Backyard Reflections

After a long drive home, I stretch my back, move my neck around in an awkward circle, and wiggle my toes. My feet are practically numb from being crammed in tight sneakers all day while I drove. It’s two in the afternoon, and I look out the window while I rinse my navy travel mug in the kitchen sink. I focus on the pool in my backyard – the streaks of light scattered on the surface of the water, the bees landing on the curved concrete edge, and the honeysuckles glowing as the sun shines through their small petals. 

I love the quiet of living alone. It isn’t lonely unless I let it be. More often than not, it is so peaceful that it is practically confusing. That is the level of peace I always wanted - an environment that is so shockingly stable.

The other day, I was making dinner, and I thought about an Annie Dillard quote. How we spend our days is ultimately how we spend our lives, it goes. It sounds so obvious, since our lives are just the compilation of each day. But I love how I spend my days lately. And if that implies that I have a life I love to live, then that’s pretty profound to me.

The last time I read a book by Annie Dillard, I was in my high school English class. In that class, I only remember resting my head on a cold, laminate desk each morning. I’d fall asleep while my teacher explained the novel’s rhetorical devices. I think I would have loved that book more if I wasn’t so exhausted. But I didn’t get much rest at home when I was a kid. I didn’t have a good place to do my homework and I never had breakfast. Or a good dinner, really. 

I liked that English class - I liked all my classes. They were so interesting to me and they made me feel so wonderfully functional for a few hours each day. When I would get home from school, I’d try to sustain those feelings of productivity and curiosity that were fostered earlier in the day. But they’d slowly dissipate as it got later and later in the evening. So I would close my door and sink into my bed, escaping into whatever genre of music was blasting in my headphones. And I’d cry. Hard.

But other days, even amongst the fear, shame, and restlessness that consumed me, the inspiration from school wouldn’t wear off. Isn’t that funny? It’d still be there, like a little soft light in my chest. It made me think I could be better. On those days, I’d go home and retreat to my desk instead. I would rip out a piece of paper from my notebook, and the college-ruled paper would function as a staff. I’d draw an asymmetrical treble clef and set a time signature depending on how fast my heart was racing, how rhythmic my head was pounding, and how frantically my hands were shaking.  With my keyboard nearby, I’d come up with a compelling melody. I loved to write music. I would bubble in eighth notes like they were small circles on a multiple choice test. It required so much of my focus that I didn’t even have time to tend to whatever else I was feeling.

When I moved out of the house, I kept music close to me. Really, it was the only thing I swore to God I would never stray away from. Songs filled my life - they were my solace after every heartbreak, and they would keep me company every time I sat in my college library with headphones, petrified with fear. Music was my constant when people who were supposed to support me would leave me stranded. But as time passed, I couldn’t lean on it for every sense of self-fulfillment. I looked around at all the well-adjusted people in my life, and familiar feelings of fear, shame, and restlessness would surface. I just could not face the most miniscule tasks. And I mean small things that seemed insurmountable. I wouldn’t wear a jacket out on a cold day because it didn’t seem worth the extra step to be comfortable, and my shoulders would become red hot in the sun because I would never consider applying any sunscreen. I remember when my city required me to compost my food scraps. With the federal student loan servicer sending me weekly emails and intimidating letters, composting seemed like such a colossal waste of time and even a little patronizing. But after a while, all I ever wanted to do was feel a little functional. I had so many wonderful ideas of how to do so, but it required some sense of togetherness that I didn’t have the confidence to strive for. 

Now I look back in my backyard - the pool guy is supposed to come next week. I know this because the leaves are floating on the surface of the water, and the fallen honeysuckles are collecting along the curved concrete edges. I set my oven to 450 degrees and put a pot of water on the stove, wash some asparagus, and rinse a heap of kale. I picked up a few fresh groceries on my way home - I just wanted a salad, some roasted vegetables, and my favorite pasta after eating pizza and fast food all last week. Actually I didn’t eat many enjoyable meals at all. Because all last week I was home. “Home” home.  And I made a great discovery - I can still sink as deeply into my twin bed as I could a decade ago.

But today, I feel a little soft light in me. It burns brighter these days, actually. It’s warm like the sun shining through small petals. And with that light, and with a little more life, it seems I can just do the most random tasks. I can even clean out a jar of marinara sauce before I throw it away.