Early in May, I bought three Boston ferns to hang on the shady sides of the porch, and one basket of petunias for the sunny side. The ferns required little coddling, but the petunias needed daily watering and deadheading, and twice-weekly fertilizing. I was diligent about their care.
Then, around June 1, I made a stupid move in the garden, resulting in two herniated discs in my lumbar spine. As a consequence, I couldn’t reach up to water the hanging baskets, nor lift them down and put them back up again. So they sat on the porch floor, where I tried to keep up with their care. But it was too much. Some days, even stepping out onto the porch caused more pain than I could tolerate and took more mental energy than I had.
Finally, early in September, I let go. I stopped watering the petunias, knowing they would quickly shrivel.
Letting go isn’t always pretty.
I have to let go inside the house, too. The kitchen floor I can’t mop, the laundry I can’t wash, the disorder from our recent A/C installation that I can’t un-clutter. Unable to sit or stand for long, I’ve let go of my writing as well. This newsletter alone took me three weeks to complete.
But I feel the lack of control, the frustration, the loss of who I was—that strong, able, creative woman—most in the garden. Crabgrass is my special nemesis, ruining the well-designed perennial plantings I’ve been cultivating for years. I swear I can see the two-foot wide clumps of thick stems spread as I watch. And I can’t do a damn thing about it.
I turn my back on the garden and stomp off—gingerly—with my cane. I have to let go. 1
Before my injury, Michael and I had planned a September trip to Cape Cod, where he would participate in a bike ride for type 1 diabetes (a disease he has). I pictured myself enjoying morning walks on the beach and savoring afternoons reading or writing under an umbrella.
As our departure drew nearer, it occurred to me that I’d never be able to drag a chair and umbrella down to the beach on my own. How would I lower myself into a lounge chair, and if I got down, how the hell would I get back up without calling upon some young person to save me, like a beached whale? And could I even walk in the sand with a cane?
When we arrived on the Cape, I had to let go—of expectations and my self-image, hobbling around as I was amidst the crowd of fit cyclists.
But letting go does not mean losing hope. It means finding possibilities in limitations.
Letting go means finding the possible in limitation.
I decided to test my limits one evening while Michael was inside the hotel at a dinner for cyclists and volunteers.
Cane in hand, cell phone in pocket, I stepped onto the beach and discovered I could, indeed, walk stably. When I got to the water, I kicked off my flip-flops and let the surf wash over my feet. I witnessed a glorious sunset, then returned to the deck to soak in the experience.
How lucky was I?
Letting go left room to experience awe.
To be fully transparent… I do not always let go with grace. I feel sorry for myself. I cry. I overeat. I isolate. Like waves on the beach, depression nips at my toes.
For me, it helps to focus on what I can do rather than what I can’t do. And it helps to hoard those moments of happiness and contentment, no matter how fleeting, as reminders that beauty and inspiration and hope may lie just around the corner.
Maybe letting go is more about opening our eyes than closing them. Looking for possibility despite disappointment.
As I prepare to hit “send” today, my body is finally beginning to function more normally, with less pain. A cortisone shot on October 1 will hopefully put this struggle behind me. (Excuse my lame attempt at a sciatica pun.) I’m also thankful to my devoted husband and my good friend
, both of whom brought a garden indoors for me to enjoy.
Before I sign off, I’d like to recommend two writers on related topics:
Judith Fetterley beautifully captures the disappointments of being an aging gardener.
Jay Armstrong always touches my heart with his wisdom about living and writing with health challenges, in his case, a serious neurological disease.
Thank you for being here.
Karen
If you’d prefer not to leave a comment, you can scroll all the way down and give me a heart so I know you’re here! ❤️ Thank you, thank you. These likes truly mean a lot to me.
You can also share this newsletter:
In my writing life…
… there is not much news. Hopefully next month!
Book news
I am so grateful for every reader who takes the time to post a review. If you’ve done that, a sincere thank you. If you haven’t yet, would you take a few minutes to add your thoughts? Reviews beget more readers in the Amazon algorithm universe.
Don’t know how to do an Amazon review? No problem, I gotcha! See my simple directions here.
Growth: A Mother, Her Son, and the Brain Tumor They Survived.
Medical gaslighting and a mother’s people-pleasing converge, shattering her expectations of motherhood and threatening the survival of her young son.
Karen is a happily married, slightly frazzled working mother of two when her eight-year-old son, Matthew, develops a strange eye-rolling tic. Gradually, her high-energy kid becomes clumsy and lethargic, her “Little Einstein” a gifted program dropout. Karen knows something is wrong. But she can't get anyone to listen and lacks the backbone to crack the resistance. After three exhausting, desperate years, finally, an MRI reveals the truth: a brain tumor, squishing Matthew's brain into a sliver against his skull. Following a delicate surgery, doctors predict a complete recovery. But the damage from the delayed diagnosis prolongs Matthew's recovery, challenging Karen to grow in ways she never imagined.
A fast-paced page-turner told with candor, insight, and wit, Growth takes you on a rollercoaster of painful truths and hard-won transformations.
Available where books are sold, or see purchase links here.
Where to listen to GROWTH on audiobook:
More retailers will soon offer my book, so if your favorite listening site isn't included, check back in next month's newsletter.
I am so inspired to read of your reach toward possibility in this season of letting go Karen. And… that you are willing to write and share your story with others is a gift that will likely ripple… allowing someone to remember and to call on your attitude of awe to keep going.
💜
May you continue to heal and strengthen so that next summer the crabgrass is put in its place… far away from your perennial beauty.
💚💚💚💚💚
And of course, in true Karen style, you take pain and setbacks and make it all a "So! What have we learned from this, eh?" moment for reflection.