The Fields of Renewal: Seeds of Change

**DISCLAIMER/TRIGGER WARNING: death, loss, mental health issues, alcoholism, mention of suicide, grief**

There is duality in the spring. The pink bursts of the cherry blossoms are all around us, the wind becomes much kinder, warmer. The sun decides in its infinite power to embrace us yet again. The dark is kept at bay, and indecision dissolves. But, spring welcomes change, and all who know, realize that the wheel continues to turn.

…

I came here as a person stuck between two worlds. A part of me, still, is left in the city, alone in the encroaching darkness of that old apartment. Alone, without hope, without purpose. At my lowest, I realized I had a choice; I was too afraid to see the freedom that life could give. But now, a part of me lives here, in the warmth and daylight, amongst the cherry blossoms, amongst hope, and the promise of a new beginning.

My grandfather died in the spring. I barely remember the actual ceremony, but one moment stood out to me - the cherry blossom petals were falling, gently, softly, landing where they were meant to be. My body may have been there, with everyone, but my mind was just as distant as the smoke from the incense. I briefly remember the comfort of unfamiliar yet familiar hugs, the pats on my shoulders, the shaking of hands, some old and calloused from years of hard work, others soft and kind, gently squeezing with the knowing of losing something great.

“Your grandfather was a great man. It’s a shame…that farm…”

“He’s with his wife now, at least.”

“Maybe someone will finally buy that eyesore? I heard Doug may expand, take it over…”

“We should be celebrating his life! Here, have another drink!”

“Don’t worry, this too shall pass.”

Smoky musk, cherry blossom petals, soft sorrow, bitter tears, smiling, laughing, drinking…all of it occurring at once. Some met his death with sadness, others with cheerful recollection and celebration of a life well-lived. I faced his death with the longing for an old life.

With what little I could remember, I did have some fond memories of summer vacations spent on his modest, but bustling farm. I remember helping my grandparents sow, carefully watering each patch of seeds with “just the right amount of water”; not too much to drown them, not too little to stunt their growth. On their worn, wrap-around porch, we watched the tomatoes and flowers bloom, growing from seed to harvest, knowing that a simple wish, careful planning, and affectionate attention would feed the entire village and more. As my grandfather had said, barely able to contain his pride: "there's nothing better than seeing people enjoy what you've grown." 

Their home may have needed love, but it was just as steadfast as my grandfather's will. When summer storms raged outside, I hid under my blanket, expecting the walls to come crashing down. However, I was always greeted the next morning, at 5 am, by a soft shake and then a gentle, but urgent squeeze on my arm. Each time, I would pull back the blankets, half-expecting to see the walls of the cabin destroyed, gone. Yet, each time, I was wrong. With one eye open, I would peer up at my grandfather, already dressed in full farmer regalia. He would smile down at me, and every time, he would cheerfully announce: 

"Good Morning, Sprout! Let's go greet the day!"

Even in the most terrible of storms, their cabin stood firm. The creek of the floorboards and the soft cries of owls were the only sounds I heard at night. Sometimes, raindrops echoed on his metal roof, lulling me to a deep slumber. I felt safe and loved, and even as an adult, I would dream about these memories to keep on going.

I remember getting up before the sun, and with dream-filled eyes, brushing the livestock, feeding them by hand, and crying out with glee when they licked my fingers. My grandparents stood there, watching, with proud smiles. My grandfather taught me the specifics: daily care, what to look for, and how to treat sickness. It was as if he already knew my fate. He had given up on trying to show my dad eons ago. My father had become obsessed with the glamorous city and left when he was old enough to work. 

One summer, when I was 10, I even helped birth a calf. To see the cycle of life unfold on that farm, to hear the cicadas cry out as the valley filled with fireflies, the place itself held magic for me. My grandfather, the magician, the wizard who knew and taught me everything. I loved him, but my childhood memories were all we shared.

All communication with my grandfather ceased as I grew into adolescence, and then adulthood. A rift, silently grew, a fissure that I couldn’t see until I was much older. My grandmother had died of an unknown illness, suddenly. I remember brief, late phone calls. My father would talk loudly into the phone, cursing his luck, and then a loud, abrupt clang. The old man didn’t want to recognize his failing health until he could no longer rise from his bed, and then, the farm stood idle.

My father had to deal with the aftermath - the immediate selling of livestock, for one, was stressful. It took months to sell them all, and when the last cow was sold, my dad called me, barely able to contain his relief. The land itself became weed-infested, and passing storms caused trees to fall, covering the field with broken branches. It was no longer workable, an eye sore, and in ruin. 

And then it happened: as quickly as the changing seasons, I received a late-night call. I knew what had happened before my father spoke: my grandfather had passed. The phone call only lasted a mere minute or two, my father droning on about the details, and of work. The awkwardness filled my empty apartment until I couldn’t breathe. He then cleared his throat, muttered something about needing to finish some work, and then hung up.

I sat there, ruminating over these facts, and stared blankly into the blinding light of the TV screen. The smell of stale beer was a haze that engulfed everything. I had sold almost all of my possessions and quit my job. My rent was overdue. When the landlord loudly knocked on my door, I ignored it and turned up the TV. It was all too much, too overwhelming. I lost myself, my mind, in the swell of the city below. Before my father called, I had my notebook opened to a fresh, blank page. I was deciding whether or not to leave a note; I could no longer bare what my life had become, the loneliness, the office job grind with nothing to show for it. Not fitting in anywhere, watching my co-workers go home to their families, safe and loved.

As I sat and dissociated, again, the shrill cry of the telephone woke me from my state, neither awake nor asleep, a frustrating reminder of my existence.

Reluctantly, I shuffled to the kitchen and picked up the cold, black receiver. I could barely manage a “hello?” when my father’s voice broke through: “I forgot to mention: the funeral is this week, I’ll pick you up on Sunday. We'll be there at least the week to finalize the details, be sure to pack a bag, and wear something nice."

Click

Suddenly, it hit: standing there in shock, the immeasurable weight of the phone caused my hand to fall, and then, I did too. I thought I was too numb to feel anything, that nothing else could affect me, and yet, within such a simple, small phrase: "he passed", I crumbled. Deep, animalistic sobs erupted from me, as I lay there, a mess on the kitchen floor.

Self-preservation kicked in and I slowly began to breathe deeply. One, two, three, four…

Slowly, I got up, and gently wiped my face with a towel that was clumsily hung over a cabinet drawer. Disgusted, I realized it hadn’t been washed in weeks, and tossed it near a hamper. I went into the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, and looked in the mirror. For the first time, I actually saw what I had become. Something else came then, too - rage. I stormed over to the linen closet and ripped open a box of trash bags. Again, the tears came as swiftly as a monsoon, as I clumsily tossed bottles of beer, wrappers, and boxes into the trash. Breathing heavily, I realized I had cleaned the entire living area. I didn’t stop, couldn't stop. I cried and cleaned.

My eventual pause came when the sun had slowly risen, the light had slowly encroached into my hovel. I saw the first sunrise I had since I was a kid. Awestruck, I went out onto the balcony and watched its ascent. Again, the tears came, but they were different, they were warm. I knew I had to do something. I finished cleaning and hastily began packing a bag. I dialed my father and told him I would meet him in town, and that I was packing up and heading out early.

There was a long silence on the other end, and then, in a harsh voice, the accusations began:

“What? Don’t tell me you quit your job! I had to pull a lot of strings to…”

I didn’t even wait to hear the rest. I returned the receiver to its home and began what would be the biggest step I had ever taken. With hope rekindled, I swiftly packed a duffle bag, and traveled on foot, to the train station. Before I bought my ticket, something delicate and pink caught my eye. In the window of the floral shop, stood a bouquet of cherry blossom branches mixed with an assortment of peonies and other small wildflowers. Before I could think, I bought the flowers with what little money I had saved. They reminded me of my grandparents, in particular, my grandfather; they had been his favorite flowers. The rest of my money would be used on my ticket, and then, I would stay, alone, in my grandfather’s cabin.

It was then, just after the funeral, that I had completely decided. Something in me stirred, and as I stood outside the farm I had loved as a child. I couldn’t bare to let it go.

After the ceremony, my father droned on about the auctioning of land, and the wave of relief he felt from finally selling it, my voice erupted, stopping him from continuing his apathetic speech that I had heard so many times before.

“I’m taking it over.”

My father stood there, slack-jawed. His face was a mixture of complete disbelief, anger, and then as if he had to forcefully will it this time, apathy.

“What do you mean “taking over”? Surely, you, of all people, don’t mean…”

I stood taller, then. The strength of a renewed purpose filled me with hope and confidence. I almost felt as if my grandfather was standing with me, too.

“I do mean it.” and then…the words came out before I could stop them: “Let me speak in a way you'll understand: most businesses see a profit, in what, 2-3 years? Give me that time, and, you’ll see!”

Cold laughter and a sneer came from my father’s lips. What had he witnessed to make him this way, I wonder? When did his hope die?

“Oh-ho, look at the big shot talking business now! The same kid who just was fired from his cushy office job!” the laughter continued to echo throughout the farm, but still, I stood firm, and spoke in an unwavering voice:

“I wasn’t fired, I quit, there’s a difference, dad. I need a fair chance, so, any repairs need to be done, and I will need his tools repaired. That’s what you promised the buyer. Right?”

His face growing dark, he stood there and said nothing. For once, he had nothing to say. I could see him think, just for a moment, and then he nodded:

“Fine, I’ll complete my share and ready everything. After that, kid, you’re on your own. You will be signing a contract, you hear me? Don’t call or write for help. This is all on you.”

Without as much as a goodbye, he grabbed his bag and headed toward the inn. I turned to look at what was now mine. The sun had broken free from the clouds, and despite the wreckage, I saw the farm for what it could be. Softly, cherry blossom petals fell, the soft breeze carrying these treasures to their destinations. Finally, I had a purpose. Finally, I was free.