I spent the day in the garden.
I spent the day tending to her and being tender.
I spent the day with myself.
I sat in meditation under the cherry trees as the birds knocked and the wind carried the blossoms to the ground.
I listened to music come and go like waves as I moved about the yard.
I watched the hummingbirds, yellow birds, and brown birds dance and hop around their feeders.
Then, I went inside and stretched out on my yoga mat as I watched the breezes move the curtains.
I took a deep breath in. I let it out. It’s been a year since I realized COVID was going to drastically change our lives. It’s been a year since I set aside my goals. This milestone nudges me toward grief and meaning-making. Anniversaries do that.
Today, I sought a deep connection to myself and nature. I maintained some connection with friends as we sent messages to and from each other. We didn’t say much: “A whole year.” “March 1st.” “Damn!” “We’ve been through so much.”
We don’t yet have the words. We’re just beginning to process. The words will come as the processing comes. We’ll weave a story around the last 365 days and it will make sense to us. It will provide meaning. Perhaps in time, we will realize this year is but a chapter, one stepping stone that leads us to another as the pandemic rolls on.
The outdoors, the yard, and the garden offer space, boundaries, and a bounty of metaphors for our subconscious Storytellers to work with. They will find the words. They will tell the stories.
I found a new plant in the vegetable garden today. I don’t know what it is or what it may bring to our table. If there is one thing the past year has given me, it’s a deeper sense of peace with not knowing. I’m not looking it up. I’m not even looking up the bird names. I know them by color and sound. I know them by their presence. That is enough.
So, (there it is, “so,” a verbal clue, that I am processing … starting to make meaning.) I will water the unknown plant with steadfastness. I will continue to discover. I will continue to process. I will continue to sow. (And to “so.”) I will continue to tend to her. And to be tender. I will continue to be with myself.
I will make meaning in a way that is tender with myself.
As my friend said, “Damn!” Yes, we’ve been through some things.
Be tender with yourself.