I am striving, in middle age, to avoid growing stale. Stagnant. Fetid, like the water that collects in the pool behind the pier and fills, as summer progresses, with dead fish and algae. This goal is often in conflict with a different desire of mine, which is that everything, forever and always, fall into predictable routines, free from challenge, discomfort, or even novelty.
I live with this push and pull rather like an easily startled horse, which, after grazing placidly for hours, suddenly rears up and dashes headfirst into some wire fencing.
In other words, I keep trying to try new things.
For the last year or so, the ridiculous gym kept me on my toes. But eventually, that too settled into predictability. When I no longer felt a jolt of uncomprehending fear at the inscriptions on the whiteboard (“ren row/sa db clean/dev thruster”), I sensed it was time to bolt. But towards what? Where was the nearest tangled barbed wire? I sniffed the air and — well, let me tell you what’s happened.
I officially joined my church and signed up to be a “liturgist,” which is, essentially, a Presbyterian MC. It’s gone ok, except for a little blip last Sunday, where I invited the ushers to come forward, and then, in the next breath demanded that everyone stand and sing hymn 272. An old guy in the front row shouted, “Time out! Time out! The offering!” I duly stopped the clock and let the two startled guys in suits range across the congregation with their baskets on poles, collecting envelopes. But, as soon as they were back up front, I *insisted* that we now, seriously, people, get up and sing that hymn.
Then I drove home to plant things. That’s been the second of my recent Stagnation Avoidance projects. Planting things. I dabbled a bit last summer. I thought, “Oh, I’ll clear out that garden bed on the side of the house and put some flowers in!” Then I spent approximately a month with (literally) a pickaxe, hacking out roots and rocks that seemed to spontaneously regenerate overnight. Finally, when the soil was clear enough, I bought some things I thought were “pretty,” and threw them in the ground. This year, a gang of steroidal lilies have muscled out everything in the left corner, the stuff (whatever it was) in the front seems to have died, and the stuff (whatever it was) in the back, seems to be growing. We’ll see.
With that stirring success under my belt, why NOT build a raised vegetable bed and try to produce food? I bought a book about how to do it in February. The book had many instructions. So many. I tried to absorb it all, but then began to feel overwhelmed, like planting tomatoes was on par with defusing a car bomb next to an elementary school. “Broccoli!” the book barked at me, “Don’t you dare plant it too soon. But hey, hey, hey! Not too late, either! What are you thinking, Soldier?”
I didn’t totally understand the backs of the seed packets, either. And the women on YouTube talking about Christ-centered lima beans gave me a headache. So, last Saturday, in a fit of doubt-fueled exasperation, I thought, “None of this is going to grow anyway. This is silly.” I dumped some spinach seeds in something like a row and forgot about them. I need to do something about that, though, because…um…it appears we now are growing a smidge more spinach than two people could eat in a summer. Or a year. Or a decade.
I’ll think about it later.
Maybe after I think about going for a bike ride. I thought it would be a good idea to take up long-distance cycling. I was last regularly on a bicycle when I was ten and rode a red Schwinn with balloon tires and coaster brakes. Don’s been doing rides with his various bike teams since he was seventeen years old.
What was to stop me from jumping right in?
Probably not my legs. All those goblet, back, front, and every-which-way squats have turned my legs into tree trunks. I have complete faith in my legs to pedal for days. My balance is a different story. My ability to stop the bicycle without falling off is also a different story. The soft, unweathered flesh of my backside? Different book entirely. The other day, I tried to make a u-turn and just toppled to the ground. I’m secretly hoping that this long ride in June is completely straight and flat, and that there’s someone to catch me at the end of it.
But I am growing stagnant here on a Saturday morning. Some nuns are selling native plants in the town north of me. I read somewhere that everyone should grow native plants. And, I mean, it’s something new! Sorry folks, gotta RUNNNNN!!!!
(ow, ouch, ahhhh! Why’d I *do* that?)
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