i don't actually do any digging
in the garden.
or wheel barowing
or much of anything
that requires physical strength.
and with that truth
i lay to rest a whole lot of hopes and dreams and ideals.
last summer i comforted myself with the belief that
"next summer i will be better, stronger, more capable"
and now it is here, and i am none of those things.
yesterday there was a hot parade of tears pouring
down my face
as i argued with myself and the limitations of this body of mine,
as i found myself flat against the limitations of myself.
as i felt the betrayal of this body of mine, again and again,
in my favorite space,
barefoot amongst the grass and the dirt.
i am struggling to make peace,
slowly and painfully
with the truth that i am not going to be a gardener much longer,
at least not the "gardener" i envisioned i would always be,
the gardener who has a chicken under one arm and a shovel in the other,
surrounded by bounty grown and cared for by my hands and my heart.
can you see her?
i want to be her.
with changing dreams,
with the labels we use to define ourselves
sometimes it feels as though i have been digging with a shovel for hours
even though the excavating is all soul work.
while i am very close to laying to rest the name
from my vocabulary
because it serves no one to hold onto what we are not,
and it is like salt in a wound to be called something i can not be,
i am confident that there is another plan for me.
one that honors both
my love of the earth
and my fragile body that i need to respect.
perhaps that is making the reality easier,
holding onto the hope of what is to be,
rather than focusing on what isn't able to be any longer.
letting go with grace and trust.
allowing myself room to grieve but also anticipate.
but it is still hard, you know,
to see that what nourishes my soul
is slowly, season by season,
being taken away from me
and i struggle to remain optimistic.