Trespassing in the Garden

On Stealing Time

Welcome to Pocketful of Prose, a community for sharing stories. Next week Pocketful of Prose turns one. I plan to celebrate with a special behind the scenes pocket that will certainly include cake because people really seem to like cake. This would be a great time to upgrade to a paid subscription. If a paid subscription is not for you, no worries. Come celebrate with us anyway. Invite a friend. Wear a funky hat. I appreciate you taking the time to be here each week.

As always, there’s an audio of this pocket, and this week I encourage you to listen while doing something you love, maybe even while taking a bath. Charlene Storey, who writes the Substack Haver & Sparrow, gave me the idea to bring my book into the bath, and my life will probably never be the same. I haven’t quite figured out how to do this without getting the book wet, but I’m having a lot of fun. In fact, I am now on a mission to see how many of my life tasks can be performed from the bath tub, which is where I am currently writing right now.

Without further ado, today’s pocket.

Do you ever lose track of time and get totally lost in something… a book, a project, a piece of music? Isn’t it the absolute best feeling? It is like a complete surrender. For a brief moment, time is forgotten.

This happens to me in my garden, more than anywhere else, and it is one of the reasons I like gardening so much. In the winter, I struggle with the long nights and the darkness and the cold, but I think what I miss most is how easy it is to get lost in time.

A few nights ago, I was overcome with my usual February garden itch, to start planning out what I will grow this year, and so I ventured into my garden with my pencil, paper and plans. Because the last few weeks have been mild and there was no snow cover, I could see the soil and some of my plants, which added to my excitement. To be clear, I could really only sort of see the soil and some of the plants because by the time I got outside after a full workday and dog duties and an afternoon cup of tea I have learned never to forsake, it had grown dark. Still, the itch wasn’t going away, so I returned to the house and grabbed my winter coat and my phone flashlight. I started working my way through my garden, sketching one bed at a time, planning where to put the tomatoes, the mustard greens, the broccoli rabe, making sure to leave room for flowers in the corners of each vegetable bed. After I finished sketching the Swiss chard, I heard someone shout, “Got you.”

My garden is in our backyard in Brownes Addition, an urban neighborhood in Spokane. When I am in my garden, I am lost in my own world, but in the actual world, I am surrounded by neighbors on all sides. The person shouting at me was one of those neighbors. From his side of the fence, he shined his phone flashlight on me like I was a pesky creature he had proudly cornered. It was a real Mr. McGregor and Peter Rabbit moment, except for the fact that I was being caught trespassing in my own garden.

“Are you a neighbor?” he asked pointing the light at my face.

“Yes,” I said. I don’t think I said much more. I was lost in thought, still thinking about Swiss chard.

“Oh, we were so scared,” he laughed nervously. “We heard someone moving around in the dark. We were so scared. I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” I said. I harbored no hard feelings. I was after all gardening in the dark in the middle of winter. I could see how my presence didn’t register with his expectations. I was sorry I scared him.

“I’m Mary,” I said

“I’m Logan,” he waved.

“As the weather gets warmer, I’ll be spending a lot of time out here,” Considering the circumstances, I figured it was best to prepare him.

“Me too,” Logan said, and then he returned to his house where I could hear him laughing and explaining the situation to his partner. I returned to thinking about my garden and how many dahlias I could squeeze into the next bed.

I scared Logan, but he didn’t scare me. I was lost in a happy state of suspended time that even Logan’s pointed flashlight and fright couldn’t pull me out of.

My relationship with time is not always this Zen.

There have been times in my life where I felt so overwhelmed with the tasks at hand that I wished I could pause time, but time always plays on. There is no pause button and no rewind. Time often feels like a petty thief, always trying to pick my pocket. My daughter Anna turns 17 this week, and as much as I would like to return to the moment where she, wearing feet pajamas and a pink tutu, unwrapped the handmade doll I made for her on her fourth birthday, time will not allow this, not even for a second. Time may be a thief, but she is a stickler for the rules.

Natalie Goldberg, in her memoir, Let The Whole Thundering World Come Home, writes “A saying exists: a writer gets to live twice. First we live, and then we write about what we have lived. Like a cow that brings up its feed and chews it again, a writer has a second chance to digest experience. The second time is in the notebook or in front of a computer screen. Often the second time is the real life for a writer. It is then we get to claim our existence.”

I’m not sure I love the chewed food metaphor, but I agree with the sentiment. I write because it allows me to pause. Writing even allows me to rewind. Time is no longer a thief who I am trying to protect myself from. In writing, I make up the rules. Time shifts from foe to friend. Time no longer smothers me, but instead she sits beside me and keeps me company as I travel.

I am closing out today with a poem. After the poem, you will find a few book recommendations on the subject of time. One of the picks Anna chose, so you know it’s good. Happy Birthday Anna!

Please stick around for some conversation in the comments. Tell us what you’re reading, what you’re writing, and what you’re eating, especially if it involves cake.

Stealing Time

I have no time to take a bath

I grab a towel and a razor, and I prepare for a quick rinse before work

I have only a minute to make myself presentable

But the hot water radiates

on my cold, tired skin

and I let out a long deep sigh

I don’t have time to sit back but I do

just a minute

I should turn off the tap

but I let more water fall

a few more breaths

I should get up

but instead I lay back

I lay down

I tell myself I don’t have time

but my dissent is drowned out by the gushing water

and so I remain

Lately, it feels like time has been stealing from me

So I delight in this moment where I steal it back

In case you have time to read about time, you might want to check out.

1.       The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster

2.       The Time Traveler’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger

3.       The Invention of Hugo Cabret, by Brian Selznick, one of Anna’s favorite books of all time

As always, here’s the heart to click if this post resonated with you.