Patchwork Garden, Anew
When I moved into my new apartment, three months of couch-surfing post-divorce later, I was, shall we say, not okay. Among many things I had left behind in my old life, I’d left behind a garden. A mature, stabilized, gorgeous garden. The trees! Orange, apple, fig, pineapple guava, Asian pear, Bartlett pear. Geraniums, rosemary, pineapple sage, roses, artichokes. In those first several months in my new apartment, I did my very best to create a home. I found pretty, useful things on the curb and in thrift stores. I developed a color scheme and decided to prioritize copper finishes over silver, gold, or brass. I bought two gigantic beanbags that were shaped like cats instead of getting a couch. I infused the apartment, which I’d named “The Pumpkin Situation,” with as much of my personality as I could. Pretty good work, since I was a grieving, terrified, unmoored mess. I had two brand new kittens, Temmie (a tiny tabby) and Dawg (a gigantic tuxedo cat).
In those first frantic weeks, when it felt like homelessness was staring at the back of my head at all times, as most of my former friends chose my husband’s side in the divorce, and with no job, I started a garden on my balcony with a few pots and some free seeds from the library. I ran into trouble. I didn’t have a hose. I didn’t have soil in the ground, which holds water better. I had pots, which dry out. I repurposed a tub of cat litter to be a watering can. It sucked; it poured out too much water too fast, and it was way too heavy.
Executive function - didn’t happen.
Patchwork Garden promptly died. Except for my spider plant and my snake plant, which I’d brought over from my former home, which somehow managed to… not quite die.
Today is April 28th. On May 5th, it will have been one year since I left my husband. I have, to be clear, been through some shit. Shit that involved my primary care physician, a new psychiatrist, and my minister. And, also, some time, medication, meditation, coaching, and therapy later, I’ve shaken the haze of misery and fear that was haunting me. I’ve found things I lost: optimism, hope, peace, contentment, happiness. It feels like I died over the autumn and winter, and I’ve come back alive in the spring. It reminds me of a plant dying back under the snow and coming back when the frost thaws and the snow melts.
A few weeks ago, I decided that it’s time to try again with Patchwork Garden. (Patchwork? As in Pumpkin Patch? As in, the garden at The Pumpkin Situation? Sorry, sorry, sorry. ) I ordered some self-watering pots. I ordered a proper watering can. I collected the seeds I’d been taking from the free seeds area at the library.
Today, I woke up at 5 am. I made a cup of coffee and sat outside in the dark on my balcony. I listened to the dawn chorus, which is that time in the morning when birds begin to sing - at first just one, then a few, then many.
That’s when my body decided it was time. I chose a pot, got the soil to the correct level of moistness, and scratched in some olaya seeds. Another pot: calendula. Another pot: white sage. American robin, black phoebe, house finch, American crow, coffee, a brightening sky, the cool green of the shade tree.
Let’s try again.
