Hanging up my gloves.

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It appears that I am to hang up my gloves for a season of my life. Arguably nearly three seasons for the garden, all told. I haven’t quite come to terms with this. I’m not sure if I will, but I’ll do it none the less.

Growing a family is hard work, and sometimes we need more rest for a season than we would like in order to do so.

I can toss out carrot seeds gently, though, I imagine. Ah, but look, March’s unsprouted seeds are showing up after our hurricane rains…

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I can admire the garlic greens from a chair.

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I will sow and nurture tomato and pepper seedlings at the New Year, plugs prepared by others’ hands, so that I may yet enjoy this view again next year.

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But turning the earth must wait. Hauling the manure and hefting the nicked leaves aren’t for me this year. Smells of the last of the tomato vines as they’re pulled for the bin will waft into someone else’s nose.

Unearthing the treasure (hopefully) buried beneath this beast will be left to others’ devices.

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I already miss the mowing. The nausea and the heat haven’t allowed me to mow in months. But maybe I can still pull weeds? And the wheelbarrow handles just fit so well in my hands…but DH will bend low to grab them for me.

I don’t sit still well. I never have. My back aches faster and deeper from stillness than activity. Life brings challenges anew. I am used to the physical challenges of exertion. I’ve enjoyed a sub-less soccer match in 26° and 106°. A half a mile of lunges? Sure, I’ve done that. 20 hour work days? Let me at it. But to find stillness for months? That’s daunting to a degree I’ve yet to feel on the active end of the spectrum.

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As with labor though, I’m given the reminder that at the end, there’s a baby. A whole person with a life to lead. New eyes to see the world. New thoughts to join the cacophony of humanity. A new heart ready to be filled by love. At the end, it will all be worth it.

Those we do not speak of…

There are things we don’t speak of. We don’t show our fear, our pain, our weakness. Rarely does anyone admit to the rules out loud, but they’re there. Some days they’re louder. The demand for silence deafening such that the heart can hardly feel.

But then you’re alone again.

The silence washes over you. The fear, the pain, the weakness within…they hunger for the space and wander into the void slowly, blindly. Murmuring, whispering, their voices are found.  The first wail pierces the sky opening within and the pain is your only clue – you’ve hit your knees as the rain begins to fall.

I admire those who live beyond so many rules. I work on finding where and how to traverse such terrain, so unstable to my sense of balance. Because sometimes, often times, the break and the mess is exactly the strength and precisely the beauty.

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The temperature rose…

I planted the onions today. A bulb’s worth of garlic. The cauliflower starts, nearly four months old, but mere wisps of expectation, went in.

The sprinkler rained around the newest plum, July. From fifty feet afar it made the air feel cooler.

The sun beat back the shadows and the mist drops upon the earth rose again to reach the sky.

Retreating indoors, I, myself,set the temperature to rise…

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