The TV shows I’ve been watching (Mad Men, Californication, Nurse Jackie) come close to wowing me, then stop short. Like sex where you don’t get your release. So, I asked David, the movie critic, to recommend a movie that will make me cry. Where someone dies, and you actually care. You’re actually moved. Nothin’s doin’ it for me.
I eschew drama in my marriage and my friendships, but I do crave drama. I love watching strangers have a tiff; I love seeing women crying on the street (because it’s been me; having held tears back during an office battle of wits, silently screaming in an elevator, racing around a city block til I reach a safe spot behind a bodega gate that was left open, and crying to David on my cell, wetting my blouse and smudging my makeup, inflaming my blood vessels and taking strangers’ stares like welcome daggers because they VALIDATE ME); I love visiting cemeteries when I don’t have a stone to drop.
I was really happy today. In an oddly good mood, despite being OTR.
I find gardening and the recent rain so uplifting. I’m content doing manual labor like pruning, bundling, and hauling; digging and raking; and planting. I haven’t had a hobby like this in a long time, where I get “in the flow” and lose track of time.
Now I watch the weather carefully. It has personal consequences, above and beyond my wardrobe. It might nourish my family and me—it does nourish us, but we don’t realize it because we’re once, twice, and eighty times removed from our food sources. Too far removed to know how weather wherever may impact our array of choices.
My garden is a microcosm; an experiment; a therapy; a lesson; an ecosystem to create and study.
We are gods of our small creations, all.
If only we saw our hearts as an organ that we cultivate—we’d care more what we feed it. We’d study it daily for growth, and feel compelled to reinforce our defenses (as I’ve done with my rabbit-proof fence) when it’s plundered (as my red tomatoes have been, to my dismay).
Right now, pepper buds have appeared. I’m amused that they are cute miniature versions of what their mature selves will be… They are like children.
Strawberry plants are enticing with pink flowers and tiny berry buds showing like red eggs in little nests of leaves.
I wanna feel something. For now, I’m content plunging my hands into the soil.