Morning darklings,
This past week, I went to a garden near my house. Usually, I go for a walk every other day—even if it’s just to the end of my driveway. But that’s not been happening. So it was a Red Letter Day.
Gravel and dirt and tree knots instead of cement made it a journey into a forest rather than a stroll into a landscaped display.
And so like a trek into the woods, I had to dig my cane into the small stone fragments with each step. But still, I wobbled. I had to clutch the hubs’ arm or have him wrap himself around me. But still, I wobbled.
I hadn’t realized how frail I’d become. Or maybe I just hadn’t admitted it. I’m considered feeding tubes for nutrition and ports for weekly infusions. I’ve been a passenger to my legs giving out from under me, watched my body lose muscle mass and my face swell and breakout, but frail seemed like too much, too far. It was a joke I used as a crutch—no pun intended. I quoted the meme about needing a month away at the beach to heal my sick girl body like I was a literary character from the late 1800s. I still didn’t really think it.
Frail.
It’s an actual diagnosis. Frailty, that is. Did you know that? I haven’t been labeled by the medical community, marked with the word that seems so obvious now. Its definition is “a significant decline in functional reserves of multiple organ systems and the resultant extreme vulnerability to stressors, leading to a higher risk of adverse health-related outcomes”. I’m happy to report not qualifying for that. It’s just the descriptor for my current state of being in a single word. If I’m honest with myself.
It was hard to deny by the time we made our way back to the car after a small stroll around only a portion of the garden. My senses were on fire. Jasmine and rose still clung in my nose, near-silence gave way only to occasional birds and a moo from a cow across the road, the bright sun warmed me as the breeze whipped through my jacket, the soft kisses the hubs planted on my cheeks were sweet. When I swiveled towards him and pressed my chest against him, I flushed and his eyes changed color. Like the many flora planted in clusters together, the sensations were in harmony, beautiful, needed after so long in sameness. But still, I wobbled.
As we drove home, I allowed my mind to wander from the vivid colors I was just tucked in to the splintering feeling in my bones to a new novel idea I’ve been playing with. I saw the harmony in my life but also the discord.
I sat with those grey thoughts—not good, not bad, just truths—while I got my infusion. I wrote about how the dainty forget-me-nots settled underneath tall robust purple flowers I don’t know the names of and thrived. So too must I.
When I was younger, my Nanny had a beautiful garden filled with flowers and vegetables and hummingbirds. I saw it as a magical place I could escape to when my world was chaotic or loud. We’d pluck food from the dirt to go wash it and eat it raw. Juices would run down our faces. We’d sit amongst the flowers and watch the hummingbirds drink and drink, and she’d tell me stories. I would bask in the glow of fresh and sweet and floral and new and earthy and her laugh. Since then, I’ve wanted a garden.
I see now that my life is much like her backyard. I can have magic and warmth without dirt or seeds, though I would objectively have a better life with budding plants and a rainbow of life steps outside my door.
Balance of exploration of the world, pacing, protection of my body, creativity—that is my garden. I just have to know what to plant, where is best to put it and my energy as I till the ground, and when is best to create versus rest, and to forgive myself when, not if, something doesn’t thrive.
Being frail may slow the turtle back down to snail or cause me to change every routine I finally managed to get in place for myself, but I see a world where there is space for it all. I don’t know how to make that happen yet, what is the best way to keep myself on track, happy, healthy, and engaged. I just know I can. If I can’t have a real garden now, the least I can do is water and plant and grow the metaphorical one I have, right?
I’m currently existing.
I cut some inches off of my hair. Forgot how quickly I get migraines when my hair gets even a medium-length these days.
I got a side table for my birthday (a month early) because it was on sale now. It’s amazing. Suddenly, there is more space in the room, there are less precarious stacks of things, and I can get to all of my glasses at one time. What a magical thing drawers are, really.
During a particularly rough afternoon, after I slipped into a pair of fresh pjs and gave up any hope of doing anything but lying in bed, the family came to bring me joy.
And you? How are you existing this week?
Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.
I loved this one <3