I’ve just come in from an afternoon in the garden. Yanking the rest of the cucumbers. The remaining yellow squash and not all but most of the zucchini. The peas I planted the other day are now three to five inches tall! Lettuce and cilantro popping up everywhere.
I find it rather funny how my wild, half assed chaos garden has produced so much bounty and half of it planted itself. Well, not really half but a bigger percentage than you might believe.
Have you ever grown sweet peas? They vine like a regular pea, and produce flowers but not pods one eats. Old fashioned and so fragrant you can smell them from quite far. I want to say you can smell them from miles away but I guess that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But doesn’t good storytelling usually involve some exaggeration?? For years I have planted sweet peas. The flowers have adorned cakes and made sweet little posies for petit bijou tables, my window sill. But seems like in years past they would bloom for a couple weeks or so then die. They like cool weather. Delicate little things. I guess not a West Texas kind of thing.
Last fall was a very hard time of transition for me. Closed my business, had a wedding, mom broke her hip, we sold her home, and I started a new career. There was zero opportunity to clean up the garden at end of season.
This spring sweet peas popped up on their own accord. So did dill. And arugula. Zinnias and don’t get me started on the tomatoes. The tomatoes merit their own post. And everywhere the sweet peas planted themselves they thrived. I just picked a giant bouquet this afternoon. They are still blooming in September! Ever so fragrant. I gathered a good deal of seeds which I will store for next year. But if this year is any indication, I can share those seeds with others because the beauties have already started planting themselves.
I was listening to Nanci Griffith while sticking the wild bouquet into a giant coffee cup turned vase. “If These Old Walls Could Speak.”
All of a sudden I felt a pain in my heart. It felt a lot like grief. Then as tears rose I realized it was because I deactivated my Facebook account. Yeah, bear with me. I know that sounds absolutely ridiculous. I wanted to make fun of myself. But I am trying this ridiculous habit of paying attention to feelings before letting them explode or take up residence in my neck and shoulders.
Back in Virginia, I remember the day I spoke to our priest about how disconcerting it was to see republican voters guides sitting on every pew. I told him I was planning to vote for Obama, and wondered if any other churchgoers, members or visitors, might also feel uncomfortable finding those there. Perhaps believing if they didn’t share the prescribed political beliefs there would not be a place for them.
I was grateful he listened, the pamphlets disappeared.
I haven’t been in that church or any other for years. But there was a day, actually one of the last times I ever went to church, the circuit priest in the very progressive Episcopal church I attended (and served in),gave a very politically charged sermon. I agreed with every point. It sickened me. I wondered how someone might feel if they happened to be in church that day, oh, someone like my parents for example. How they might feel quite ostracized, put into the position of the “other.”
Over the past ten or fifteen years, my Facebook world has grown significantly. Family. College friends, High school friends. Neighbors. Customers. I loved checking in for five to fifteen minutes in the morning and the evening. See what restaurants were open, were there traffic jams. Did someone else see a bear?
Or how about being witness to kids growing up, getting married, grand babies.
My friend group has always been quite diverse and that’s just the way I like it. One of the many reasons I moved to Alpine was because I found a “purple” town felt good and safe. A good blend of red and blue and lists of shades in between. I wanted my kids to grow up in a world that didn’t look exactly like our family. It felt good when folks would come into my home bakery, later Taste and See, and then Petit Bijou, and feel comfortable, even if we were worlds apart in politics and ideology. Yes, it got a bit rough sometimes when folks were cruel to my daughters because we gave a percentage of bakery proceeds to incarcerated black mommas. Or when we asked folks to wear masks back in covid days to respect the local mandates, and a handful of people got mad and ugly. But we didn’t turn them away. Or ask them to ditch their beliefs in order to be our customers and neighbors. We knew it was a rare thing and didn’t reflect the majority.
For years there have been uncomfortable moments on FB. Old friends would write about how all democrats were this, or all liberals were that. Occasionally I would jump in and say, hey y’all! I’m one of those snowflake libtards over here! To which the response would be, well, but you aren’t like all them. To which I would respond, well actually, how do you know? Do you know exactly everything all them are thinking? Do you even know what I’m thinking? Then we would laugh and get back to garden secrets and the kids.
The other day some fb acquaintances were expressing their anger that all democrats were joyful over the death of Charlie Kirk. There were some pretty big brushstroke accusations.
I see these accusations across the political spectrum. I see folks who share my beliefs make broad over generalized accusations as well. Hell, I certainly get frustrated and mad and confused about so many things, like folks being dragged out of jobs like wild animals. Like people in Gaza, muslim and Christian, starving to death because of a bunch of rich people who have power to make choices…like some convicted felons felons getting more rights because they are rich and white. But I digress. Sorry. (Did I give a trigger warning that I am a bleeding heart liberal snowflake who actually knows how privileged she is to even be able to have the luxury of growing her own garden and the freedom to put a bouquet of homegrown flowers in her windowsill?)
To protect myself, my peace and well being, I deactivated my Facebook account. I considered pausing it, but couldn’t see how it could ever get better so I hit the delete button.
I choose a life with real face interactions. And keep the instagram because how else will I see my kids photos? And get tips for curing my neck problems. And learn garden hacks and radish butter terrines. And don’t even get me started on the hula hoop guy in tutu and high heels…gonna keep the instagram.
For the past few days I haven’t felt a twinge of regret or grief.
This evening I realized I probably should have given a farewell. And then that song came on. And grief welled and tears rose as I thought of all the beautiful moments I have enjoyed thanks to the old FB.
So many friends supported us during the tragic time of my husband’s death. And all the love and hugs and prayers and good wishes and energetic love sent when I got cancer. Or Daddy died. Or Mom got sick. Omg, I was able to have a business because of free advertising on FB! And beautiful loving interaction with all the glorious spectrum of people who have come in and out of my life.
I don’t regret shutting down my Facebook account. But I do regret not saying goodbye. I really love a lot of those folks out there, former neighbors, old classmates, parents of friends, and while I don’t understand their political choices, I do love the wholehearted humans they are.
I am sad we live in a world filled with such tribalistic hatred. It has been my mission for decades to find a way to build bridges. Perhaps walking away from Facebook will make it easier to do just that.
But it surprises me how sad I feel to have lost that connection. Ugh. Feeling feelings is embarrassing.
Okay. It is so weird to be vulnerable and share my thought in a public format. lol hopefully I have been off the blog long enough nobody is reading it anymore and I am just speaking into the ether.
Next post I’ll keep it to tomatoes. The feral tomatoes that I swear are on a mission to take over the universe.
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