Life’s Threads | The Gray Between Seasons
The season always turns. The only question is whether we allow ourselves to turn with it.
I did it again. Too many days in a row out in the garden. You’d think by now I’d have learned that “just one more thing” is a lie I keep telling myself. But the morning air was finally cool, the sky that soft Arizona blue I love, and the pots by the wall looked like they were waiting for me.
You know that feeling. You step outside to do a little watering, maybe deadhead a few flowers, and somehow it turns into an OMG moment when I realized the pots were full of water. All five were clogged. I turned off the irrigation and tipped each pot to dump as much water as possible. Then I set out to remove the plants and sodden soil thinking it was heavy work but doable. I moved pots I had no business moving. Hauled bags of wet soil. Stood back and thought, What a mess. I had only finished cleaning out two pots.
By late afternoon, my shoulders ached. My knees sounded like gravel. I came inside, pleased with myself but exhausted, telling myself it was a “good tired.” But the truth showed up later that night, when I couldn’t sleep because every muscle complained.
I’ve learned a few things in my seventy-plus years, but apparently pacing myself still isn’t one of them.
The next morning, I told myself I’d take a break. That lasted exactly until I noticed the honeysuckle wilting and went to see if it was rotting roots or if somehow, it had dried out. It definitely was too wet so I started cleaning out that pot. I got it done but knew I needed to stop. I just wanted to sit down and be still.
It wasn’t until the third day with sore knees and stiff hands that I finally heard the voice I ignore more often than I should. The one that says, Enough. Stop. So, I did. I left the gloves on the bench, poured some coffee, and sat down.
That’s when I noticed something I hadn’t in days. The hummingbirds were still collecting nectar from the honeysuckles. The desert willow still shimmered with finches. The rest of the garden hadn’t needed me as much as I’d thought. It was doing just fine, growing, blooming, resting on its own rhythm.
My Story Written into Fiction
And that’s what got me thinking about Val. We have a lot in common. Practical. Capable. Proud of what she can still do. The trouble is, women like us have spent most of our lives proving we can handle it, whatever “it” happens to be. We’ve raised families, built careers, kept things going when we were running on fumes. And even now, when the world finally isn’t asking as much from us, we don’t know how to stop asking it from ourselves.
Val’s story this week wasn’t just fiction. It was me, and probably you too. That quiet moment when the body says, I need a minute, and we finally decide to listen.
If you missed this week’s collection of micro-stories you can read them here.👇🏼
It’s funny how quickly the fog lifts when we stop pushing. The next morning, I woke up with no pain. Just that pleasant heaviness that comes from rest instead of overuse. I brewed my coffee and stepped outside. The air was cool again, the light softer, like it had been waiting for me to slow down enough to notice.
I looked at the pots — some crooked, a few still needing my attention and thought, they can wait. So can I.
Because maybe this is the real lesson of getting older: that doing less doesn’t mean caring less. It means we’ve finally learned how to let life breathe on its own.
I’ve always said the garden teaches us what we need to learn, whether we’re paying attention or not. This week, it taught me to treat my own energy the way I treat my plants, with care, patience, and faith that growth happens even when we’re resting.
Your Turn to Reflect
When was the last time you gave yourself the same patience you give what you tend?
Where in your life could you loosen your grip just a little—and trust that it will keep growing, even without you?
Tell me in the comments I read them all and personally reply back to you.
A moment from the Women of the Canyon, reminding us we don’t have to rush. The story can wait. So can we.