My back door is my escape into the wild tangle of trees and flowers and tomatoes ripening under the heat of the sun, peppers waiting to burn through the sizzle of dishes and the scent of the roses, always more roses. i planted two new bushes this year, a pale pink peachy affair and a perky sultry red pink like the slash of fushia that often gets swiped across my lips during a long day of meetings, especially these days when i find myself wearing a lot of black as though i were in my twenties again. not the black of my youth, a more elegant arrangement of black interspersed with ivories or the soft monotone of oatmeal so my lips take on a vibrancy to balance it all. In my garden there is no need for balance because I prefer the riot of my youth out there, the colours never seeming to clash with each other, speaking their own language without filter.
July has been both sunny and rainy, so much rain that I haven't had to untangle the long rubber hoses and wield them all the way back to the very edges of my backyard very often, only once or twice, my arms unaccustomed to the weight of dragging them just right so as not to upend a plant or two or knock over a lighting fixture that has been pushed into the earth. I wear my straw hat and my garden clogs and keep an umbrella on hand for mad dashes to cut down bits of colour to bring indoors.
I have become quite monochrome these days, it feels comforting somehow. my walls are still bright but we have been having discussions about more muted tones (though we will never paint over though we will of course refresh the yellow plum of our living room) in some of the rooms and the bright accessories against the bright walls have been switched out to a more monochrome palette of oatmeals, natural woods, blacks and whites with very few pops of colours and when I changed out the pillows and throws this season, I took away all the greens and oranges and yellows and replaced them with soft greys, blacks and whites. I find it comforting, the monochrome and it suits me I think. Oh every once in a while, I will throw on that bright pink dress that swirls around my legs or that jewel toned purple skirt with the gold threads woven through but that is not my regular go to anymore. I reach for clean lines, no frills and it soothes me, stops the chatter and the feeling of urgency.
My passion has grown quiet, burning steadily but softly and I like it. And the rains of July have ensured that there is no muted passion in my back yard, only a tangle of green and colour sprouting up everywhere, growing wild and untameable and the weeds, oh the weeds, they keep me busy in between the rains and I pull them quietly and enjoy being out there with the birds ever chirping and the bees ever working alongside me and we get along just fine.
Perhaps this is my rainy season, the period of quiet that stretches into years, a period of great growth that forever requires weeding. And I found myself plucking Jean-Paul Sartre's Nausea off the shelf the other day. Just leafing through it and finding my notes penned in ink dotting the margins reminded me of another me, another time, a time of long hours stretched out at the pub and biking home in a weave through the cemetery, the moon and the dark night stars feeling like freedom and how reading it somehow caused me such a great internal upheaval that forced its way out of me and set into motion all kinds of changes and distress that completely altered my life's course. and I leafed through it and I remembered and I wondered at the wisdom of reading it again even as I knew that I already went through that conversation with myself and already knew some of the answers for me but I wondered/wonder if it will bring me new questions.
and then I stumbled across this,
and perhaps my rainy season is just me living. and maybe I am growing tired of all this living and I miss the telling and I went for lunch with a friend the other day and he was telling me some stories of things in his life and they felt so incredibly profound, like his words were reaching out and telling me something important and I told him he should write down these stories and maybe I was really saying to myself, it is time to write stories again.