I think I’m hitting a point of frustration. The days are hot, really hot. With the temperature rising to the mid-high 80’s indoors, there is no relief from the heat in our home. We’ve been escaping to cooler places— our shady zoo, the windy beach, and Marlowe’s favorite: the breezy and shaded trolley rides. The yard’s been at a stand still. Piles and piles of branches that I just don’t have the strength for, sitting and waiting— but for what, I don’t know. I came home one evening from a night out with M, to find my dad, hauling the last pile of branches (of the week) from the back of my scattered yard, to my curb. Something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time, but unable, by myself— with Marlowe. She’s a good and easy kid, but the front yard is not something that’s open to her, unless she has my complete attention– and alone, I can’t do both: clean the yard and keep two eyes on her. So the green piles sat, and sat some more, until they wilted brown and dry, slowly becoming the earth once again. I’m thankful for dad’s help. My friend Laura and I joke, that we’ve never, in our whole lives, seen our dads as much as we do now… now that we own houses. That’s what dads do right? Some anyway. They’re there to help they’re daughters out. I appreciate it and I need it, because now, even as an adult, I’m annoyed that I’m not tall enough, big enough, or strong enough, to do everything I want to do, on my own. I’m frustrated. I want to grow. Marlowe asks me everyday, “Mama, are you making a garden?” and I let out a big huff of air, “I’m working on it. I’m trying.” I’m trying. I’m lost on how to get any more done. I’m confused on what the next step is, to do anything. Do I keep trimming back? Do I keep pulling roots out? Can I even pull anymore? The last tree that I pulled, was the length of my car— it took up half my yard work time for the day. I’m annoyed that I don’t know more. The patience part— I’m surprisingly fine with it— here, in this world of gardening. I know this is a process and it will take time, but the part that gets me, is that feeling that I’m wasting time not knowing what I’m doing. I hate wasted time. Am I going in circles? I’ll leave my frustration here.
Even though it feels like accomplishments are slowing down, I know there are still benefits here— really, it’s been only benefits. We’re not losing anything here. And I know we’re still growing. I’ll re-organize, strategize, and find a way to somehow make myself that promised garden. My limbs won’t grow in length, but they will get bigger— because I am growing stronger. I can feel it in my arms. And Marlowe is growing out here too. She’s finding ways to entertain her mind in this dirty space of ours. She no longer constantly cries of dirt, demanding to change her earthed clothes. Now, you can find her picking dead flowers from piles, and sticking them in the earth to grow. She’s planting her garden, before we plant ours. Each afternoon, she enters back into our home with dirt stained cheeks, grass filled hair, and without fail, asks me again, “Mama, are you making a garden?”
I’m trying, kid.