Am I Procrastinating or Grieving?
When a Sacred Spaces Becomes an Ache Space
Welcome to pocketful of prose. If you received this from a friend, please join us by subscribing. It’s free. If you already subscribed, welcome back. Several folks asked me this week how they could support this publication, and since only some of them are related to me, I have opened this up for paid subscriptions. If you find that this community really fills your cup, or rather is your cup of tea, and a paid subscription sounds like it could be your jam, go for it. I am in no way pushing paid subscriptions. I will continue to write weekly and share my writing with everyone. I am so grateful for this space and even more grateful that you all are reading this and engaging in conversation.
For new readers, in this week’s post, I write about Mateo. Mateo was our six-year-old foster son, who lived with us for almost two years. He recently returned home to his birth family.
And now, for this week’s pocketful of prose.
Is there a chore that you put off at all costs?
I have my fair share. Housekeeping has never been my strong suit. However, my nemesis is definitely the mail.
Do you remember Arnold Lobel’s beloved characters Frog and Toad? Toad desperately waits by the mailbox for the mail to come, and it never arrives. Frog, hating to see his friend sad, writes Toad a letter, and they wait for the mail to arrive together.
I wish mail was like that, cherished communication between people who care about each other. Instead, it is an amalgamation of delivered detritus…a donation request from my Alma Mata, politely requesting more money because last month’s donation went towards a lazy river for the rec center, several REI catalogs, even though I’ve never actually purchased anything from REI, numerous notes that appear handwritten for the nefarious purpose of deceiving me into opening them only to find out that I have the amazing “opportunity” to refinance my home or purchase additional life insurance.
We have an information overload in our society, and the mail epitomizes that excess. The irony is not lost on me here. I understand that I have invited you all to subscribe to this Substack and encouraged you to add another thing to your weekly inbox. (FYI, you can opt out of receiving my pockets in your inbox and choose to read them in the app only.) Clearing out an inbox can consume an entire morning. To be honest, there are some rules of adulting that have escaped me. It was only this year that I realized I should probably delete emails when I no longer needed them. My Gmail is almost at capacity, and my Microsoft inbox is 8,000 emails strong. It is hard work sifting through the compost to find the flowers. I am guilty of giving up and letting the mail just pile in the foyer so that guests think I’m trying to create some sort of recycled paper/found trash tower. When I receive actual mail, the kind that Frog sent Toad…holiday cards, thank you notes, gifts…I am usually so overwhelmed by the whole state of affairs, that I just give up. I ignore everything for several months until I finally succumb to my mom’s guilt trips, and I summon the courage to face the pile.
This week, though, I finally got around to some of the things I’ve been putting off, sending Mateo his birthday gift, now quite belated, and starting my seeds. The first act of procrastination is in line with my avoidance of all things mail, but not starting my seeds feels different. I never evade garden duties. The garden is where I go to escape from everything else. It is my sacred space, a place where I can be completely in tune with myself, where my thoughts stop scurrying around my head like hungry mice, where I can be completely absorbed in the moment. The late Cheri Maples, Madison police officer, peace activist, dharma instructor, and all around amazing human, said that her “first Zen activity…was baseball because that was the first activity…where (she) was so absorbed …(her) total focus and concentration was there and nothing else was present.” Remembering Thich Nhat Hanh, Brother Thay | The On Being Project This is exactly how I feel about gardening. Call them what you will, sacred spaces, Zen activities, baseball, gardening… We all desperately need them. I wonder what yours is. I would love to continue this conversation in the comments.
So why was I avoiding a place I considered sacred, a place that returns me to myself? Suleika Jaouad (forgive my pronunciation if you listen to the audio where I botched Suleika’s last name- it is pronounced zhau·ad- sorry Suleika), author of the Isolation Journals, wrote something this week that is sticking with me. Suleika said the blank page was something she embraced as a child. However, since learning about her relapse, “the blank page has felt daunting, even terrifying…(because) writing has always been (her) primary way to make meaning.” Prompt 234. In Praise of Wonder (substack.com) Writing is her sacred space, but since her relapse it has become a scary place. Sometimes the things that bring us meaning can also cause an ache.
Mateo loved the garden. Of all three of my kids, he loved it the most. He would climb the branches of the lilac tree, balance on the wooden beams surrounding the beds, skip from rock to sunflower. He would hide among the raspberry branches and feast all morning. A fence separated us from the neighbor’s house. Two families with children lived in the double story apartments behind the fence. He used to play telephone with the little girl who lived on the bottom floor. One time, he told me that he kissed her. In true Romeo and Juliet fashion, the girls in the upper apartment would talk to Mateo from their balcony. They would try and throw things back and forth at each other. Sometimes, they would come over and have a picnic with him and play in the sandbox. Mateo and I built a sandbox in the garden, converting one of my shadier flower beds to a play space for him. He and I went to the hardware store and gathered all the paving stones and laid each one down together. The sandbox still has Mateo’s toys in it. I should have removed them before winter, but I didn’t, or I couldn’t. I suppose I should turn the sandbox into something else.
We also built him a bean trellis, a small tent with enough room for him alone, where he would sit inside and “read” Anna’s graphic novels, while the blossoms from the scarlet runner beans bloomed around him. I would go out in the garden every morning to write, and he would come find me. He would sit next to me on the bench underneath the maple tree, and we would snuggle. Often, we would read a book, but sometimes we would just sit and watch the bees feed off the bean flowers.
I shared my thoughts with Suleika this week, my thoughts on this new ache space, when something that was once sacred becomes a little scary, or challenging, or sad. She wrote me back. This is one of the things I love about Substack, the ability to converse with people who inspire you. She honored my feelings and my story, and then she wrote, “May this season bring forth new unexpected buds and blossoms.” Dear readers, as Spring approaches, I hope that you can spend more time in your sacred spaces than you do sifting through your mail, or whatever your chore nemesis equivalent is. I hope that when those sacred spaces feel a little more complicated, and you find yourself struggling, that you give yourself grace. You don’t have to jump to fill the space. Over time, there will be new blossoms.
What resonates with you today? If something resonates, please share by liking the post. If you are feeling brave, I would love to continue this conversation in the comments. Tell us what your chore nemesis is. Share about your sacred space or Zen activity. If you’re feeling really brave, tell us about your ache space. In sharing stories, we change ourselves. In changing ourselves, we change the world.
And now for a pocket of poetry.
Who will ask me what is the grass?
(An ode to Walt Whitman and Mateo)
Who will meet me in the garden?
Who will ask me what is the grass?
Who will tiptoe around the beds?
Who will jump from rock to sunflower?
Who will climb the branches of the lilac tree?
Who will share the raspberries with the birds?
Who will sit with me on the bench beneath the maple?
Who will watch the bees open their tiny mouths for the poppies?
Who will ask me if bees have mouths?
Who will read poems with me?
Who will read the robins?
Who will help me make a home for the butterflies?
Who will play with me?
Who will water everything?
Who will tell me that even the rocks are thirsty?
Who will remind me that we all are thirsty?
Who will meet me in the garden?
Who will ask me what is the grass?
Who am I when there is no one to answer?
This resonates with me so much this morning. I have been beating myself up for procrastinating but I think really I am grieving a whole host of things. I have been running around wildly for too long and suddenly I have quiet and space and it's harder than I expected. My sacred space is music and I feel a longing every time I walk by my piano, but I just can't quite get back to it. I appreciate knowing others feel that too and it's ok to take some space and enjoy the quiet until I'm ready.
I love your poem and can sense the ache that comes from a time and place that has always been joyful for you. Your garden nourished Mateo while he was with you and now holds memories. I am glad for the friend who suggested that this will yield new buds and growth. May it be so.
As for procrastinating - putting gas in the car. My husband once had to put his shoulder to my car and push it to the gas station when it ran out a few hundred feet short. My sacred space is my office or wherever I am writing. I need to honor that more because many times I open the door physically and metaphorically and all kinds of distractions enter. My friend does a ritual every time she sits down to write in the mornings. I am thinking about doing that, creating a signal to myself that now the space is sacred.