Untending

It is July in the ultra temperate area of Washington state, the Puget Sound, where one week of 80° temperatures and steady sunshine flooded the markets with the best berries in years at a fraction of last year’s cost. I stood in my small yard staring at a shriveled pepper plant, every leaf wielding holes like a middle-aged millennial whose gauged lobes scream misery. The skinny limbs of lacinato kale, barely curled, is already bolting. Blueberry bushes, just recovered from serious dehydration caused by my ignorant placement of the containers under the eaves where they sat just out of reach from the winter-spring rainfall, remain void of berries, having failed to produce flowers due to the aforementioned abuse. A dying Thai basil, limp cilantro starts, all of the tiny anemic-green lettuce sprouts resembling nothing at all like the seed packet picture.

I watered. I fertilized. I consulted the local independent garden center staff, all of whom are experts free from the capitalistic clutches of the gardening equivalent found in box stores and home building conglomerates. By all accounts, everything in this small backyard should be thriving.

Dutifully I gently soak around the base of the carefully layered pumpkin hills. In return, I have the runty starts of “vines” in so much the despondent flop-over these two plants have managed. They flowered at least, though I have no idea how the tiny bulbous fruits will grow without the 6-12’ of vines they should have by now. These two managed all of three feet in length, combined.

I used to be so good at tending things.

Lately, my time has gone to evaluating my energy drains. As a middle-aged person, I have learned, this is a common theme. Not because we have a collectively, synchronized drive for the mundane; our survival instincts compel us. We sit about with our coffee, bewildered at all the chaos we’re managing to wrangle while somehow remaining upright.

I maintain work me, the person who shows up, designs and orchestrates, tackling task lists, and do all the peopling required of my job. I barrel forward every day, relentless in the pursuit of not letting those hours stagnate.

I struggle with mom me, the person who is always on, ready to activate at a moment’s notice regardless of who needs what or when. My children are grown adults now, a reality I am adjusting to with clunky results. They no longer need me for everything. Mostly money, but that’s expected—we were all such selfish assholes at that age, floundering about trying to find our footing but starting to regret the adolescent brain that told us to kick wildly and indiscriminantly away from the “old people”. When I look over my own two, they are nothing like the small pathetic garden of mine. They are strong and charming, on their feet (for the most part) and full of life. I am not overcome with a sense of guilt, feeling a failure for lacking energy to care for them.

The non-edible part of the garden isn’t fairing much better than the fruiting plants I have failed. I make my way over to dump more water, along with my resentment, all over the stunted and wilted leaves. Why? Why won’t you just grow or die? Not this hideous in between state where I don’t know exactly when I should call it quits because what if you just need another month and you’ll snap out of the funk? I did my due diligence from the start, much like the edible garden. Nestled sweetly and just so, perfect indirect lighting for this shade garden; a cozy layer of mulch packed with more nutrition than the claims of a Cliff Bar. If anyone on this property can declare themselves the best fed, it’s this dilapidated stretch of fussy plants staring at me through the back patio door window.

Much the same way my beloved dog stares at me on the daily. Only she is nestled into a double thick memory foam bed with flannel blankets to soothe and support her aging frame, her muzzle resting on her paws as she watches my every move, waiting. A huff. A sigh. The chainsaw racket of a fat man snoring his brains out in a recliner after a hard day’s worth of video gaming and booze. And then the whine. The pleading, heart stabbing sound of a pitiful need that isn’t being met in that very moment. She’s 11, well into elder hood; the achy joints, the napping, the loss of memory, especially as it applies to the same rules that have existed from day one—stay out of the trash, Rue. Somehow though, all the comfort, cozy home, steady diet, tasty treats and chews, the best toys available for a particular girl like her, it’s not enough. None of these things seem to matter when she’s suddenly feeling bored and wants to go bye-bye, which is all the time. As with the sad vegetative sacks in the back yard, I’m not doing enough for my dog.

Everyone is staring at me, needing more.

When I stepped up to the kale and yanked the bastards free the other day, roots and all, I knew then that I am done tending and caretaking and caregiving. I no longer want to control for problems, ensuring the very best environment for others; that drive has left me. In it’s place is what I’ve suppressed for too long. The freedom of exploring and observing; of accepting what is currently available and letting go of the feeling that says something will be this much better, or save this much money, if I do these twenty steps in just the right order and just the right time because planning and lining it up in advance ensures I can maintain the orderly flow of life.

I am learning that I am not so crucial.

My goal now is to wander unscripted. Stop planning days in advance. Forage when, and for only as much as needed, and never hoard. I won’t stockpile for the future anymore. No one knows what’s coming down the pipeline these days. I could continue hedging my energy and time and money, building my “buffers” as I always have, but time and again that strategy hasn’t paid off nearly enough. I’ve lost my most precious resources of energy and time in trade for saving a little money that was siphoned off as fast as I saved.

I will take my chances and just be.

Looking at the disaster of my gardening attempt this year, I’m happy to till it all under and scatter wild native plant seeds. Let it all go to the wild. Let me go to the wild. I no longer wish to tend.