Finding a sustainable rhythm in the chaos

hoping you find your home in the midst of it all

I spent this month treading water. It was busy, as May often is. I anticipated this. Every year there are two of my children’s birthdays, one at the very beginning and one at the end. As other parent’s may know, this means there’s a family birthday and a friend birthday, so four birthday parties occurred this month. There was the death anniversary of my daughter on the 9th. Followed by Mother’s Day. There’s was a long weekend that we often spend camping, which is not my favourite activity. And this month, there were extras. I went to Vancouver for the weekend to see Elizabeth Gilbert host a workshop on creativity and healing. Two of my wonderful relatives died nearly a month apart, in the same hospice. And I spent the first two and a half weeks in bed or recovering from an awful virus.

I am amazed that I’m sitting here today with energy to write. I had nearly given up on writing all together. I had built a daily habit of writing a rough draft, and that disappeared within a day. My writing coach said it takes two weeks to build a writing habit, and three days to lose it. I had to rebuild it twice this month, which I assumed I wouldn’t be able to do. But I did. I rebuilt the momentum. I planted seedlings. I dug in the dirt with my bare hands, leaving my nails with nearly permanent black crescent moons. I also gave myself a manicure in the car on the ferry boat. I picked up a book, which I haven’t done in ages. Two in fact, a nonfiction and a fiction read. Some seasons I find reading a physical book is the most delicious thing. Other times, I can’t bear it. I engaged with clients in their own grief work. I did creative styling projects for a local maker. I hard boiled eggs and made banana bread and roasted a chicken with potatoes to catch the drippings.

But this part of me now is reminding me of the rhythms and how unpredictable, edgy and chaotic they can be. Though they are not my home rhythm, they are a part of life.

A part of me really wanted to believe this month was a write off. It was too much. Too busy. Too hard.

While sitting in the sunny backyard, surrounded by the seeds, leaves and roots of the plants I have lovingly, if not hurriedly planted over the years, I felt a gentle kind of grace. Perhaps this is why I love the garden. My garden. I have planted nearly every perennial or annual. I have waited months, years to see them bloom. It reminds me of the seasons of pure pleasure, and the intensity that came before that. I planted some of these plants in a season of deep work. As I unearthed the roots of complex PTSD, I planted a garden with chronic headaches, nausea and anxiety. I planted a garden with a baby at my breast. I planted a garden with great peace, while listening to audiobooks or the music filtering through the screen door. I planted a garden while my husband smiled at my from the sun chair, offering me a cold drink, while our kids squealed with delight on the grass. We made eye contact, wordlessly exchanging our awe and gratitude for the moment.

Though this month felt too big, I am nearing the end of it, and I am feeling centered in my favourite rhythm: cozy, peaceful, flowing. This is a necessary reminder for me, as the past stories and traumas my body held often felt unending. My body has healed. My brain has sought sanctuary in the places that bring me hope and joy. I connected with loved ones, instead of isolating myself to lick my wounds. I set boundaries around my time when I had reached my capacity instead of feeling the requirement to put others first.

Nothing extraordinary happened as I peeled back the shells from the carefully timed boiled eggs. This was my second attempt, after all. My first attempt ended in a pot of very over boiled eggs in the compost. I ate three, crisp, cold slices of golden honeydew over the sink instead of saving them for my kid’s after school snacks. That felt great.

The rhythm I needed this month was slow and steady, but what I received was plunky, fast and messy. Instead of feeling dismayed by the bigness of it all, I gave myself permission to feel it. Less resistance to pain, stress and time constraints, meant I felt happier in the moment. This would pass. Just as the once glorious, supple lilacs have passed on. Their brown heads are papery thin and their scent no longer lingers in the backyard. Their season is over, and they are rather plain, if not ugly to look at now. Such a short burst of sensual delight, then it’s over. However, across the yard, some slug nibbled dahlias are growing at different rates. Some are massive already, while others are just protruding from the dirt. In their own time, they will reveal glossy, green buds and I’ll cut the stems to bring them inside.

Photo by Sayon Kumar.

If steadiness and placidity is what I think I needed this month, then May reminded me to continue to find pause on the solid earth between the cycles of death, new life, celebration and mourning, sickness and wellness, pain and ease.

I can resource myself with the tiniest delights. A new song. A sleeping cat while I write. Waking with the early morning sun. A bundle of movies while sick in bed. Time to feel bored. Choosing to build lego with my ten year old instead of doing laundry (mama, want to do this again tomorrow night?)

I’ll leave you with an actual rhythm that has filled my bucket this week. This is the pace I long for: deep, steady, open. I hope you find yourself in in the green of a garden soon, with all the small pleasures you need nearby, while your phone sits tucked away in the dark crevice of a drawer.