Little Voices like Little Foxes Spoil the Vine

These days I rejoice when the rains come, and I don’t have to go there in the morning. It’s not that I don’t enjoy my garden, I do. It is my happy place, but lately it has been my challenging place. There is something going on in my body that has it pull tight and is in pain and stiffness. Not compatible with gardening.

This morning while putting on my gardening shoes, I caught a glimpse of what a subtle voice was whispering to me. It was talking about my aching body, it's gonna hurt, what a pain in the butt this garden is, what an idiot you are to start one, it is too late, the weeds have already taken over.

The part of me that witnessed the part of me that spoke it felt demoralized before I even got my shoes on. I am thinking of my gardening as my gym and my garden as my body. While pulling the 300 foot hose to and from the garden, I kept imagining myself as pulling machines at the gym. With each pull my body is getting stronger and stronger, sure felt better than feeling old and decrepit and over the hill.

I catch the big voices that want to trip me up, shut me down and cause me to wither. Today, I recognize tiny voices that are whispering to my blood, sending messages to my DNA of my badness, unworthiness, lack of value, unlovedness. Perhaps it is reciprocal from the DNA and the blood memories and trauma of generations of trying to find worthiness inside and outside of your community and assigned race that bleeds into my own internalized version of myself. Those things were taught to me through white culture and Indian culture. Never good enough.

I fight hard with those loud voices everyday just to show up, to make an offering, to contribute, to co-create, and some days I don’t win. Most days I do, and it is fun. I am scared when I show up and scared when I don’t, so I might as well show up. They say it is half successful if you do that.

Today I noticed some tiny ones that have sprouted up as weeds. I will tend to the garden, to my body and to my mind, watching for the little voices, the little foxes that spoil the vine.