Jul 30







The word sits in front of my work desk, pushing me to offer myself the grace that I extend others. Already the day heats up. News from Liz’s choir director, sad my gifted singer is opting for swimming instead of the stress of a large group choir. Minutes later the editor who is reading my book says she can’t look at it again until September, or that she hopes she can look at it then? All the while I hear my seltzer water fizz and the spitting that goes along with m y daughter brushing her teeth. While my 6 deadlines sing on repeat in the back of my brain.

I woke this morning and my hands and forearms hurt from my gardening session. How I keep pulling weeds and plants past their blooming out of the dry giving ground. Always gardening saves me from my thinking, plants me in my grief and gives me a shovel to dig in deep. You say everything is changing, says the ground, well let me give you some change. I’ll give you some morning glories that never give up their roots, raspberry plants brown past their prime, scratches and soreness and a thorough platter of heat. I am soaked through with sun and relieved to be working.

Can I give myself enough grace to fully grieve the changing seasons, even if the phrase changing seasons is a cliché? When I text my friend that I feel like I’m a cliché letting go of my young adult daughter with a bath of tears, she writes that she thinks clichés are cliché because they’re true.

There is nothing more true than my body in motion, tearing up the raspberry plants until I am covered in July’s dust. The garden gives me grace. I take it in.


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