I had a realization the other night that I write on my blog for other people and, because of this, I lose the honesty I need so desperately in my life. So this post will be honest. And long. But it will include pictures.
I don't know when my obsession with gardening first started. It didn't start because I'm good at it -- I've killed enough plants in the short time I've been puttering outside to know that I don't really have a green thumb. I think it began as just another house project, but somewhere along the line became something I feel timidly passionate about. Timidly passionate?? Yes, that is possible.
Because, you see, when you garden, you garden. I see a weed and I pull that weed. I pull that weed with a vengeance.
It's simple. Pull that weed. Dig that dirt. Smell that flower. BE PRESENT.
There's no thinking about where I fit in this world. No wondering where I belong. (Jack would say, "You belong with me" -- oh I wish it were so simple!) No thoughts of who or what is wrong or right. No worries about who I am these days. Where have my friends gone or, especially, my love for people and the world and God? No thinking about my mission and dealing with the guilt associated with that. No feeling awkward and lonely. No feeling broken. No bullies to cower from and no fear.
When I'm pulling weeds, I am pulling weeds. Nothing else.
Oh, and yes -- I am almost 30 and I am unsuccessfully dealing with a bully. He sees all my insecurities and rubs them in my face. There's no escaping him, so I hope that the Crowther comes out in my and I can fight back. But right now I don't know how to stand up for myself, so I crawl into my figurative ball and let him kick me in the gut over and over again. I wish Jack could save me, but in this case he can't. I have to do it myself.
I am not well.
I went to church like a good Mormon after my mission. I studied and prayed and felt ... broken. I wish there were another way to explain that. So I stopped going to church and I stopped being a good Mormon. Still broken. Go figure. There needs to be a reconnection with God. I think I still believe in God. In moments of desperation, I call out His name, so I assume I do. I think about going back to church, but the people get in the way. If it were okay for me to go and not speak to another soul and just listen and feel and be, perhaps I could connect again. I've considered going to other churches -- ones who focus on the GRACE of Jesus -- since, after all, it is grace I am seeking.
I can't figure it out -- what happened to me?!
So, while I can't seem to find peace or rest or solace or an understanding of what is going on inside of me, I do know this one truth:
When there is dirt under my nails, I feel happy.
It is simple.
I need simple.
