Rough Drafts

Thoughts on Tending a Good Life

This morning: my pink peony blooms.

I glance out the window at dawn and see the showy petals yawning open to the sky. It makes me catch my breath, lean into the window; it makes me blind to the dirty dishes on the table, the loose grass tracked all over the kitchen floor, all the laundry piled up.

The white peonies, (Paeonia lactiflora ‘bowl of cream’) my first love, have been in bloom for a couple weeks. In fact, they are on the wane. Life has been so busy I was only able to gather one clutch for the kitchen table before the rains swept in and shattered the blooms. But their sweet, rosy scent still lingers. These originated from my sister-in-law, who inherited them from her grandmother, gave some to my mother-in-law, who then gave some to me. At least I think that's the story. But never mind, when these flowers first appear in the spring I feel my roots tunnel deeper into the soil of my life.

But the pink? The pink (Paeonia lactiflora ‘wild’—oh, how I love that name) always blooms later, less extravagantly but no less beautiful. This little dear one was given to me a few years ago for Mother’s Day. My husband found it at our local farmer’s market, late in the season. We planted it close to the house, nestled in between some tall phlox and two white peony bushes. I had to wait until the next season to see what beauty it would bring. And it did bring the beauty. This little one is all mine. Its scent always recalls the faces of my children—my boys. The gift of it will forever remind me of my mothering.  

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Every spring when time comes to wake up my flower beds, the good work of it nearly kills me. And every spring, in response to my complaints about the honest work of garden tending, my husband threatens to sow grass over all my lovely blooms. I believe him just enough to find the inner fortitude required to finish the job.

I have stirred ant armies, awakened the curled grub in her buried bed, inadvertently found the source of the poison ivy, and pried the roots of wild violets from beneath my butterfly bush. Every year, after bug bites, skin rashes, suffering amazingly obscure aches and pains, and consuming copious amounts of ibuprofen, I survey the work of my hands and dream a better way. I imagine planting miraculous ground covers to choke out the weeds, eye-catching perennials that require little attention, or even evergreens to lend a simpler style. Trouble is, I usually only get around to implementing a small portion of these dream-plantings, and they never quite work out as I hoped.  Come the next spring, things are a little better, but—you guessed it—I’m still on my hands and knees far longer than this aging body should be.

But when the blooms unfold one-by-one and the garden becomes a thing of beauty? I know all that time and diligence and love for the soil was worth it.

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I try to fertilize the garden of my writing life through careful reading. A while ago, I read this:

 “As you start out in rough drafts, writing down stories as clearly as you can, there begins to burble up onto the page what’s exclusively yours both as a writer and a human being. If you trust the truth enough to keep unveiling yourself on the page—no matter how shameful those revelations may as first seem—the book will naturally structure itself to maximize what you’re best at. You’re best at it because it sits at the core of your passions.” ~Mary Karr, The Art of Memoir

Certain things can immobilize me in an instant: the first bloom of the peony, a glimpse of a red-bellied woodpecker on the trunk of my Maple tree, sunlight rippling on water, a solitary cloud rolling across crystal blue, and a phrase that ambushes me with its apt precision.

Mary Karr’s words seemed to breathe a deep exhale in my soul: “...there begins to burble up on the page what’s exclusively yours both as a writer and as a human being.”

Those words, stark and black against the white of the page, fell heavy over me and I realized how life mirrors this statement. With each passing year we hammer out rough drafts of this life we craft—meticulously honing in on what is best to keep and what must be cast aside, letting what is “exclusively” ours “burple up” from the moments. And just as my garden takes shape over the long stretch of years, none of these seasons we sift through are ever perfected—it’s a constantly shifting landscape. But if we are true to the draft-writing—or draft living, in this case—we keep what is best and let go of the rest. The next season may be a little better for the pruning, but chances are, it will still have its fair share of bending and tending to push through.

Not quite memoir, but this writing life bestows plenty of opportunity to offer up bits of my life for the perusal of others. This kind of exposure can leave one feeling vulnerable and small at times. But isn’t each life worthy of memoir? When we live through the days, don’t the moments tell a story? What if I could think of each season of life as a rough draft, trusting in the truth enough to keep unveiling myself, to keep growing and learning and reaching for more? Letting time and diligence and love shape something that becomes more beautiful with each passing year.

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I stand at the kitchen window and I am ravished by beauty—the morning light spills from the sky all over the yard and I hold my breath for the moment it flows over that pink peony—light on light.

Perhaps one day… one day. One day, maybe one of my children will have a garden. Maybe this rough draft of a garden—my garden, my life—can be a small beginning for thiers. And I will take a sharp shovel, divide up this peony, and share this bit of joy and beauty for the future generations.

**all photographs by me unless otherwise specified.

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