Just a little bit feral
It’s 6:30am and my eyes flutter open. I can sense the season shift as pink rays peer through the open window, arriving later than the day before. Bedtime is slowly restoring itself to a sensible hour and my body is thankful. Most mornings my hair looks like it lost a war somewhere in my dreams. I’m lucky if the tie at the end of my partially grayed braid isn’t buried in the sheets that are now tangled around my legs.
Once in a while, as I enter the day, I’ll re-weave the braid or get fancy and pull it into some half up, half down situation. But the wild, wind swept look is where my heart lives. I went for a walk the other morning with a messy braid partially falling out. My not-so-subtle neighbor let me know I should have got more sleep. I took the jab as casually as I could, once again reminded that I was given a different script.
Years ago, I participated in the polished standards of a neighbor who would never walk the block in a slept-in braid. I used to think that gray hair was only for people who had grandchildren and said hair should be brushed before leaving the house. I used to think that waking up at the same time everyday meant I was somehow worthy and that an alarm clock is necessary because my body can’t be trusted.
Anxiety would hum low and constant, loud enough to demand toil and quiet enough not to question it. I stood tall, almost confrontational, ready to fight for what I thought I couldn’t have. Some call it ambition, but I knew it was fear disguised in the pursuit of a life I thought I wanted. One where striving meant getting closer to my purpose, which was always just one more task away.
I stumble down the stairs and chug a glass of water. On an ideal morning, I’d stretch out my war-torn body that got locked up in the fight to stay asleep. Sometimes I remember, but logic often escapes me until coffee enters my system. This particular morning, I prepped my moka pot the night before to ease into the day. Every once in a while, my future self thanks me for remembering her. The Dutch oven preheats to 500°F as I get the bouncy dough ready to bake while zipping through last night’s dishes that I forgot to soak, a pot or two needing some extra elbow grease.
My calendar calls for a sense of order as it lays open on the kitchen table. Ingredients for the key lime pie that G is making sit beside collected seeds scattered across the cluttered surface. Skins form on newly plucked garlic that hangs overhead, specs of dried dirt falling on the floor. I look over the events of the day before turning the sourdough onto a silicone sling. Teach class. Write. Move the fruitless blueberry bushes and pray for next season. Battle the bindweed…again. I’ll get to most of it, potentially with some extra time to read from Wendell Berry’s newish Port William novel.
White space in the calendar used to feel like some kind of moral failure. If I can’t show people that I am busy, what currency do I have? The space in an empty schedule felt like panic. Like I hadn’t yet met the requirements of worthiness. And reading a novel for fun is mostly for those who have the luxury to afford it. I wasn’t that lucky.
I head outside to investigate the giant squash vine roaming through an array of wild flowers lining the perimeter of our house. I took seriously the advice that seeds are better stored in the ground, so I scattered a bunch this spring, hopeful for what might take. This wayward squash is the healthiest in the garden, far superior than the ones I intentionally planted. Giant green leaves and long trailing vines. Fruit already formed and growing larger by the day. The cosmos grew in a little sideways, beyond the help of a trellis. Our neighborhood chipmunk had his way with our blackberries, but I snuck in a few, mostly tart, and put them on my yogurt in the morning.
This years jungle is a far cry from my first garden that boasted neatly planned rows and proper trellising. I grew just enough to account for my perfect layout and quickly realized germination is not always guaranteed. Nevertheless, I checked off garden tasks relentlessly to ensure proper pest management, watering, and weeding. I bought a canner and had about two quarts of tomato sauce to show for it.
The sourdough timer goes off and I head back inside. Hot steam from the oven overflows into our already warm kitchen. The crust crackles as I slice into it, burning my hand because apparently patience is still something I am learning. I throw some butter and cinnamon honey from one of our local farms on the steamy bread, so warm the toppings drip through the air pockets. Somewhere along the way, I decided that warm bread is far more satisfying than a perfect crumb.
I’m remembering the girl who got left back in elementary school with mismatched clothes and food in her hair. The one who held on for dear life as the merry-go-round spun faster than her sweaty palms could keep grip. The girl who knew she’d be in trouble for coming home with another pair of ripped tights and skinned knees. The one who would confidently dance in rhythm and sing off key.
She’s here now, finding her way back to a life lived in season. With a graying braid and dirt under her nails, she’s wandering through a rogue garden with dough stuck to her shirt. She’s slowing down, settling in, and remembering what it’s like to be just a little bit feral.
