Tag: life

The Pettiest Hills I Will Die On

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Black and grey photo of a graveyard, featuring several tombstones and monuments in the foreground and bare trees in the background.We all have hills we’re willing to die on.

Many hills are serious business. Like, I will die on the hill that everyone deserves food, housing, and healthcare. Full stop. No exceptions. Genocide is bad. Always. Non-negotiable. Trans rights are human rights. Leave those folks -especially the kids- alone. I got no problem identifying as a problem. I’m pro-immigrant. Abolish the boarders. They’re made up property lines anyway. I’m anti-billionaire. They’re a parasitic class that should not exist. I said what I said.

But there are some hills that I’m willing to die on that are the pettiest hills to plant my tombstone on and I will do so with glee. Here are a few.

Stop calling it a manbun. It’s not a manbun. First of all, you’re gendering hair and that’s weird. Why are you being weird? Also, it’s usually not a bun. It’s a topknot. If you’re going to be condescending, then be right. Also, why the fuck do you care? You got some unfun hang ups about performative masculinity or something?

Stop putting raisins in things. Raisins belong in raisin bran and my great-grandma’s raisin cookies and that’s it. Quit putting them in oatmeal cookies, stuffing, mac and cheese. I am looking so hard at you right now, fellow whites. Knock that shit off. This is more obnoxious than trying to turn cauliflower into everything. Leave that ghost broccoli alone while we’re at it.

Stop saying, “They didn’t teach us that in school.” Yes, they did. You weren’t paying attention. If you were in high school with me and you say this about teaching taxes or budgeting or some other life skill, I will personally kick you in the back of the knee. That class was called Consumer Ed. and it was required to graduate. It’s no one else’s fault that you were too busy talking and didn’t learn shit.

Related and this is very specific: Stop saying, “I never use algebra!” Yes, you do. You use it all the time, but you don’t recognize it because it comes in the form of a word problem instead of an equation. You’re still solving for X. Also, all that learning you did in school -whether you use that specific information or not- developed neural pathways in your brain that you use today. Or maybe not because you’re saying stupid shit like you never use algebra.

This last one is controversial, but I’m going to say it anyway. If you are a parent, stop complaining about the kids these days. These little shits aren’t springing from the ground fully formed with an iPad and a grandiose sense of entitlement. If you think kids are better off playing outside without screens, then do that. You’re literally in charge here. This goes for grandparents, too. You should have done a better job, I guess.

These are just a few of my petty hills and I fully acknowledge how petty they are. They literally don’t amount to the beans the hills are made of, but they’re mine and no, I will not change my mind. That’s the point. I’ll die on these petty hills.

Put it on my tombstone.

Turning 46

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Drawing of a blue and purple striped party hat with a red brim and red knob on top.Here I am, officially on the slippery slope to 50, and lemme tell ya. I feel fine.

Okay, yes, this country is in the toilet and the world is in disarray and I’m probably going to catch a felony in the grocery store parking lot one day, but on a personal, aging level, I’ve hit a certain kind of zen.

My life is never going to look the way people think it’s supposed to. I’ve blown it up too many times, resisted the all of the responsibilities I could until they were rudely forced on me. I never wanted to be an adult, never wanted to be much of anything other than a dreamer. Writing has always been my vehicle for that, but when it came to turning it into a livelihood, that was just a trick I couldn’t pull off. I do believe I’ve come to terms with that. I’m not stopping; I’m just not making bank.

I know that I should be ashamed of myself for being at my advanced decade and not having a full-time job and being single -not just single, but never married single, haven’t had a relationship in years single- living with my dad, which is spoken like some kind of curse, but the guy has been my roommate since I was 15. If I’m going to have a roommate, it might as well be someone who’s got me in the will.

Right now, as I become 46, as I start that roller coaster hill down to 50, I’m actually pretty content with where I’m at in my life. Not complacent. This is a roller coaster, after all. Hands up, test your nuts. But I’m content.

I like my job at the library. I like that I’m being more social and leaving my house more. I love that I’ve discovered the joy of local bands. I love that I’m strengthening my friendships and building new ones and working to rebuild and strengthen family connections. I love that I’ve finally decided to take care of my damn self. It almost gives the illusion that I’m getting my shit together.

I plan on traipsing through 46 with this energy. I feel like I can make the most of 46 with this energy. Because like I said, I’m content not complacent. I want to grow from this point. I want to cultivate this vibe.

I’ve mentioned before about my Remarkable Life plan, and I have honestly seen some things come from it as if by magic, just like Debbie Millman said. What it really is, though, is being conscious of what I want and what brings me joy, recognizing those opportunities, and then being brave enough to take them. Saying “fuck it” has worked some sorcery in my life in the past couple of years, even though those years have been hard.

I can’t manifest my way out of reality. I know that. I know the exact state of everything, from my insides all the way to the very far out. However, I can do my part to make my little piece of existence more bearable.

Joy is rebellion and 46 feels like both.

Setting the Vibe for 2026

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Christin aka KikiWrites is a middle aged white woman with short brown and silver hair and grey eyes. She's wearing teal and purple glasses and a blue and grey split plaid dress. She's doing her trademark smirk at the camera.I wasn’t actually going to do this post considering *gestures at literally everything*, but fuck it. World’s on fire. Doesn’t mean I have to burn. I can still catch a vibe.

Actually, this year, I’m looking to set two vibes.

The first vibe is to get healthy. Not lose weight. Get healthy. I could never lose enough weight to be loved in this society, so yeet that idea from your brain pan. This is about getting healthy. This is a mind/body/spirit venture. This involves me correcting bad habits, creating good habits, and hopefully getting rid of the tendonitis that has plagued me. Yes, it will involve taking better care of my soul’s meat vehicle, but it will also involve taking better care of my mental health, the health of my relationships, the health of my environment, the overall health of my life.

This is actually going to be a rather difficult vibe shift for me to achieve because for all of my selfishness (and I am a very selfish person), it does not translate into taking good care of myself. I’ve never been good at it. I have subtle, self-destructive tendencies that have proven hard habits to break. I’m addicted to negative self-talk disguised as being realistic. I have been subsisting on stress and anxiety for decades.

If I do not have patience and tolerance for people doing bad shit to others out in the world, then I can no longer have patience and tolerance for me doing bad shit to me in my existence. That kind of hypocrite behavior isn’t sustainable.

Related to this first vibe is the second vibe I want to set. I’m going to be more authentic. I’m going to be truer to myself. Does this mean I’m doing to be a better person? No. Absolutely the fuck not. At my core, I’m not a good person. Did you miss the part about being selfish? I’m not very thoughtful. Kindness does not come quickly or easily to me. My self-awareness is sometimes profoundly lacking. I struggle to be considerate. I judge like it’s my job and I get paid commission. I’m not gifted at helping others even when I want to or I try to. I have my flaws and defects and I am very aware of them.

However, I’m tired of restricting myself. I no longer want to hold myself back out of fear or perceived lack or possible rejection or inferred weakness. I don’t want happy and angry to be the only emotions I’m allowed to display. Worrying about how I’m perceived and what the neighbors might think has fucking exhausted me.

I want to openly and loudly care about who I care about in my own knobby, awkward way whether they like it or not. I’m not going to cross boundaries or be a doormat, but I’m going to support them and they’re just going to have to deal with it. I want to express unbridled joy and I want to feel my sadness and I want to be nervous in a healthy, excited way. I want to have tears of all kinds and not be ashamed of any of them.

I have been hard for so long. I’m ready to be soft. I’m ready to be authentically squishy. This doesn’t mean that I won’t have boundaries. It doesn’t mean that I’m going to allow someone to cross me or people I care about. Just because I choose to be softer doesn’t mean I’m not fierce and I’m no longer capable of violence. Remember what I said about being authentic. At my core I am a bad person. I will hurt your feelings and I will not feel guilty about it.

I already started leaning into these vibe shifts before the end of 2025. It felt right and I didn’t want to wait.

I don’t need anyone else’s starter pistol to tell me to go.

A Chapbook of Grief

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

A light brown and light red pen lying on a sheet of lined notebook paper.Instead of torturing you with yet another poem this month, I’m going to tell you about a chapbook I’ve been working on with the goal of having the first draft done by the end of the year.

First of all, a poetry chapbook is about 20-40 pages long. The number of poems depends on how long the poems are. I’m a short poem writer. Most of my poems can be contained on one page. So, in my chapbook writing endeavor, I’m looking at about twenty poems just to be safe.

After my friend and roommate Carrie unexpectedly passed away last December, I ended up using poetry to channel a lot of my grief. In the immediate aftermath, scribbling my feelings down let me keep functioning. It was like a release valve. It kept me from exploding into a useless ball of guilt, tears, and snotty Kleenex (but trust me, there was still a lot of all three).

Early in 2025, I decided it would be a good idea to focus this grief and poetry into a chapbook. Purposely write my pain as a way to process and cope. In a way, somewhere in my grief-addled brain, I thought it would be a good way to honor and memorialize Carrie. She always thought she’d be discarded and forgotten, and I didn’t want that to happen. In retrospect, maybe centering an entire chapbook on my own grief wasn’t the best way to do that, but it gave me something to do.

I do believe that it helped quite a bit. I do think I ended up processing more of my grief than I thought I would. However, I also reached a point where I didn’t want to write about it anymore. I was tired of poking at that wound. I didn’t want to pick at that scab anymore. I wanted it to heal. I was afraid to touch it. I could lie and say that I was worried that repeatedly touching it might cause it to get infected, but the truth was that I was tired of the sting and I was afraid it might hurt as badly as it first did if I prodded hard enough. Honestly, it probably would.

So, I stopped thinking about it, stopped writing about it, and kind of ignored it.

I didn’t look at the poems I had written for months. I flinched just thinking about it. And I put off finishing the chapbook so I wouldn’t have to deal with the discomfort of revisiting that intense grief.

So here I am at the end of the year and the first draft of that chapbook is still unfinished. It’s looming on my To Do List and I’m more uncomfortable with the idea of leaving the chapbook unfinished than I am with making myself finish it. Because by not finishing this first draft -even if I never revise it, even if nothing comes of it- feels like I’m letting Carrie down once again.

I’ve got a few weeks until 2026 and I’m going to finish it. I’ve only got a couple more poems left to write. I can do it.

For Carrie, I’ll get it done.

The Family Word

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

An open dictionary with white pages and black text. The entry shown is for dictionary. A yellow tasseled bookmark marks the page. Image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay.The holidays are a family time, so this is a great time for me to talk about my family’s favorite word, possibly the most versatile word in the family lexicon.

Booger.

I know what you’re thinking. What the absolute fuck? And that’s fair. Nobody is going to think of booger being versatile, yet alone a great word. Stay with me, though. I might change your mind.

First thing’s first: Yes, booger has the traditional meaning of the mucus clumps that hang out in your nose. Booger is also a character in Revenge of the Nerds. Both sides of my family acknowledge these truths. We’re not rewriting the entire dictionary here.

However, on my dad’s side of the family, booger also means an imaginary creature -usually not seen by anyone- that’s scary. For example, when one of the cats gets spooked by something -a noise no one else heard, something only they saw- we’ll say that the cat saw or heard a booger.

This use of the word is also frequently used to describe drug-induced paranoia. “The coke boogers were after him.” “He’s been seeing meth boogers.”

On the flip side, you can also be a booger. Someone who’s a booger is someone who’s easily scared. For example, one of ours cat was scared of everything when she was younger. She was a booger. Boogers have a tendency to see or hear a lot of boogers.

I realize that can be kind of confusing. “She saw a booger because she’s a booger.” Context is very helpful. Also, practice. It’s just something you know.

On my mom’s side of the family, however, booger’s alternate meaning has to do with an injury. You booger yourself up. If you fall and skin your knee, you’ve boogered up your knee. It’s almost always used (at least that I’ve heard) in relation to the skin being bruised or broken. You didn’t booger yourself up if you hurt your back or broke a bone. But if that bone is poking through the skin, then you boogered up your shin when you broke your leg.

Booger can also relate to messing things up. If I’m doing some tiny terrible art and mess up the branches on a tree, then I’ve boogered up that tree. Get into a fender bender? Boogered up the bumper. Mess up your crocheted blanket? You boogered up the stitches.

The interesting thing about this amazingly versatile word is that though my sister and I have been known to use it in every definition, our parents don’t. The years they spent together pre-divorce did nothing to influence each other’s use of the word. I’ve never heard my dad say that he boogered something up and I’ve never heard my mom call someone a booger or be scared by a booger. I find it fascinating that never happened given how folks will pick up on slang and word usage from each other. You’d think after twenty years together, they’d be using booger to its full potential, too.

Maybe their booger resistance was just another reason their relationship didn’t work out.

Patrons in the Wild

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

A picture of a row of library books illuminated by several hanging bare bulbs. Image by StockSnap from Pixabay.Please note that the title of this post is IN the wild, not GONE wild. That’s a totally different topic.

If you’re just tuning in and are unfamiliar with my lore, I live in a small town and work at the library in said small town. It’s one of those towns that there’s a good chance you know someone’s name or face if you not both, especially if you grew up here, went to school here, and/or work with the public here.

So, the other day, I went to the grocery store and ended up in line in front of a regular patron at the library where I work. As soon as he got in line behind me, he spoke, we exchanged pleasantries, and bid each other a good day as soon as I was done putting my groceries in my cart. It was a perfectly cromulent interaction.

A few days later, I had to go back to the grocery store for the third time that week (it was an ORDEAL) and I ended up saying hello to a different regular patron as we passed each other.

After spending years hermiting, I’m still getting used to this sort of interaction. I’m used to traveling through my day without running into anyone I know well enough to say hello or being recognized out of context. The context in this case, of course, being the library. I do believe we’ve discussed before how I struggle with the object permanence of myself.

Anyway, I’ve had several of these interactions in the last year since I started leaving my house more and acquiring something of a social life. I ran into one regular patron while waiting to be seated with my friend for breakfast at a popular local joint and we ended up chatting about her husband (also a regular) and his latest shenanigans. On another occasion, I said hello to a patron I knew as my friend and I were finding our seats for a showing of Men in Black at the local theater.

The funny thing was that both of those times the bestie I was with, Haley, also said hello to people, which is the norm. Haley knows EVERYBODY in town (she’s related to a good chunk of them), so going anywhere in town with her (and sometimes out of town) is like going out with a celebrity. Expect to get stopped. Usually, I just stand there patiently and awkwardly while she chats for a minute. It’s all good. It’s been the usual for decades and I’m cool with it.

So, it was a real twist to be able to participate in this phenomenon because someone knew me. I was able to chat with my regular patron while she chatted with the lady she knew because they happened to be going to breakfast together, too. It was a wild experience that I hadn’t anticipated.

For someone with anxiety who prefers her social interactions to happen in their usual contexts -like talking to patrons in the library- because I otherwise feel unprepared to people, I’m pleasantly surprised with how well I’ve done encountering patrons in the wild.

There may be hope for me and my social life yet.

I’m Fine (Never Mind the Trauma)

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

White figure bent over with pain dashes coming from its back on a green circle background. Image by 8thBox from Pixabay.A couple of weekends ago, I went to see Dad Shorts play at a bar in a town about 25-30 minutes away from where I live. I was dead set on going because I hadn’t missed one of their gigs and I wasn’t ready for this one to be the first. In order for me to do that, I needed to make sure I had my dad squared away.

As I’ve mentioned before, my dad has been having some health problems, namely lung cancer, COPD, and congestive heart failure. The lung cancer is under control. He’s finished his chemo and is on immunotherapy for maintenance. His COPD is controlled with medication and environmental manipulation. His congestive heart failure became an issue over the summer, but adjustments to his meds have it back under control. I’ve been his primary caregiver since this started, so I’ve gotten used to configuring my life around his health needs.

So, in my mind, if I was going to go to the Dad Shorts gig, I was going to need to get a sitter.

Okay, not a literal sitter. But, I wanted to make sure one of my neighbors or friends would be in town in case something happened. If he needed someone, I wanted him to be able to get a hold of someone who could get over to him in five or ten minutes rather than 25 or 30.

I explained this to my father and he instantly bristled at the idea. He then proceeded to point out that he hadn’t been having issues with his breathing lately. He’s been getting around better, not even using his cane in the house. My rebuttal was pointing out his penchant for doing yard work when I wasn’t home and how he’d fallen twice doing that. He understood my point about having someone closer by just in case and agreed not to do yard work while I was gone and agreed to take his cane, emergency inhaler, and phone with him if he did go outside for any reason. Just in case.

He also had a point, even if he didn’t directly articulate it.

It’s been a year as of the beginning of this month that my dad’s health problems began. It’s been a roller coaster of bad, badder, better, but I’m still acting like he’s at his worst. I’m still anticipating the shit to hit the fan at any moment. Going to this gig made me realize that even though I know things are grooving along pretty well, I’m still living in the moment of 3am wake ups for 911 calls, of ER visits and hospitalizations, of endless problem solving for pain and breathing problems. Things are better, but I haven’t stopped being ready.

I’ve said before that I didn’t think I’d fully processed everything that had been happening in my world since October 1st of 2024 and that weekend really slapped me in the face with it. I’ve been wading in the trauma for so long that I don’t even realize my shoes are wet anymore. It’s become my normal.

It’s not a good normal.

There’s nothing wrong with being prepared and being cautious, but being in a constant red alert is no way to live.

Think I better get around to processing and find a way to unclinch.

We both deserve better than this stress.

Listen to the Band

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

A white guitar and white drum kit in front of a blue starburst background.I have experienced more live music in the last five months than I have in the last fifteen years.

Here’s the thing. I love music. My love encompasses pretty much every genre. I retain song lyrics better than important information. I wish I could adequately play an instrument. I love to sing (being good at it is another story). I sing along with the radio and the songs in the grocery store. Music is my preferred background noise when I’m writing. I’m listening to a retro mix as I write this blog post.

However, I don’t go to many concerts. Living in a small town in the middle of nowhere, concerts tend to require a drive. Also, concerts have crowds, typically large crowds for the bigger acts, which does a number on my anxiety. And concerts are expensive and I’ve spent much of my adult life broke. So, live music hasn’t always been accessible to my broke-ass, semi-functioning self.

This isn’t to say that there aren’t local bands at smaller venues in my vicinity. I spent my teens going to Modern Cowboyz gigs. I’ve seen a bunch of different acts at the Apple and Pork Festival. There are always bands playing at the local bars. I have experienced local live music and I could have experienced much more if I’d left my house more often.

As it happens, I’ve recently been creating a social life for myself and this has led me to more live music.

I blame Dad Shorts, honestly.

A couple of guys I work with -one of whom is the cousin of one of my besties, Haley- are in a band called Dad Shorts. When they played a gig at a brewery down the street, I ended up going with Haley. The band was awesome, we had a blast, and the next thing I know, I’m anticipating the next show. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be for months, and at the time, I didn’t even know when their next gig would be.

It didn’t mean that I was left bereft, though.

In the meantime, the son of another one of my good friends, Amanda, did a solo set at a bar nearby. Hunter is a super talented kid who’s played solo and with bands for a few years. I had a blast just chilling in the bar with Amanda and Haley listening to him jam, just him and his guitar.

The library I work at has also been trying to book more music during the summer months, taking advantage of our newly installed pavilion and our lovely lawn. I ended up seeing both of the groups that played the library this past summer. The first -Dick and Brad- are the father and brother-in-law of yet another best good friend, Natalie, and they come with a built in audience because their family always comes to see them, which is fab. Dick and Brad are really good, too, of course, I knew that. It was yet another night with a couple of besties, Natalie and Haley, and some music we were all singing along to.

The other band -Union Avenue- is an awesome swing band and there was actually swing dance lessons before the band played. Union Avenue also had a loyal group of followers, all swing dancers, who somehow made dancing on the grass look easy. Did I go for a swing? Yes. One of the dancers was very persuasive and a very good teacher. He took me and two of my coworkers for a whirl. It was a lot of fun. I didn’t know a single song the band played and it didn’t matter. I loved it.

And then Haley gave me the news that Dad Shorts would be playing at the Eagles during the Apple and Pork Festival the last weekend in September and I was going to be her date. One thing led to another and I ended up seeing them play three times in a week -twice in the same weekend- in three different bars in two different towns. At this point, I think I’m riding the line between fan and stalker, but I don’t care. They’re so good! I can’t wait to see them play again.

I didn’t anticipate cultivating a social life at this stage of my existence and I certainly didn’t anticipate so much of it revolving around music.

But I’ll certainly sing along.

Apropos of Nothing

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Black and white photo of a puddle on pavement with several leaves floating on the surface.I do not mourn terrible people.

Call it a quirk cultivated from decades of lived experience.

It doesn’t matter their flavor of terrible. It doesn’t matter how they ultimately exited this mortal plane. I do not mourn them.

Now don’t get it twisted. Don’t confuse my lack of mourning for celebration. Apathy is not glee. Just because I’m not entirely sad to see someone’s exit doesn’t mean I rooted for their departure. Think of the Loki meme. “Yes, very sad. Anyway.” It’s a similar vibe.

I realize that this sort of attitude can lead to a lot of questions.

“Who are you to say someone is terrible?”

Well, I am me. And I get to decide who is terrible according to my criteria for terribleness. Just like everyone else does.

“What about that person’s family?”

What about them? Terrible people frequently have parents, siblings, partners, children, friends. That affords them no virtue. If anything, it provides them with their mourners. Do I feel bad for them to have lost someone dear to them? Eh. In the very vague, general sense of death sucks and it’s a lot of paperwork. That’s about it.

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead!”

That’s not a question. Also, I do not abide by the belief that an asshole never dies. If you don’t want to be spoken ill of in death, don’t be garbage in life. If accurately and factually recounting things a dead person said or did in their life is speaking ill of them, then your problem is not with me.

“Where is your empathy?”

In my pocket where I always keep it. I sprinkle it at my discretion. I also find it wasted on those who never developed their own sense of empathy during their life. Terrible people frequently fail to do this.

“What if it was a member of your family?”

Then folks would have to get in line to talk shit because my family canonizes no one. If you were terrible in life, then they’re going to put that in your eulogy, if they go to the funeral at all. Most of the time, it’s not even said out of disrespect. We all know how someone really was, and not saying it doesn’t change the truth. We’ll just go ahead and say it.

“What if it was you?”

Gonna be honest here. Being dead is probably going to be the bigger problem for me. Also, I’ll be dead, so I won’t really care. I have already accepted that there will be people who mourn me, people who are glad to see me go, people who celebrate my demise, and people who are entirely indifferent to the whole affair. I have no doubt that I am someone’s terrible person. Maybe I’m yours, right now, for writing this. Maybe I now fit your terrible person criteria.

That’s fine. What is it that they say? What other people think of me is none of my business. Well, that applies in death, too. What other people think of me after I’m gone is also none of my business.

I don’t expect you to mourn me if I should predecease you.

So, don’t expect me to mourn terrible people if they beat me to that finish line.

Because I won’t.

Welcome to the Jungle

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Bright, dark orange Mexican Sunflowers close to the green grass with poke berries towering over them next to a light blue sided house. Everything is dappled with sunlight.Last year on a whim, I brought home a few packets of flower seeds from work (we have a seed library at the library) and actually planted some of them. I expected nothing of a my zinnias, dahlias, and morning glories. The only thing I’ve ever successfully kept alive is an aloe plant that I brought home from the library’s garden table a couple of years ago and really, I can’t even claim credit. Aloysius is a very hearty, fertile little shit that keeps having babies and now I’ve got an entire jungle of aloe plants: Vera, Larry, Darryl (RIP Other Brother Darryl, who didn’t survive a pot upgrade), Large Marge, Sneaky Pete, Bobo and Lil’ Debil. I also have Tink, the tiny jade plant, and what remains of Cal Calhoun, my kalanchoe that was doing fine until it wasn’t, but I think I saved it. Maybe.

Anyway, my point is that I’ve never grown anything from a seed with any success before, but last year I decided to give it a whirl. And it worked out, mostly. My dahlias went nowhere, but my zinnias and morning glories grew and blossomed and made me feel like a real green thumb. I left them in their pots as I got them started late in the season and I also wasn’t feeling brave enough to try transplanting. They looked good on my patio table while I had them, though that morning glory loved to tangle itself in the furniture.

Bolstered by this victory, I decided to try it again this year. I acquired zinnias, hollyhocks, butterfly weed, Mexican sunflowers, regular sunflowers, marigolds, bee balm, and I even decided to try my hand at a couple of herbs, cilantro and basil.

It was an exercise in failure.

Nothing came of my bee balm and butterfly weed despite two tries. My zinnias and hollyhocks sprouted and then died. My sunflower and marigolds were doing great, but didn’t survive the transplant from the pot to the outdoors. My cilantro was thriving until it suddenly wasn’t and nothing I did saved it.

I thought my basil was going to be another failure. It was puny and I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to last. But as my cilantro took a turn for the worse, but basil pushed into glory. Maybe it stole it’s windowsill mate’s essence, I don’t know. But now I have an unusually tall, happy basil plant that I need to utilize.

I also thought my Mexican sunflowers were gonners like the sunflowers and marigolds as I transplanted them at the same time. I put them just outside of the “jungle”, a spot at the corner of our house that has featured hostas and elephant garlic, but has in the past few years been taken over by pokeweed. Usually, it gets trimmed up during the early part of the summer so it’s not so unruly (one year it successfully grew between the window panes and into the house), but with everything going on, that didn’t happen. This year’s crop is multiple plants and it’s huge. I’ve pruned it several times, but I was sure that since I let it go so long it would overpower my Mexican sunflowers and kill them.

However, every time I checked, my little Mexican sunflowers were still there, still growing. They grew funky because of the pokeweed, but the two plants somehow thrived.

Last month they blessed me with their pretty blooms.

So, yes. My plant endeavors were largely a failure this year, but I am cherishing the victories I did manage.

I’m taking this as a metaphor for life.