Sitting at my favorite coffee shop, reading blogs. Yes. I am reading your blogs. Because I miss you.
No matter how transparent I am on my blog, I can't write about Therapy Tuesday. I am discovering things that I simply don't believe, can't wrap my head around, and fill me with utter dread. Terrified but willing. I will continue to remind myself of my willingness when my courage falters.
The Fertile Crescent is planted. Tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, beets, snap peas, radishes. I have seeds for three kinds of squash, green beans and chives. The oregano and lavender did not survive the winter. I'm going to explore some different herbs this year. Any suggestions? I'm thinking chamomile. It's supposed to be soothing, right? And I need some soothing.
When I told Carolyn about the journal, her immediate question was whether or not my garden was in. Because she knows. It's the number one thing that helps me regroup, calm my anxiety and process my day. Standing in the dirt, watering the tomatoes, plucking a few weeds. The therapeutic value of that is worth more than the money I pay Carolyn to conjure up these painful memories and make them a working part of my history.
So when Gay Janitor showed me that the hose actually reaches the backyard this year, I thanked him but said I wasn't going to use it. Weird, huh? But that's part of the ritual that calms. Going back and forth to the spigot with the watering can. Standing there, waiting for it to fill and sloshing it back to the garden. Forces me to slow down.
That's where I'm going to be, my friends. In the garden. Every night. Until those blank spots are filled for good or for worse. And then I'm going to keep standing at the spigot, making those memories a part of my soul.