I’ve always wanted to be the type of person who snips fresh chamomile flowers and lavender sprigs to make tea before bedtime.
You’ve seen these people in magazines. They wear adorable gingham dresses on impossibly slender frames and have clearly had their hair done and a manicure before heading out to the garden to dig potatoes. Their muck boots are pristine.
I want to be this person, I decided (without the hairdo, manicure, the clean muck boots, and adorable gingham dress on the impossibly slender frame, of course).
In February, when the rumbling of unpleasantness was well on its way, I planted chamomile seeds under a heat light indoors. In March, while the world scrambled and shrunk and shuttered, I watered the little sprouts and hoped they’d grow. They did. Too fast. At this rate, they’d need to be replanted outside before the weather was ready for them and before I had any place to put them.
In April, still under orders to stay home, my husband and I ripped out our old and unloved garden beds and built new ones. In May, I finally planted the green plants with the tender, ferny leaves outside. I had little hope. They had been inside too long and were becoming pot choked. It was a little too cold outside for them to thrive. Hungry bunnies lurked at every corner. It did not look good.
In June, the sun came out. My husband went back to work. Actually everyone went back to work. We left the house carefully, covered our faces, washed our hands, worried, but did our best to live in the new strangeness of the world. The flowers grew. They grew too large for even the bunnies to have any interest—the blossoms were way too high for them to reach. They spread out and took over. They thrived. And they smelled so good, like pineapples.
On a warm July night, I decided I wanted to be the type of person who snips fresh chamomile flowers and lavender sprigs for a cup of tea before bedtime. Thunder and lightning flashed way off in the distance and rain poured down in sheets. This is silly, I told myself. I could do this tomorrow when the rain had gone.
No, now. Now is the time to be the type of person I’ve always wanted to be. I went out anyway. The lightning had stopped and the rain was just, well, rain. I snipped the fresh blossoms, boiled the kettle, and enjoyed the feeling of finally being the type of person who snips fresh chamomile flowers and lavender sprigs to make tea before bedtime.
There are many things I’d like to be and do. I’m beginning to realize that if I don’t do them now, when will I do them? Conditions may not be perfect. They may never be perfect. Truly, they never were. But I guess it’s now or never.