I have spent the morning looking at gardening plans — or what passes for plans for me. I have seeds growing in the basement, most of these herbs in the mint family. Orange thyme, lavender sage, winter savory, Korean giant hyssop, orange balm. Why grow what I can buy at the store? The Thai eggplant looks like it’s growing good and the cardoon looks like it’s going to take out its neighbors. One tray, however, looks like it’s going to fail on me, so no sweet violets or mitsuba.
Once upon a time, someone pointed out to me that there are very few truly blue flowers. Many are periwinkle, others are blue-violet. Some mauves are mistaken for blue. There are blue flowers, like a pure cornflower. Is this flower a pure blue? I’d say grey-blue.
Am I blue?
I feel like I should get a lot more done today than thinking about my garden. I can do nothing concrete about my garden right now; it’s too cold to break ground or plant or amend soil. I can’t even plant more seed — I’ve planted all I can until it’s basil season, during which I will plant impossible amounts of two different basils and wonder what I will do with all of it.
What I really want to do is drink affrogato and watch Instagram reels. A relaxing Saturday.
Nothing sets me to reminiscing quite like the 70’s singer/songwriter playlist on Apple Music. It’s almost painful to listen to, because the music cuts through to my childhood, which was not always a pleasant place. I had to deal with isolation, heartbreak, and the day-to-day chaos of living with my mother. Any memories of my childhood evoke sadness, even if they’re happy memories.
Listening to “American Pie” by Don McLean or “Helpless” by Neil Young makes me feel like someone is pulling my memories out of my mind and laying them bare for all to see. I feel every bit of loneliness; I want to cry.
Yet I still listen because those are my memories. They are who I am. Remembering them makes me feel more whole, because otherwise I would be drifting through life without an anchor.
It’s fair to wonder if I have good memories of childhood. To be honest, I don’t have many, or at least few that I remember right now. I remember the good Christmases at my grandmother’s, I remember cooking with my parents, I remember sessions with my speech teacher (who was sort of a deputized school psychologist’s aide, I’ve been told), I remember playing in kindergarten, I remember playing outside in the summer.
Strange thing, though, that music doesn’t evoke those moments. I listen to the old music and feel the sadness. Music helps me reminisce the blues.
I’m deep in the middle of the winter blues. I’m not severely depressed like I could be; I just don’t feel like doing anything. The most exciting part of my week has been extensive dental work and I want to go back to sleep. Today’s my busy day at work, so doing nothing is not happening. I need to do some of my positive activities — gratitude journaling (I keep forgetting), sitting in front of my bright light (it’s next to my computer chair in the living room, so that’s easy), going out to do work. What I really want to do is sleep some more. Not happening. So now it’s time for the next best thing — coffee.