They take the time they take

On integrity and time

When my housemate ended her marriage a few years ago, she moved out of the house she’d been living in with her then-husband and into a 10X10 shack in an intentional community about an hour south of here. Like me, she’s a plant person and there wasn’t any space (or enough light) for her many, many plants to survive there, so she brought them to my house.

Neither of us knew at that point if this was a permanent, gifting-type situation, or a fostering one. Neither of us knew if she would stay there on the mountain for the long haul, though we thought so. Neither of us knew anything, really, other than that she needed to follow along behind her integrity like a dog on a leash and I needed to love her in the most concrete way I knew how, by loving what she loved with an open hand.

It turned out she didn’t stay on the mountain, in the end. She moved into my spare bedroom to live with me and my kids nearly two years ago, and we’ve been continuing to love each other with open hands ever since.

But this isn’t about us, actually. It’s about one of her plants, an orchid. Orchids are notoriously finicky. In all fairness, they’re jungle plants and my Victorian house in Upstate NY (which is on the cold side most of the year because gas is expensive) is not the most conducive environment for their thriving. Orchids have their own brand of integrity, too, I guess.

By the time this orchid came to me, it hadn’t flowered for a decade, since the first flowers it had when it was acquired. It was just a nice, green, leafy thing hanging in a pot. This was fine with me, honestly. I don’t generally grow flowering plants, just unfussy green ones that can withstand my often distracted attention. So, I watered it along with all the others, moved it outside and then back inside depending on the season, and didn’t expect anything particular other than for it to continue living and being itself.

Then, about a month ago, it sent up a shoot. At first, I mistook it for an air root and didn’t think much about it. Then that supposed root started determinedly reaching towards the light and sprouted nodules and I thought, Well, look at that!

I told my housemate, she hurried upstairs to peek at it, and then cheered. We’ve been on flower watch ever since, and this week, a delicate, purple and white blossom finally appeared.

Despite this bit of excitement, I woke up this morning feeling wrung out like a wet dishrag. Laying there, my eyes opening and closing, opening and closing, I was utterly boneless and empty of thought or motivation. I wasn’t depressed, which would be an understandable assumption, just spent.

I was drained dry because last night I came to the end of months of heavy work— 6-7 days a week and many, many hours a day— and often poor, stress-laden sleep. There’s also been some unexpected trouble for my younger kid which has required whatever energy I could squeeze out around the cracks of my deadlines. Everything is fine, ultimately, or will be fine, but the sheer effort required to keep us all on track, to keep the ship sailing somewhat smoothly, has taken everything I have and then a little bit more.

I struggle with perspective when life is like this. I fall into the belief that the way it is now is the way it will always be, forgetting that for all of my wishing and striving and practicing of my integrity, there’s always a factor I have no control over, which is time. Things ebb and flow, ebb and then ebb some more, for so long sometimes that flow seems no longer inevitable. Like I have fallen out of time and good order. And there little to nothing I can do about it.

I’ll confess this offends me, in an egoic and childish sort of way. I want to believe that it’s possible for me to simply will things into being. That if I just show up to the best of my ability everything will go the way I want it to go, and on the timeframe that I have decided is optimal. You’d think I would have gotten over this by now. You’d be wrong.

So, when I woke up this morning, all empty and wrung out, I thought, Well, that’s it then. I imagined life just spinning endlessly forward and me just trudging along without a single thought in my head, a single word occurring to me, and it felt inevitable and utterly true. I wouldn’t write a book, or another newsletter, or anything else for that matter. I would just exist in this hollow, echoing space forever.

Then I turned my head just a touch, past the view of my cat sitting on my hip glaring at me, clearly wondering when I was going to stop laying there staring off into space and get up to feed her, and saw that little, purple flower.

Things take the time they take, Asha. You don’t get to decide. You just get to show up. Make yourself available. Be faithful to what and who you love. Try.

You’ve never known what was going to happen, and yet, here you are. In this comfortable bed with this ridiculous cat, with these dear friends, these wonderful kids, and this unexpected, hopeful flower. Now is just now.

I don’t know if you needed this reminder today, but I did. And I’m sure I will again, so I’m just going to leave it here for future reference.

Much love to you.

XO, Asha

P.S. Before you go, could you hit the heart at the bottom? As the inimitable Emily Nunn at The Department of Salad says, could you hit the the ❤️❤️❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter if you like being here? It helps my own personal ♥️ rhythms—and my algo-rhythms.