five rosebushes

two narrators

We have two different kinds of lavender, one slightly more robust than the other, and when you walk through our front door and onto the porch, sitting in either of the two chairs that face the giant evergreen, there will be five potted plants to your left, and three to your right. Together they make our potted garden. 

Yesterday, I trimmed four of our five English roses, one of which bloomed so early and so exuberantly that the red pedals turned brown before the end of June. The other four roses are still blooming, seemingly much happier than they were in years prior. 

Once the day has cooled and the sun is no longer directly overhead, we’ll lace our shoes and tie our sweatshirts around our waists, setting off on foot. First east, then north, then looping south again, back in the direction of our home. And somewhere along the way we’ll run into a strawberry patch (lining a not-so-secret alleyway), and while the berries are tempting, our sights are set on a cherry tree about half a mile north. So we continue on, arms swinging at our sides.

The garden bed that wraps around the front of the house is home to one partially alive yarrow, a slightly better looking lavender, a small bundle of white daisies, the smallest and the second largest of the five English roses, three lily of the valley (which is extraordinary when you consider the desert environment and poor soil), and one very, very happy lavender, hidden behind the second largest English rose. And while I have considered swapping the location of the partially alive yarrow with the very happy lavender, I worry that relocation would do the yarrow in. So I let them be, telling myself that next year we’ll dig up these beds, adding in better, fancier, stinkier soil. 

It’s 11:00am on the last day of June and I’m wondering why I’ve just decided to write 367 words detailing our front garden. Here’s what I came up with: it’s a perfectly good place to start, I am determined to write something (anything!) during the month of June, and my potted garden brings me contentment and satisfaction and fulfillment and purpose. A constant in a routine that has been somewhat disjointed and unpredictable as of late.

The front porch is where I go to warm up in the sun or cool off in the shade. It’s how I choose to listen to the news and stay updated on the happenings of the world, clipping off this or that and tossing the dead flowers, or especially unruly branches, into the orange plastic bucket that sits beside me (previously used for painting), chatting with myself as I go.

It’s where I go to work on my website or read or write before giving up entirely so I can play Gubbins, the word game I’ve recently become obsessed with (an obsession that surprises me as I am not usually one for games). It’s where I go to think or cry or process or talk it out with my partner or spend time alone and outside, without having to put on my leaving-the-house clothes. It’s where I am right now, watching as the sun creeps in and the heat of the day slips under a sweatshirt that I can’t believe I haven’t taken off yet. 

Much of the past few months has been spent in a state of observation: the blooming of the roses, silently willing the yarrow to grow grow grow, watching in awe as the happy lavender, rooted in the same dry garden bed as the yarrow, is twice the size it was at the beginning of May. It’s something that makes sense. Something that I’m not trying to figure out or fix or piece back together again.  

The act of writing is something I think about often while on my front porch. It’s something that I think about all the time, really, but especially when I’m not actively writing. It’s something that I always want to improve upon, explore further, learn from, and experiment with. Writing is a through-line and a characteristic of a charming, unreliable, and clever version of myself that I have navigated much of my young-adult life with.

It usually goes something like this: just as I begin to resolve to letting go and moving on after yet another dramatic exit, there she is, my charming self (my writing, creativity, optimism, confidence, and so on), bounding through the door, full of ideas and the promise of something fulfilling and lasting. And because I am eager and frustrated and lonely from her absence, unable to pretend that I have been doing anything other than waiting—waiting for her to return, I throw myself into whatever projects have already begun to take shape under her supervision, promising myself that this time, I won’t let her down. This time, she’ll be so impressed by my productivity that she’ll stick around for longer than a few months.

But she leaves, she always does, and not because I stop trying or am not trying hard enough, but because that’s just the way of things. And while I once resolved to never lose sight of her, fearful as I grabbed her arm and begged her to stay, I now resolve to this spot on my front porch, where I can be in conversation with my quiet self and the flowers and the neighborhood cats that come for pets, mindful to keep the door unlocked, but not wide open: an invitation for her to continue to come and go, and an invitation for me to no longer wait—for me to begin without her permission.

She hasn’t been back since she left at the end of April, and in her absence, I’ve carried on with what has felt within my control: listening to podcasts or audiobooks or music or the news or nothing at all, tending to the garden, visiting the cherry tree on our evening walks, working, paying bills, working some more, going to doctors appointments, kissing my dog, reading library books, kissing my dog some more, going to more doctors appointments, playing Gubbins, ordering reading glasses, checking in with friends and family, writing this (and sending it before July!), editing my website, and making room, lots of room, for my humanness to take the shape of sadness or anger or contentment or nothing at all. 

Sometimes, being ok feels very far away. Sometimes, I get angry and wish that I could just tell one story, instead of trying to keep up with two very different and very stubborn versions of myself. Both vying for my attention and approval.

I take off my sweatshirt and bounce my leg up and down, wondering what would happen if I stopped trying to make sense of every little thing (the idea, of course, is ridiculous, and there’s absolutely no a chance I’ll entertain it).

But, what if I were to stop being so cruel to myself, the narrators of this story? What if I no longer pointed a finger every time I felt wronged, turning inward, letting out my frustrations by saying, ‘you, you are more deserving and worthy than she is because you are shinier and optimistic and confident and full of boundless opportunity, while she is too quiet and anxious and sad and unmotivated.’ What if I were to remove the pedestal altogether, no longer demonizing, critiquing, victimizing, and comparing, just being with one, then the other, learning from both, adjusting where necessary, and making micro-changes as I go?

Allowing for the story to be messy and gentle and chaotic and quiet and lonely and beautiful and awful and sweet and full of rage. For it to ramble on and on, switch narrators half way through, then four months later, switch back again. 

Writing is supposed to be whatever you want it to be, right? So who says I can’t have two narrators? Who says it can’t be shaped a little differently?

Talk soon,
Chloe

PS. I’ll aim to write another newsletter in July, but I’ll just have to wait and see. Regardless, I’m glad to be here now, and proud of myself for piecing something together (it might not be exactly what I want, but it is honest work).