else’s approval and encouragement, someone else’s needs and wants and desires.  MY life IS about someone else.  It’s not about me at all.

Dude!  Who knew?

Tonight, I am on my own.  And it’s scary.  And I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing, going the right way, headed the right direction,  or if I’m walking in the light, walking in His way, and I don’t know if I can trust and believe that it’s all going to be OK in the end.  Without my control.  Because… it’s not about me.

Sheesh.  NOW they tell me.  I could’ve used this info 38 years ago… or at least 14 years ago.  Why did I have to learn this lesson now?

I’m going to go out into my garden now.  It’s been untended for way too long.  The weeds are out of control, the insects are thriving, the soil is thin and hard.  It smells funky out there, and it’s full of things that scratch and sting and snag…ugly ugly things.  It’s gonna take me awhile.