Spring, can you come now?

Spring, come now and release me from the darkness.

I am weary of making slides, of conducting classes in my living room and courting cool ideas, only to let people down by sagging with mental exhaustion into the mattress to read one more chapter. I am tired of mediating struggles about what makes a better slide and caring about education and exclusion and beautiful things and good ideas.

My responses are adequate. I respond, but only just. My kids, more tuned into my tone than anyone else in my life, gauge my responses and shield themselves from rejection by phrasing their suggestions in particular ways-ways that (hopefully) elicit something more than a flat, monotone response from me, and limit the utterance of the word no.

I am in need of soil and light to lean into.

The dreams of being sucked below the surface keep coming. I need to warm up out on crumbly arid sand.

The only thing that releases this stress is "spring cleaning". 3 weeks before it arrives. If I clean, I can justify working alone. If I clean enough, the results will give me enough resilience to be present.

Do you have winter days like these?

Comments

I entered August without you.

I won't visit you this month. You won't call. I will raid your garden and you won't get any of the vegetables. I will make plans without telling you about them. We'll go to the store and not buy you one single thing. Whole books will be read and I will not tell you which ones. I will watch movies and not inform you. The nasturiums will ripen. Last month was different. I changed my schedule and took time off work to be with you. I dropped all kinds of plans for us to be together. You sent me messages, I received them. I picked up food that I thought you would like at the store and sent you pictures of every beautiful thing I saw. I sang with you. We watched the Great Canadian Baking Show. You chose the recipe for the garlic scape pesto and gave me instructions for making the gooseberry jam. I am in August without you. You are in July.

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Growing Versions

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