Facing fears, cowboy style
My therapist told me last week to take the "John Wayne approach" to my anxiety. So today, I decided to strap on mah holster and mah boots, tell myself "it's getting pretty re-goddamn-diculous" and head on over to Ace Hardware for some terra cotta planters and some soil.
Yes, friends, I'm scared of gardening. It's just one of those things that I always told myself I'd fuck up somehow, so I have never had more than one or two plants at a time. Inevitably they would die, which I took as evidence of my black thumb, undeniably so. But! It occurred to me that perhaps, as with some other things, my failures were due in part to the fact that it's not a habit of mine, tending to living things which don't make noise if I forget to feed them. If I can rework my brain to pay bills in a reasonable amount of time, or wash the dishes when they're dirty, then maybe I can remember to grab a pitcher of water once a week to feed some desert plants.
It goes further than that, though. My aloe plant was still managing to make babies even though I'd go weeks without watering it, but they were starting to push out of the planter and even ignoramus me knows that means they need to be repotted and given more room to grow. I've never done such a thing, and I've grown comfortable sticking to tasks which involve numbers and concrete results. Science over art. It's why I stopped writing for so long, stopped cooking, stopped playing music. One of my therapy tasks a year ago was to - get this - toast a piece of bread at home. I was that far gone into the anxiety of living for anything outside of work. There are a lot of reasons for this. Well, I did that, I toasted that bread, and I put some jam on it, and I ate it, aware both of the inanity of the situation and my own resolve to forgive myself and move past the absurdity.
In the past few weeks, I've started cooking group meals (real meals!) at home for friends, and looking at my pantry like it's full of food instead of rocks. The tides are shifting and I felt it was time for a new challenge. It seems pretty silly of a challenge I guess, but for me it was a Big Deal. I went to Ace, deliberated ad nauseum on which size planters to get, and what size saucer went with each one. Somebody helped me pick out the soil, bless their souls, and I took it all back home. Brought it to the backslab, brought out the mother plant and a bucket, and started digging around. The bag suggested using gardening gloves but I decided I'd rather save the money and really be in it anyway. it was good to have the dirt between my fingers; I am trying to use my hands as much as possible these days, and be mindful and present and all the other hippy buzzwords while I accomplish tasks. It felt goddamn good, and it took less than an hour including the trip to the store and back.
The little babies are looking kind of pitiful and lackluster in their new planters, but I have hope that they'll take new root and thrive enough for me to start giving them away to friends and then trying for a little variety in the house. I have a strict pet:human ratio in my household, but no such limit for potted plants.
Yes, friends, I'm scared of gardening. It's just one of those things that I always told myself I'd fuck up somehow, so I have never had more than one or two plants at a time. Inevitably they would die, which I took as evidence of my black thumb, undeniably so. But! It occurred to me that perhaps, as with some other things, my failures were due in part to the fact that it's not a habit of mine, tending to living things which don't make noise if I forget to feed them. If I can rework my brain to pay bills in a reasonable amount of time, or wash the dishes when they're dirty, then maybe I can remember to grab a pitcher of water once a week to feed some desert plants.
It goes further than that, though. My aloe plant was still managing to make babies even though I'd go weeks without watering it, but they were starting to push out of the planter and even ignoramus me knows that means they need to be repotted and given more room to grow. I've never done such a thing, and I've grown comfortable sticking to tasks which involve numbers and concrete results. Science over art. It's why I stopped writing for so long, stopped cooking, stopped playing music. One of my therapy tasks a year ago was to - get this - toast a piece of bread at home. I was that far gone into the anxiety of living for anything outside of work. There are a lot of reasons for this. Well, I did that, I toasted that bread, and I put some jam on it, and I ate it, aware both of the inanity of the situation and my own resolve to forgive myself and move past the absurdity.
In the past few weeks, I've started cooking group meals (real meals!) at home for friends, and looking at my pantry like it's full of food instead of rocks. The tides are shifting and I felt it was time for a new challenge. It seems pretty silly of a challenge I guess, but for me it was a Big Deal. I went to Ace, deliberated ad nauseum on which size planters to get, and what size saucer went with each one. Somebody helped me pick out the soil, bless their souls, and I took it all back home. Brought it to the backslab, brought out the mother plant and a bucket, and started digging around. The bag suggested using gardening gloves but I decided I'd rather save the money and really be in it anyway. it was good to have the dirt between my fingers; I am trying to use my hands as much as possible these days, and be mindful and present and all the other hippy buzzwords while I accomplish tasks. It felt goddamn good, and it took less than an hour including the trip to the store and back.
The little babies are looking kind of pitiful and lackluster in their new planters, but I have hope that they'll take new root and thrive enough for me to start giving them away to friends and then trying for a little variety in the house. I have a strict pet:human ratio in my household, but no such limit for potted plants.