In the Garden.
A passage birthed from acceptance, rekindling, and progress.
The year turned over just a few weeks ago and I thought about how I once told a friend that my life is not like the Garden of Eden. Eden was perfect; gave them everything they could’ve ever needed. I told her, that the difference between my life, my garden— is that it is not such a paradise. The fruits of these young, resilient trees— some appear to be rotting, but the butterflies love them. Some, fallen and bruised, turned food for the familiar yet skittish creatures. And my flowers, a variety like none you’ve ever seen. Picked by the others occasionally, so the bees sometimes take their time finding their way back. But they always come back.
I’ve been attempting to write about 2025 for over a month now and it took the dissolving of one of my closest friendships to realize that the fighting I’ve done for nearly my entire adult life, has no time left. The year’s ended with the same lesson it began with, with the severance of one of my closest familial bonds. And you know, I thought I would have known, considering I saw them within each other. I thought they’d get along very well one day, and they will. They’ll find each other in the pit of my mind. In a place where nothing grows and nothing feeds them.
Now that times have changed and the present has rolled over onto its belly, vulnerable and as malleable as putty, I think I’ll do the same. A perfect way to begin. With proof that there’s much more worth holding onto, and the best part about it? I haven’t shed a tear.
Once before, about 4 or 5 or so weeks ago, in one of the last conversations I’d had with my former friend— they told me that my writings were no good unless I used them for those I cared about. An unjust jab since it was the first time in over 2 years where I truly ran out of words. Besides— I only began writing because I was on the verge of suicide, and I only create anything when something calls to me. Then something came to me; a scene. I saw her sink below the ground in a puddle of muddy water. I knew then that she wasn’t supposed to be here much longer.
That caused a stir. I considered that maybe she was right, and I couldn’t write for a while after. I wanted to keep my words to myself the same way I barely show my drawings. My precious things. Illustrations said to be some of the best some have seen, but were never big enough. Never able to just be as good as they were, but there’s a reason why I’m the one with all the words, all the ability— and they’re not. I can turn a moment into scripture and a dream into something beautiful with nothing but a pencil yet— it’s all never enough unless I’m doing it for someone else. How incredible is that?
It’s not. It’s disgusting.
She wasn’t supposed to be here much longer.
And how dizzying it is to know I’ve been here before.
It’s much more comfortable this time around, when I lie with it more. Makes me think about last January. The way I couldn’t keep my composure and yearned for the daze of spring with the new trees and bees. I remember March being home to some of the year’s most dizzying moments, as well. Loss, rejection, progress—all for April to barely make a sound while May held one of my most precious memories in its arms. It still does. I always go back there.
I go back to the summer that turned my hair white by time it was over. I grew older by just a year, fall aged me even further. Flung me to Paris and with a sprinkle of magic, made me softer. Made me so much younger again. So beautiful. I’m almost sure I changed the future by going there and nothing has been the same since then. It all changes so, so quickly, this life. And it has taken me months to notice it all. Look at it now.
It’s like nature.
Always going back to what it knows best.
This yard, this practice— it is solitude mixed with occasional company and conflict—it is not a paradise. More like a state of equilibrium. Something we, as people, know is necessary. Sometimes the bees don’t come back for a while. Sometimes the flowers don’t make it to the next winter. But when new critters find me with the butterflies landing on my knees, the birds singing with me, they’ll never really know what this place has lost before. They only know that it’s safe for them now.
I want to share with them the reason I have to go to San Francisco and the reason to go up to Toronto. A flight out to Mexico soon, too. To see it all. I’ll tell them how my mother has changed in front of my very eyes just like everyone who claims to love her said she wouldn't and that my house is so quiet now. I’ve waited years to remember what it was like to recognize her. Life questioned me.
“Do you know her?”
“Yes, I do know her.”
Maybe she knows me more than she did before, way back when.
Welcome back in.
We haven’t seen you here in so long.
I am always enamored by your writing. Never stop sharing!
I've loved seeing your growth over the past year! This piece was absolutely beautiful (as always). Looking forward to seeing where your life takes you and how you cultivate your garden :)