The State of Things

a stream of consciousness

A month or two ago I signed up for a free e-course on how to harvest zinnia seeds. This was back when I had time, and energy, and hope; optimism that even I—Woman Who Has Killed Many Plants In Her Life—could do something as miraculous and generative as harvest seeds straight from the flowers growing in her own backyard.

I don’t need to tell you what happened next. 

I ran out of time.
And energy. 
And hope. 
And optimism. 

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Art, as usual, has been a saving grace. With a manuscript deadline of December 1st, I’ve been plenty busy the past few weeks. I am not writing this book alone—that in itself is a huge relief and gift—although managing a collaborative project of this magnitude comes with its own set of stressors. 

Sometimes when I wake up at 3am, which is to say most nights, I wonder alone in the dark if I am terrible at all of this. Did I communicate well enough? Did I make myself available enough? Did I encourage everyone thoroughly enough? I think of comments I left on someone else’s draft yesterday. Was I too harsh? Was the feedback too much? Did I tell her, explicitly, how much I loved it? Did I tell her, explicitly, how much I believe in her? 

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A friend tells me over text that she’s en route to a physical therapy appointment. I told you I got a typing injury, right? 

I think about how much I type, how many hours a day I spend hunched over a thin silver machine—at my desk, in bed, on the couch, sprawled out across my daughter’s carpet. My friend explains she pinched a nerve in her neck and that apparently you can hurt yourself simply by typing too much. 

Who knew writing was so dangerous? I text back, as a joke. 

But later that question swirls in the recesses of my mind and it doesn’t sound like a joke at all. 

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I’m not sure when I gave up on the zinnias. It might have been the week my husband was out of town and I hardly slept. It might have been around 9pm election night when I could see the writing on the wall. It might have been the day my son had his annual check-up and we learned something wasn’t right—that everything would be okay in the end, but he’d need surgery to fix it. Or it might have been the day my Voxer account was blowing up with tiny explosives from everyone else’s lives: heartache and conflict and grief, story after story of disappointments and loss, Big Traumas and little traumas, each of us taking a turn saying some rendition of “everything is okay but this is A Lot.”

/// 

The manuscript is due in two weeks and it kind of feels like the 20 minutes before a wedding starts. Everyone is running around, sweaty and crazy, did we forget anything? Is everyone ready? Wait, are the flowers supposed to look like that? 

There’s so much anticipation. So much anxiety. So many last minute checks of buttons and boutonnieres. The pressure is mounting. Inhale. Exhale. 

Remember, we already rehearsed this. We know what to do. 

///

In typical California fashion, we go from 75 degrees and sunny to a rainstorm overnight. If the weather app predicted the shift, I didn’t notice, which is weird because I obsessively check the weather. The rain fell and fell and fell, pelting my zinnias. The stalks creased and I had no time to grieve. My flowers, my beloved flowers that once stretched tall, toward heaven, toward hope, are now bent over the garden beds like sad, limp noodles. 

///

I haven’t been writing much lately. I am writing for work, and I am writing to hit deadlines, but I am not writing for myself. When I confess this to my friends, I say it desperately. Depressingly. I never feel like myself when I am not writing. 

And yet here I am, confessing this truth, that I have been scared to write all the things I really feel right now.

And so I wonder if it’s okay to pause. To take a beat. To take a breath. I wonder if it’s okay to let my Substack grow a few cobwebs between now and the end of the year. I wonder if it’s okay to be silent for a time. To grieve the zinnias, among other things. 

Because writing, lately, is feeling a little dangerous. 

///

Today, with 24 minutes of Voxer messages streaming through my headphones, I venture into my daughter’s room to clean out her underwear drawer. In one swoop, I empty the entire contents on the floor and go to town making piles. Why my daughter has underwear size 4, 4T, 6, and 8, I do not know. All I know is half of these pairs don’t fit her, and I am growing increasingly exasperated every time she gets out of the bath and we have to find the right size. 

So I sit on the carpet folding tiny undies, some with polka dots and stripes, others featuring a mishmash of Disney princesses. I match up socks, which are just as varied and colorful. And when I am done, I put everything back in the drawer, nicely and neatly. 

There is so much I cannot control, both in my home and in the world, but today I can control this. I can restore order. I can make space. I can be a good steward, dumb as it sounds, of my daughter’s undergarments. 

I don’t know if she will care or notice. But I will. 

///

There is a pile of mail sitting on my desk. Two checks to deposit. A complicated business tax form that needs to be filed and paid. A letter informing me that my fictitious business name—Coffee + Crumbs—is about to expire. I need to pay $44 to the county of Sacramento before Christmas day to keep the name active. 

Every day I think, I will deal with this tomorrow.

///

The topic comes up at dinner with girlfriends one night, out of nowhere. Who would take your children if you died? We talk of assets and lawyers, aging parents, plans and wishes and anxiety about the future. 

My husband and I have not done any of this. We have no will. No plan. No guardians for the children. Every time we talk about it, we get stressed and change the topic. What should we make for dinner? I know this is not wise. “Get a life insurance policy on Ashlee” is still on the family to-do list. Please do not DM me; I know this is not wise.  

Next week a team of men will arrive at our house in trucks to replace our very old, shaker style roof. The same roof we’ve been told is one winter storm away from collapsing on itself. When I saw how much a new roof was going to cost, I almost laughed. That can’t be right. Three bids later, reality sunk in. 

And yet I know—these are small problems in a world of Big Problems. What a gift that we have a roof over our heads, and that we have the ability to go into debt to fix it. 

When I was little I thought being a grown-up meant eating ice cream for dinner. 

///

The pediatrician does not tell us anything we do not already know. My daughter cannot hear, or at least hear well. The signs have been there for months. What? Huh? What did you say? My daughter’s three most common questions; I repeat myself 50 times a day. She failed the hearing test immediately.

We will go to an ENT next, who will likely tell us what we were told a number of years ago in the same appointment with our son: she needs tubes in her ears.

Another surgery for another child. Another operating room. Another round of general anesthesia. Not to mention dealing with our terrible health insurance.

I add my update to the already-full Voxer thread, more fragments into a stressful day, more of everything is going to be okay but this is A Lot. 

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Lately when I sit down to write, nothing comes out. I have a friend who regularly worries her best writing is behind her. That’s funny, I say, I always think my best writing is in front of me. I tend to think everything I’ve written in the past is garbage and I can only get better from here. 

But as days turn into weeks and weeks turn into a month, I start to feel panicky. Like a caged animal. Like maybe my friend is right. This is how it works. We writers hit a dot on the timeline of our life and then it’s all downhill from there. Best work in the rearview mirror, goodbye talent. 

Normally I’d write through my feelings of insecurity and panic, but I cannot even bring myself to do that. So I climb into bed with leftover Halloween candy and turn on Gilmore Girls and escape, escape, escape. 

///

According to my weather app, this weekend will be sunny. On Saturday I will come home from yoga and yank every zinnia plant out of the ground. I will thank it for the joy and delight it provided me for so many months. Then I will till the soil and restore order to this corner of our backyard.

Next year I will buy the same zinnia seeds and plant them again. I may have failed the e-course, but I am still supporting the farmer. Sometimes we have to make a choice and go with God. 

In the meantime, I will place an order for tulip bulbs, my own version of spiritual warfare. I will fight for hope, fight for beauty, fight for better days ahead. I will remind myself that while I am only one person, small and insignificant, my actions and words still matter—that even when life is A Lot, what I do today has the potential to bring forth something new, maybe even something beautiful, come spring. 

I will dig holes in the dirt, and I will continue to write. 

Because I’ve already rehearsed this. And I know what to do.