If you see a healthy plant,
one that winds up the wall,
with many limbs trained to climb,
leaves green and vibrant,
plump and upright.
Know it did not achieve this on its own.
They did not will themself into health.
She was potted, nurtured, watered, placed in the right place, pruned when needed.
Old leaves discarded, soil changed when necessary, fertilized.
He did not materialize this way.
Time and care were on their side,
Allowing it to live, fully.
Purpose fulfilled.
The only place I've ever felt free is outside.
In particular, on a familiar plot of land. In the front of the house on Whisnand.
I went there when I felt overwhelmed with life. When I felt joyful. When I wanted to escape whatever was happening inside. When I wanted to explore. When I felt like I couldn't go on another day.
When I wanted peace.
The spirits of Indiginous Kickapoo, Myaamia and Kaskaskia people, who made their home above the branch of creek that runs north and south amongst the cedars and oaks, were ever present.
The land was acquired by my family over 100 years ago. It was partially cleared for pasture for horses and cows. A farmhouse stood at the corner of Old 37 and Whisnand Road, named after my ancestors.
I felt the tension. The native land turned settled. The conflict interwoven with the land herself.
A shared commonality of the struggle for existence by all who once made their lives there.
My parents built near the back of the pasture, toward the south wood line. It was once surrounded by sinkholes, dotted with a mess of cedars and invasive vines. We explored the property before we ever broke ground, when it still belonged to my Grandma.
I loved how the land felt then. Wild, tamed, back to wild again. Nature reclaiming what humans had tried to domesticate. Structures erected had fallen down from neglect.
My parents divided the land and sold to others. I always felt conflicted about land ownership.
How can we stake a claim to something that can't belong to one person?
We moved into the house on my 10th birthday. I moved out 12 years later and returned again, when it became my own family's 7 years thereafter.
A lot of memories were stored within those walls. Like the house had absorbed all of the good, the bad, and everything in between. I could feel memories as I'd stand in certain rooms. It was overwhelming. I was able to begin to process everything that happened throughout the various times I inhabited the space. It became too much. The walls began to close in around me.
Like I'd always done, I'd go outside. But once outside, I was free. I belonged.
It was such a contrast to the feeling I felt inside.
The creeks, valleys, trees and open field invited me to rest. To tell Her my secrets, my pain, my longings. She was a wonderful listener.
I'd go into her woods and dream, imagine, pretend.
I could be my fullest self and she accepted me, just as I was.
to be continued.
When people ask me what I do, I want to say I'm a writer.
The problem is, I can’t finish a thought.
I have been involved a torrid affair with writing since I started my first blog almost 15 years ago. I have never been able to be consistent enough to materialize into a career, or even a steady hobby. I am not convinced that I have to make this anything. My goal is just to simply begin again.
I used to write here about the version of Christianity with which I was involved. It dictated how I saw the world, until I broke it open. Like when Jasmine breaks the trace that Jafar's staff induced.
Breaking open a previous worldview is intense. Almost every relationship in my life was created through the pretense of Christianity. It has taken me a few years, mental collapse and rebuild and a cross country move to receive the perspective I have been searching for.
I have finally allowed myself, after 33 years, to pursue me. This involves attempting to decode the thoughts in my head out of my body and into another medium, whether it be print, type or another form. It involves attempting to make sense of my experiences and translate them into a shared connection with others. It involves giving myself permission to put my three beautiful children into the care of others Monday through Friday so I can have the space to make this attempt.
It's giving myself permission to occupy space. To use my voice. To have an opinion.
To carve out my individuality within the sea of individuals.
To wonder. To dream. To create.
To allow myself to be fully human.
Things I have denied myself for most of my life.
I tell my children they can be anything they want.
So you know what?
I am a writer.
I originally thought of Garden Theology back in my Evangelical days, thinking about returning to the Garden of Eden and creation's relationship with God. I realize now literally, gardening and theology are what have built me. The two foundational aspects of me. The two components of my being that light me up more than anything.
My mother and grandmothers were all gardeners or growers throughout my childhood. My earliest memories are pouring out of the car after a long drive to my Mamaw and Papaw's and running straight to their broccoli patch, trying to eat the crunchy stalks before my Mamaw could inspect for any stowaway bugs. My siblings and I played for hours in her garden, which took up most of the front yard, incorporating rocks which my Papaw collected, a beautiful flowering crabapple tree we always were trying to eat or feed to various animals, and beautiful flowers. I remember my mom and Mamaw sitting for hours planning out the landscaping when we were building our house that we stayed in for 19 years, and I went on to buy.
I remember my parents and grandparents working out in the garden most weekends. Wheelbarrows and transplanting and a combination of growing food and growing plants. I never took much interest in helping, except when we were commissioned to help pull weeds. I always knew who to ask when I had a plant question and I asked them often.
I have equally as many memories of theology. Growing up in a tiny church of 30ish afforded me opportunities to experience a beautiful type of community I have not seen since. An intergenerational group, mostly of family members, sharing meals, washing feet, singing and debating (arguing) over interpretations of God, people and life. I heard different theologies as we moved on to bigger churches, each more damaging than the last. I sought to break open the rigid box of a God that I had been given. I tried to stay within the existing system of Christianity I knew until 2020, when the world was given permission to take some space.
It all fell apart for me. The idea that the Creator of the Earth asks us to abide by these exclusive, restrictive rules, disconnected from ourselves and the Earth in a lot of cases, who sends people who happen to claim belief in the system even if their actions don't line up at all - to heaven and others to hell?
I know I sound cynical. I am on a lot of days. But on other days I have hope. Hope for humanity that we'll wake up out of our divisive, digital induced stupor and enter into interconnectedness again. It will require a return. Hence Garden Theology.
I've been so stuck inside my head for so long. Debating how to share everything I've been processing over the past few years as I've let myself out of the box of restrictive belief. I see so much good outside of it. Not to say everything in the system is bad, but so limiting. I've been focusing on expanding. There is so much freedom. True freedom. Not fear. Not exclusion or privilege. Just discovery.
the bravest thing one can do is lay down one's life for another.
what is even braver, and arguably more difficult, is to pick one's life back up again.
to rebuild. to restart. to reclaim.
some seasons of life demand our full attention.
our full selves.
and then an inch more.
there are many ways to cope with this loss.
denial. shame. guilt. mourning. blame. numbing.
full immersion.
I say loss and I do mean loss.
you do lose yourself when you lay yourself down.
what was, what could've been.
the beautiful truth is,
what is picked back up is not the same.
we are not the same.
our cells have turned over.
we have wisdom and new experience.
walls to add to our foundation of who we once were.
mourn what was.
be joyful with what is.
hope for what can be.
The walk down memory lane can be painful.
I cringe at the items I once held in my basket.
I am too hard on myself.
What if I looked back with compassion?
With understanding?
We only know what we know.
Those who aren't taught to think, follow.
Waking up to our own power is uncomfortable.
It goes by another name.
Privilege.
Unlearning is our own work to do.
Taking out the parts that don't work anymore.
Thanking them for their service. Thanking our selves.
Acknowledging where they've caused pain and tossing them to fire.
