If you prefer, you can listen to my super nasal-y self read this piece by clicking the play button.
I recently returned home from my first journey to the UK and have drawn a few conclusions from my trip:
I prefer estates over castles.
Paperback books are significantly more affordable.
Magpies are my new favorite corvids.
I’m much more at ease around really old things.
A part of me already longs to go back.
I cried more than I had since the loss of my parents and balanced the tears with more than one occasion of a stomach sore from laughing. It was a very necessary and needed change of routine, scenery, and dose of like-minded companionship. Despite a return flight granting my immune system its first dose of COVID, I am deeply grateful that I had the opportunity to go. Staying with a friend afforded me the chance to take many long walks around Windsor (some of which I was lucky enough to take in the company of a very distinguished gentleman… ehh dog…) and quiet mornings to write with a view out of a bedroom window that was not my own.
During these moments of contemplation, I found my attention consumed by the small, intricate, and colorful gardens nestled into the nooks and crannies of the urban landscape.
It wasn’t surprising that my eyes landed on the delicate flowers and deep greens because each spring I have a bit of a ritual. I comb the internet and well-worn library coffee table books, lusting over photos of English gardens. Then I pace my American yard, which while not massive by any means, is still upwards of 10 times larger than the rectangular slice of real estate I viewed out my friend’s window, and attempt to create a plan of attack to start cultivating a garden of my own—and each year I am paralyzed with where to start and so I stop.
As I viewed these bowling alley lane gardens in real life, it made me wonder if part of the reason I was frozen by indecision in my own yard was its size. Perhaps it would be easier to choose where to start if I only had to pick from 4 corners. I feel this way about my own life sometimes. That there are too many options. Too many areas that need TLC, maintenance, planning. I get overcome by the endless combinations. I recognize that having the ability to even feel that level of possibility comes with immense privilege, but it is often overwhelming trying to decide what you want your entire landscape to look like.
A few mornings into this realization, I imagined sliding one of these rectangular plots of land over my life and what it might be like to shift my focus on having the whole vision for my future sketched out, but rather, to start asking what I desired for this corner of my life. Suddenly, the idea of taking a corner-by-corner, plant-by-plant approach allowed me to breathe and dreams to percolate once again. I loosened my grip on the notion that I need to know how each plant will complement the entire landscape because as long as I am growing intentionally, I can trust that when I step back, each will contribute beautifully to the whole picture.
Viewing these hardy, but delicate gardens also reminded me that some dreams I plant may take longer to grow than others, and that it isn’t necessary for me to wait until they sprout for me to make my next move. I can trust that if they are meant to be, they will take root as long as I tend to their basic needs. All too often, I find myself shoving a younger, tender dream into the soil and losing patience in the process as the weeds of scarcity creep in and eventually overtake it. Beautiful things take time.
As I sit on my American deck writing this, I can say with fair confidence that another spring will pass without breaking ground on my literal garden; however, my metaphorical garden has a hefty dose of fertilizer (organic, of course) and some new seedlings in the ground and for that I’m grateful.
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Great metaphor for breaking big things down into more manageable pieces! When you do start your actual garden, I’m looking forward to pics! No rush! These all take time!