Intense winds beat against our house last night and I woke up this morning to yet another branch down on Joe. Say it ain’t so, Joe!

Joe is our pet name for the Kentucky Coffee Tree we lovingly selected and planted in our city’s right of way. (I just googled and learned that this strip of yard has many names. Huh.) The ash borer beetle has made its way to Lincoln, Nebraska, and we didn’t want to wait for the bug to do its work. So we picked Joe as our ash replacement. But personifying a tree can have poor consequences. Just look at my heart after another storm.

Joe is quite exposed to the elements. He doesn’t have another tree nearby and he doesn’t receive shelter from our home either. For years now he has bent and twisted among the prairie winds, but the past year has seen limb after limb broken.

The linden tree to the north of us looks great.

The ornamental cherry to the south is a-okay.

But Joe appears to be following the storyline from The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein only… that’s not what we’re asking of you, Joe!

Ugh.

Our entire street was once a parade of ash trees. Apparently developers in the late ‘90s/early aughts were unconcerned with aboreal diversity. Prior to that it was most likely farmland. And prior to *that* it was what all of Nebraska was before white guys showed up. Prairie. Lots of room for wind to blow, for bison to roam, for tribes to live their more-nomadic existences.

So really, why is a Kentucky Coffee Tree even in Nebraska?

We’re a plains state! We favor plants that can survive snowstorms and ice storms and then tolerate summer droughts and sun-baked clay soils. While there is incredible diversity among prairie plants (go visit UNL’s Morrill Hall to learn more), there simply were not a lot of trees around here until fairly recently.

When we moved into our current home there were beautiful twisted river oaks out back in a culvert. I loved them from the get-go, though most have been removed now for safety reasons. Those were the type of trees originally found in low-lying spots. Kentucky Coffee Trees? Not so much.

Did the first pioneer settlers cry over broken trees?

I bet they did.

I’m in decent company, I guess.

I fell in love with tomato plants in high school. Mr. Golden’s 10th grade biology class to be specific. Ten stars to Mr. Golden and his “Alive and Satisfied” project which encouraged me to grow tomatoes by myself for the first time. My dad always grew tomatoes but this was *my* project and it was for a grade, so somewhere under grow lights off of D Hallway in Lincoln Southeast High School I tried my hand at gardening.

Did my plants produce any fruit? No idea. Did I bring them home after the semester was over? Not a clue. It was the first time, though, that my hands smelled like tomato plants and that was all it took for me to want to grow them again and again.

I am 47 years old now and coming dangerously close to being out of high school for [cough cough] 30 years. Time started moving fast about 10 years ago when our daughter went to middle school and I fully anticipate it will only speed up between now and my first steps into glory. Time is weird like that. Somehow the scent of tomato plants connects all those decades together. It hopscotches among eras and picks up memories from dad’s greenhouse in Augusta, Georgia; Mr. Golden’s warm and very alive classroom; two South 8th Street gardens with tomatoes that sounded like they came from Middle Earth; and now my home garden, planted for the first time among our perennial beds.

Cucumbers are my success story so far this season. I’ve grown them in pots for years and even though I learned something about cucumber sex–sorry, cucumber *fertilization*–with myself and a paintbrush in the role of absent pollinators, pot life was not working out for any of us. This year the death of a climbing rose fortuitously opened up a spot for a vining fruit and, voila, we’ve eaten two cucumbers already.

Math-wise, I’m not certain that my harvests are hugely profitable.

However, numbers cannot determine the quality of one’s life.

I gain copious amounts of joy by gardening. The plants are my babies and I’m obsessed with their health. I had to calm down and quit googling “furling tomato leaves” because I was so concerned with my Romas’ habits. I amended the soul multiple times and eventually told them to go with God. And you know what? There are two green Romas coming along nicely, so… okay then. The cucumbers are trying to overtake the roses, their tender vines sweetly curling around absolutely anything in their paths. And apparently the pollinators, who refused to tend to the pots on my deck, are more than happy to do the cucumber mating dance in a more reasonable location on the ground. My paintbrushes can be retained for their original purposes.

I’m completely certain that my neighbors think I’m insane as I daily, or twice or thrice daily, stand by the front garden, hands on hips, surveying my earthly domain with an admiring and critical eye. Is every home gardener constantly measuring their plants and thinking about how to clip them, divide them, shuffle them, and shift them next year? Is everyone else busting with pride that the black eye susans are finally opening up? Is anyone else wondering if Joe Pye was called a weed because it kind of looks like a weed but then again… THE POLLINATORS. Are other gardeners somewhat horrified that the spireas seem dead set on absolute world domination? Anyone else planning Bunny Soup after re-seeding their zinnias three times? No? Just me?

I buy tomatoes and cucumbers to, yes, fill our bellies. Our yields have become sauce for spaghetti and soup for grilled cheese dipping as well as chili for a burst of summer in the middle of winter. The snappy cucumbers elevate summer sandwiches and are shared with friends. But mostly I fill my arms with vegetable plants as soon as garden centers open up because it makes me happy. It keeps *me* alive and satisfied long after my time in Mr. Golden’s biology class came to a close.

I went digging in my phone’s photo albums for a picture of a tree changing colors. My shots from this morning didn’t turn out well as the sun is hiding behind a Nebraska-sized sheet of gloomy clouds. Quickly my thoughts veered from a very new, still nebulous consideration of Winter as Necessary Rest–a new thought because I am stubbornly settled in the Seasonal Affective Disorder camp—to what happened last year. The images on my phone flashed before me… Livia with reading glasses on. Liv studying in my office. Liv studying on the back deck. New Covid masks. Liv studying in the basement. Homemade meals from Livia. So on and so forth. 

So what happened last year?

Homeschool.

I TAUGHT MY HIGH SCHOOLER AT HOME.

That wasn’t in the game plan, folks. It wasn’t in the game plan due to our personal dynamics and our desire to preserve a loving mother-daughter relationship rather than attempt the teacher-student one. And yet! And yet we. freaking. did. it. We homeschooled for Livia’s entire sophomore year. Yeah yeah, we didn’t learn as much that fourth quarter as I wanted us too, and yet that was the reality of the 2020-2021 school year. WE HOMESCHOOLED.

What in the world?!

We are now back to our regularly scheduled programming, the kind where Livia is taught by other educators and I am delighted to find myself within a  classroom setting, teaching my own little pupils at Lincoln Homeschool Academy. The turf is now familiar and our year of homeschooling plus dealing with a worldwide pandemic has passed. Oh yes, we’re still in that pandemic, but the heightened fear I breathlessly held is no longer present. The political turmoil has returned to a murmur. We’ve gotten more comfortable—somehow—with a ridiculous death rate due to this virus. We mask much more easily, and I’ve learned to value grocery pickups, Covid swabs, and daily emails home from our public school with illness notices. 

Today Livia is home. I can hear her writing in the room next door to mine, my heart busting with mama pride to know that she is a writer much like myself. Sometimes the words just have to come out. My girl can’t smell today and she has a headache that a bunch of medicine didn’t touch. She’d rather stay home for the next 10 days than get the nose swab I’ve scheduled for her this afternoon. Ha, nice try, mija. I know other friends whose children are home with Covid, home with sniffles, and home with every symptom in between the two extremes. This is 2021. The virus continues, but now we fight with booster shots and masks and social distancing and frequent handwashing. And lots of missed school. The “and yet” here is that school continues. And yet, life continues. I’m impressed with my little homeschooling school and with our bigger public school system. Despite the radical changes and difficulties faced last year, so many educators and school nurses keep showing up, determined to teach in this crazy time. 

I taught my kid at home last year. 

Huh. 

I’m teaching new little ones at a different school this year. And Livia’s days in high school are dwindling rapidly. Soon she’ll move to a different life stage and we’ll look back at this time with what? Will it be grief for all the changes and losses? Will it be joy for that fast-and-slow year of togetherness at Prairie Box High? Will it be surprise that we weathered this better than expected? One day at a time. That’s it. Grace for one day at a time.

Update: She does not have Covid. Whew.

I don’t have a political dog in the fight right now. The election from November sapped me of any energy I have left for such nonsense. I care but I just don’t care as intensely as I did prior to Biden unseating Trump as the leader of our nation.

I say that I don’t have a dog in the fight because the fight is ongoing in my city and try as I might to understand the perspective of the “other” side, I cannot. 

Daily, I put my head down and do a whole lot of garbage that a whole lot of people don’t have to do. I normally do not complain about it and I also don’t give much thought to the fact that I’m kind of a weirdo in all I have to do to keep my body working smoothly.

So forgive me for a moment while I complain loudly.

Today I’m just all out of grace for those with normal, functioning bodies. (Don’t worry, the grace will come back after I rid myself of the venom.) At the start of Covid I figured that everyone had someone in their lives to be careful about and for… Your grandma is elderly so you’re careful for her. Your aunt had breast cancer last year so you’re careful for her. Your brother has type 2 diabetes so you’re careful for him. Your child has asthma so you’re careful for him.

And then I, gratefully by the way, lived through months of this swirly, confusing, unknown time of Covid-19 sweeping the entire globe and I began to notice that—wait a sec—not everyone is being careful. I have tried to understand the reasons why, but I have yet to really figure it out. Am I asking for a statewide mask mandate? Nope. I think it would be smart, but then again, no dog, remember? Do I think we should lockdown everything and ignore the pain of small businesses? Nope. Absolutely not. Maybe shutting down is the right way to go, but as for me, I’m doing everything in my power to support local business owners. We tip well. We thank them. We patronize their businesses, masked and distanced, happily giving our money to places that might be struggling. We share their names broadly on social media.

No, what I’m annoyed with is how very easy it is for the physically blessed among us to say, “just stay home if you’re not healthy.” I’m over it. 

Just. over. it.

I’m beyond exhausted dealing with the body the good Lord has given me—which functions and dysfunctions in a variety of ways—and then I have this? My neighbors and friends saying that they are fine and they will continue to enjoy their liberties, thankyouverymuch? It’s a giant “screw you” from those who are already doing well and can’t be bothered with the hurting, tired, weak, chronically beleaguered among them.

The truth is that the healthy and young among us can get sick and it’s no thang. Odds are in their favor. Despite the growing death count of Americans, I still gather this feeling of “it hasn’t affected me, so I don’t give a damn.” 

I’m over it. 

What is your life if you really don’t care about others? What are you living for? If your personal liberty is the most important thing in your life I believe you need to take stock of your blessings. If you feel like your thoughts are the wisest and your family is the best, if you can still run and play and all your organs are functioning perfectly, if you have no reason to fear Covid-19, then bully for you.

Your grandma might feel differently about things.

Your neighbor might feel differently about things.

I feel differently about this thing.

I have stupid type 1 diabetes and stupid rheumatoid arthritis and a ridiculously extroverted personality and a little bit of a fighting spirit and a lot of seasonal affective disorder and while I am mentally ready to get past this pandemic already, I have to pay attention.

I cannot hang out with you.

I will not eat in a restaurant.

I will not go to church where people are singing—even masked.

I did not see loved ones for Thanksgiving and will miss them on my birthday.

So whatever you think about politics and viruses and conspiracy theories and small businesses, know that people like me are listening to everything you say and we are tired. 

Have an opinion, sure. But also have some compassion.

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Edited on 12/7 to add that while I am still worshipping with the saints in my basement each week, singing mightily from home, I am grateful that others can gather together. This is what I feel I need to do to stay healthy. I have no desire to make decisions for everyone else! I want restaurants to thrive. I want people to worship. I want life to go on as best as it possibly can and I recognize that each family has to make their own calls. Besides masking and distancing to keep others healthy, I think there’s a lot of gray room for decision-making. Again, I’m not in a position to decide what’s best for everyone. I’m happily not in charge of such things.

We had magic soil.

That’s what you have when you live on a city lot in a house that’s almost 100 years ago, magic soil. We could grow almost anything. Once we got started planting, we found ourselves deep in the world of experimenting with gardening and it was so rewarding.

Fast forward to a move to a newer home closer to the outskirts of the city, in a suburban ‘hood characterized by vinyl siding, white plastic fences, and a deep devotion to lawn care, and we found ourselves in a different situation. The phrase “underground sprinklers” has both delighted us—look! you set a timer and your lawn gets watered!—and completely stalled out any of our gardening visions. Our bodies have grown just a little bit older and the aches of life have made dealing with a sprinkler system and very unmagic soil not as compelling.

Darn the way new developments are built, right?! Top soil is removed and presumably sold, and the new ‘hoods are left with clay. Booger.

But at some point, around seven years deep into suburban living, we started to take baby steps in the yard and it has brought us delight.

It’s a simple delight to wake up in the morning and want to survey your plant babies.

Gardening hat goes on, and a walk around the yard is called for.

Doesn’t matter that we live in the ‘burbs.
Doesn’t matter that we have a handful of plants we’re encouraging.
Doesn’t matter that we haven’t initiated our grandest landscaping plans yet.
What matters is new growth, aided by a few soil amendments, lots of water, and some glorious Nebraska sunshine.

We don’t have magic soil anymore, but plants are always magic if you have eyes to see them.

Spring has come to Lincoln, Nebraska.

I delivered a breakfast burrito and coffee this morning to Tina for her birthday. I haven’t seen her in months, though we talk from time to time, so seeing her smile today lit up my heart. Through the passenger side window I sang happy birthday and we squeezed hands—followed by some hand cleaner, of course—and that was it. But I know from Livia’s birthday drive-by last week that right now a smile and a gift means a whole lot. I felt sad and happy all at once driving away.

But spring has come. And I almost missed it! I don’t have many reasons to travel far from home and, to be honest, I get a little panicky considering that I may need to use a bathroom when I’m across town and what then? That sounds dumb to the average person who doesn’t mind popping in a store or restaurant, but alas, I’m not average when it comes to my health and I have reasons to be extra careful and thoughtful right now. Today’s drive let the beauty of spring sink into my soul and it. was. delightful. It was cloudy and raining but I could still feel the trees gently growing over Lincoln’s roads, changing an open sky view to one layered in green. A red bud here and there caught my eye, and there are these little round, white globe-like flowers in shrubs every so often that look like small hydrangeas. Getting out felt glorious.

I found myself talking to God on my drive.

I thought of my pregnant friends and prayed for them. I thought of my friends with new little ones and I prayed for them. I considered a friend who is house-hunting and asked God for the right space for her family. I asked for healing for the grieving and provision for our leaders. I asked for wisdom for myself in coming days. It was like a dam had opened and the space between me and God was clear.

Why was God nearer to me when I was behind the wheel of my Nissan Altima? I considered this because it felt confusing.

God is near to me, always. He is the constant, and I am the variable. And boy is life full of variables right now.

I had a rhythm in my pre-coronavirus life—as did we all—and the rhythm was a pretty healthy one. Livia and I would pray for our days and ask for blessings from God on our drives to school. Only recently did I realize that I hadn’t prayed for my husband’s work in weeks and weeks because, well, because I wasn’t driving Liv to school! My mornings used to be filled with meeting with people, going to appointments, checking off to-do lists, or studying in preparation for bible studies or talks. Of course all of that has gone topsy-turvy now and I find myself with very little reason to drive around town, no ability to be around people, and my goals have changed entirely. I have the same amount of time in a day, only now I fill it with assisting my teen in school work and tending to our house.

So while God is near always, I have changed. But on top of that, I have felt lower—emotionally, mentally, spiritually—than I have in a long time, and I believe that’s due to my extroverted personality. This whole corona situation has been a giant struggle bus for me and though I keep posting memes and notes and talking to people, there’s not a lot that makes things better. Each day is hard, some harder than most. Being inside my house, with the same two (beautiful) people, with the walls staring at me all day long, it’s just not a good setup for me. I am now needing to pay more attention to my mental health, in addition to my physical health. If I don’t actually DO something to lighten up my spirit, I might not ever get out of bed.

This morning, a simple drive and goal elevated me. I’ve felt fairly lonely in my extroverted struggles, but there it is: a change of environment and a reason to get out the door did wonders for me. Not only was I encouraged to see the beauty of spring in Lincoln, but I felt God’s sweetness and closeness in a way that has eluded me for weeks.

I am so blessed with a safe home to stay in right now, and I feel grateful that I am not working outside the home at all. My days with Livia and Jeremy are good ones. But they’ve also been very hard. It’s okay to feel both of these truths all at once.