Chapter 13: Bonfire
.8 grams dry mushroom.
I had planned to watch the stars.
Across the street and visible from our garden sits an Oak tree. It towers above the neighboring house, full and meaty. On rainy days, I walk our dog through the grass beneath it. I once discovered two baby squirrels on that same grass, just hours after a major hurricane ate its way through Florida. They were immobile, waterlogged. I held them to my chest for warmth while I scoured the ground for littermates. I never did spot a fallen nest, and despite my diligent efforts, the babies would not breathe again.
That is the extent of my relationship with this particular tree.
It was merely a neighbor’s tree.
One of dozens.
But on this particular night, as the bonfire roared in our garden, that Oak tree across the street caught my eye. We have a tall fence, and from where I sat, only a few branches were visible. But the leaves pulled my attention. They reached and stretched and swelled toward me.
“It wants to be in our yard,” I said. A most obvious statement.
“What?” he asked.
“The Oak tree across the street,” I continued. “It’s happy enough where it is, but it wishes it could be over here.”
To my surprise, he turned to me and said, “I planted that tree myself almost twenty years ago.”
And then it all made sense. The tree remembered.
I looked to other trees, those that were closer. In our garden. There is a Date Palm near our fire pit. I immediately recognized its energy as masculine. It is stoic. It’s not the tallest tree, but it is the one most respected by the surrounding trees. It exudes a natural confidence. It is comfortable in its own skin. It wants for nothing.
Across our little garden courtyard is an Areca Palm. Multiple stems arc high above our house. Also masculine. Old in years, but young in the way of souls. Every time I looked at this tree, I saw the tarot card, The Fool, in my mind. Blissful ignorance. Lacking of forethought and planning. I’ll be honest: This tree is not the brightest crayon in the box. He’s downright dopey. But happy.
I began to look at all the other trees, seeing for the first time what I had not been able to see before.
Beside our fire pit are a set of chairs, and like everyone, we have our favorites. There is one chair that is specifically my chair, and one that is specifically his. Above his chair is a large mature Plumeria tree. In the summer, the rotund branches sprouts the most extraordinary of leaves, with fleshy white flowers lined with yellow and pink. It’s a stunning tree. A natural umbrella. Beneath this tree in the summer, you will stay fairly dry even on the stormiest of days.
In the winter, the leaves and flowers fall away, and the tree—female, I now know—is left skeletal for many months.
As he sat beneath her bare branches on our bonfire night, I felt the tree’s desire to lean down, touch him, wrap her branches around him.
“That tree is in love with you,” I said.
I could feel her longing. Her ache, being just out of reach and unable to move. It wasn’t a romantic love that I recognized in her. It was a soul kind of love. An intertwinement.
I looked up. I had planned to watch the stars. But the clouds were a thick wool lining across the sky, and there would be no stargazing this night.
I decided to watch the fire instead. Surely something of wonder and delight would be found in the flames. The fire looked a bit animated. Like flashing cutouts of construction paper. No value there. Construction paper isn’t going to blow anyone’s mind.
I was trying too hard.
I was looking for something.
A watched pot never boils, and all that…
Again, the Oak tree called to me. The leaves, it seemed, would be my stars. The canopy my galaxy.
He caught me tree gazing.
“What else can you see?” he asked, intrigued by my newfound insights into the psychology of our garden.
I looked around. There are a plethora of plants in our garden to choose from. But the insights were not on command. Nothing else in our garden was revealing itself to me.
And then something caught my eye.
On a neighboring property, there is a tall thatch of bamboo. We watch this bamboo through our bedroom window on lazy mornings, pushed this way and that by rain. It creaks and groans during a strong wind.
But this time, I saw something new. The bamboo is depressed. It lacks interest in the world around it, and laments the inability of movement. It mourns every sunrise. It waits patiently for death, though it knows death will not be soon. Sadly, this bamboo has never known excitement, and has long ago given up hope for a happy life.
I’ve always joked that my emotions are broken. They just don’t fire right. And never is this more obvious than in moments of expected excitement. Nothing excites me. Ever. I don’t jump up and down in exuberance or joy. I don’t screech through clenched teeth. I don’t turn red in the cheeks.
The truth is, I just don’t revel in the little wins like I should.
The big win means the adventure is finished. It’s the little wins along the way that should be our true celebrations. Which is good, because they happen much more often.
I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a teenager. I carried that idea with me through my twenties where it marinated somewhere in the back of my mind, barely noticed. It wasn’t until my mid-thirties that writing became The Big Dream.
Somewhere near the end of completing my first (and currently still unpublished) novel, someone asked me, “How would you define success in writing?”
Super easy.
“Awards,” I said. “I want a sticker on the cover. I don’t care if I ever make a dime. For me, it’s all about the award.”
I finished that book with dreams of a golden sticker next to my name. I sent it to dozens of agents over the course of the following year. Nothing but rejections. I cried. I doubted myself and every choice I’d made. I wanted to quit. But I didn’t.
I wrote another book.
Thieves, Beasts & Men became my second finished novel. I sent it to dozens of agents over the course of the following year. And just like the book before, nothing but rejections.
That year I feared a mental breakdown. It’s nearly impossible to stay positive and self-confident when faced with over 730 days of rejections.
And then I received an email.
That email turned into an agent, and soon after, I signed with a bonafide publishing house. I had made it.
Blurbs and reviews were stellar.
About two months before the release date, I received another email. Thieves, Beasts & Men was honored as a Finalist for a literary award! And even though she placed as a Finalist, that title still comes with a shiny golden sticker for the cover.
By the time award season was over, Thieves, Beasts & Men didn’t just have a sticker on the cover. She had three.
Wouldn’t anyone define this not only as success, but success x 3?
But I didn’t jump up and down in exuberance or joy. I didn’t screech through clenched teeth. I didn’t turn red in the cheeks. My emotions are broken, remember?
With each award notification, I fell to the ground and wept. And what I felt was relief. Thank god, I thought to myself. Thank god. A thousand pounds had been lifted from my shoulders. I could breathe again. I was allowed to continue living.
Because in the absence of an award, I would have been a failure in my own eyes. No longer worthy of being on this planet.
Big Dreams are important. They keep us shooting for the stars. They keep us hopeful. But my crazy brain had taken a dreamy life goal and turned it into an absolute requirement in order to feel worthy of my own life.
When my time in this life is over, will my kid cherish those stickers on the cover? Hell no. But he’ll treasure the book. The story. The memories of watching mommy cry over another rejection letter, and the pride of watching her keep going until she did it.
I need to enjoy the small wins more. And I need to get downright excited over the big ones. I need to teach my brain how to jump up and down. Even if I have to force myself to screech through my teeth.
And above all, I must remove this extraordinary pressure I put on myself to accomplish something amazing in order to validate my own right to live.
Maybe my life is already validated just by sitting before a bonfire.
By conducting an impromptu Psyche Eval on our garden.
Acknowledging the Oak tree. Understanding the Plumeria. Respecting the authority of the Date Palm.
I do hope our neighbor’s bamboo can find its smile again. It’s a beautiful thicket. Trunks of dark violet and green. The thick stalks glimmer in the sun after a rainstorm as though dripping with glitter. It’s a magnificent specimen of flora.
Maybe it needs a friend.
Perhaps I’ll drop a mushroom spore at its roots.
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