A friend of mine recently entered into a committed relationship with a farmer.
A widowed Hungarian mother of 4 sons, a friend of mine for about 8 years or so, recently entered into a committed relationship with a local hero, community feeding, farmer.
I knew her husband. His sudden death rocked our community, and of course devastated his family. I had a related pre-death experience for him, which is for another day(or not- it’s very hard). SonHerisme was given a pair of his shoes to wear to help work through his own grief, which had burbled up many other griefs. We know how to carry that grief better now.
We’ve been included in a group planting/caring/harvesting plot on one of the Hungarian’s Farmer Friend’s fields, which begins this week. In the organizing-of-us thread, someone asked what we should wear to our first gathering. Paraphrased thread:
The Hungarian: clothes for gardening and dirt The Farmer cheekily: oh, I was thinking I'd wear my black silk sarong The Hungarian: save that for the luau Me: efficiency - let's all wear black sarongs The Farmer: yes! The Hungarian: who's bringing rabbit manure? Person I don't know: that's me - I'm bringing it The Farmer: in a black sarong The Hungarian: just rabbit manure please
And so goes life. A day where black silk sarongs and rabbit manure get to be in the same brief text thread about planting veg and flowers. Wacky makes the world go ’round.
I have had a very emotionally rough few days or possibly week or so. My sweet friend asked me to explain what was happening with my grief cycle and I run-on spewed it at her about a day later when I felt I could get it out without completely succumbing to it. It was not pretty or enlightening. I did this via text and ending with something like, “I’ll be okay. I’ve been doing this my whole life. I can rally for another 15 or 20 years.” To be clear, I don’t wish to be dead but I also don’t wish to live without whatever it is that might fill up, or at least drip drop, satisfaction in my cup of life. Feeling stuck without any hope of not being stuck, and mired in grief and shame, is an awful dark place to be.
It was my choice to just let those feelings be whatever they were going to be. I didn’t try to add anything to take them away. I chose to keep moving through my day and do the Instagram scroll, ironing, reading, listening to SonHerisme, prep for a board meeting(although my agenda notes were woefully late), coordinate and schedule the summer camps, doctor appts, bandage changes, laundry, cry here and there, and make the things like chicken salad/quesadillas/hummus sammies/white chili/hamburgers and such for the people to eat.
The food is for the people, not for me. I can eat some hummus and white chili – but no meat for this lady’s digestions. For the past 5 months I have been taking celery juice in the morning and diligent about no meat in anything, along with serious dairy limits. The biggest change has been in improved movement by about a zillion. Also, I no longer want to fight that battle anymore either. If my body can’t handle it, f it, I’m not eating it or doing it. It may be boring and uncomfortable for others, but I am done.
Yesterday afternoon I started wondering what is it that I would find satisfying about myself. What feels good, right, or whatever and does not hurt? I really have no idea, honestly. I have theories, but nothing very concrete – except some movements and some limited foods. It’s okay to celebrate bouncing up the stairs, isn’t it? Actually, I don’t care really because for me it is a celebration! I could not do this even 3 months ago. It is a scary but necessary step, I think, to admit these things to myself and then to follow up with all of it.
If someone handed me notes with a briefing, I would be completely fine with standing in front of any group of people and saying whatever (an appropriate “whatever,” of course) and answering any questions I could. If you and I sat down together at a friend’s house, I doubt I would even speak other than maybe asking you questions so that you would talk the entire time. I am the opposite of my live-out-loud friends – by circumstance or nature, who knows?
Awkwardly doing the things and trying to be okay with it – that’s all of us, yes? Or? Doesn’t matter because it turns out, I cannot be anyone other than me anyway. I have tried and done it well (?at least outwardly – high functioning inward failure?) for a long time, but it hurts too much- even more than being myself, if that’s possible. I could wear a black sarong. I could also facilitate the spread of rabbit manure. And I would do it for SonHerisme if it was necessary or asked of in-the-past me on a triple dog dare with cherry on top. But, it isn’t me. It was just a joke – a pretend joke belonging just where it is – in a thread. I cannot do all of things and I most certainly cannot do very many of the things very well.
Thank you for being patient with me irl and for reading/listening/following here.
I hope you find something helpful and satisfying of and for you today.
Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo
PS. Wondering about the brood x cicada emergence in the Eastern US? (Peter?)
Here is what they look like:
Here is what they sound like as I enjoy my spinach lunch, drowning out every single bird and squirrel by a zillion:
Also, I KNOW everyone possibly listen/reading this in the UK is not named, “Peter.” I do an “oh, there you are, Peter!” (my favorite line from Hook after the boy smooshes around on Peter’s face trying to find the Pan inside), whenever I am brave enough to peek and there is a UK ping on the stats. Be the Pan.