What is your spring?
This weekend, I have the house all to myself. My partner is out on a weekend getaway with his colleagues until Sunday. Some people mind having a silent home and find it hard to get through the weekend without social contact, but I’ve always liked spending time on my own.
Reason one: the house stays in the same state I left it. When I was younger, I couldn't have imagined I’d pay attention to such things. But now, as I get older, I’ve come to understand that people make small, everyday sacrifices for those we live with. Happiness when there are no socks strewn around the house (always just one, for some reason... Where could the other have gone)? Happiness when I put the dishes straight into the dishwasher. Happiness when I wake up and find no stray cans or empty glasses from the night before.
My partner must have those same thoughts, I know it for sure.
Different in execution, same at the core.
Happiness for them is no lids partially screwed on. Happiness when the phone charger hasn’t gone missing. Happiness when there are no bottom leftovers; not enough for one person, but too much to throw away.
I’m digressing; I have the house to myself this weekend and intend to make the most of it. That means watching the shows I like, buying a bottle of booze I like, and finishing it on my own on the terrace, with the setting sun as my company.
…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
After watering the plants and pouring my third glass for the evening, I observe the greenery that shields me from my neighbours’ fleeting looks from the other side of the terrace that looks out onto their gardens. I can hear the water I gave them seep into the dry soil. It has been a rainless period for some time. Curious how much noise such a still material can make. I imagine the celebration of all those roots, slurping away at the giver of life I had fed them.
While I watch them, I can hear the evening settle over the houses around us. For some, the night has begun. For others, the night has only just begun. I can hear the blinds glide shut, while at other houses, voices from excited conversations begin to fill the silence.
What could possibly be the spring for us humans, I wonder?
What could make us swallow so desperately and leap up up in immediate growth? For most plants, this water is their core, their fuel.
What could possibly be ours?
It would be too easy to say “food.” Sure, it makes us move and keeps our hearts pumping — but what feeds us, I wonder? Is it not the same for everyone, like it is for most plants? But even plants differ in that aspect. Look at cactuses, for example.
…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
I swat at the mosquito that tries to find the exposed flesh between my pants and my socks, annoyed that my train of thought is interrupted by its unnerving humming sound.
The almost-full moon has moved from behind the roofs, and its unforgiving light beats down on me, exposing my hiding space between the plants. If anyone were to look through their window, would they be able to catch a glimpse of me, or are my weeds, as my partner jokingly puts it (they’re local varieties, okay?), still shielding me?
I scratch at an itching spot on my calf.
No, I decide, it has to be more, doesn’t it? For some, their fuel is the warmth of a good home, where a steaming plate is waiting for them. For others, it’s the promise of adventure and different ways of viewing life. Some need loud music, vibrations filling their lungs, while others need the quiet view of a remote place that makes their heart sing.
But what is my fuel?
I halt.
Is that the root of my unease?
Is that why this question nags at me?
I often look at my friends, family, and partner to understand myself, to try and learn my preferences and habits, to understand the shapes I bend myself into for their pleasure and comfort, to understand who I am without that dance.
But do I know what fuels me without their perception?
When I think of places, of the “type of soil” I would grow in, I think I could take root anywhere.
When I think of companionship, I think I could find anyone interesting if given time.
When I think of purpose, all would be well if I amounted to everything I ever dreamed of and also if I amounted to none of it.
Am I without a spring, destined to be a weed that grows anywhere, undeterred by surroundings, but never cultivated nor admired, because there is no beauty in something that just is there, without effort or intention?
Perhaps I am like the plants in these pots,
kept alive no one but by myself,
living because there is water and soil,
and the simple possibility of “why not?”
…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
Oscillating greetings
Rat