Member-only story
Empty Nest?
On allowing one’s nest to be empty so something new can come in
Not five feet away from me, B. works to plant the elfin thyme between the flagstones beneath the table at which I write. His long, elegant fingers push, pat, brush, fluff, and press as he sets the tiny contents of each portion of the six-pack of elfin thyme into the ground. The evening light of early May reaches in, tinging each plant gold. His feet are bare. His second toe is longer than his first. Like mine. Someone told me once that characteristic is “royal.” I’ve never looked it up to find out what that meant, if anything.
My garden is flowering, is finally looking robust and cared for, is finally responding the way I always wanted it to. The way I always dreamed it might, or could. In past years, I got intimidated, or frustrated, or bored, or busy. I’d make an effort, a tiny effort, and drift away, and of course it didn’t go well.
I also spent years beating myself up about my garden because that is what I do. Beat myself up. About my garden or anything else that is handy. Actually, I still do it, unfortunately, but I am getting better. I know I am. Little by little, I am getting better.
I still lie awake at night and find myself filled to overflowing with regret, and it’s a bitter pill indeed. Regret is the worst of all emotions. It’s…
