Britt Skrabanek

What a Gardener Taught Me About Letting Go

I’ve lived in condos and apartments all my life, so I’ve never had my own garden. But the properties I lived at required upkeep, and on Fridays, the strident music of machines and the pungent smell of freshly cut grass would invade my open windows.

I have great respect for those who can care for the earth in such a way that it responds. I was thinking about this the other day when I was walking down the happening street in my neighborhood. Two women were pulling weeds out of the sweet urban garden in front of a Yoga studio, expertly yanking this and that to cultivate life.

There were two stories I was obsessed with growing up, and they both involved gardens.

As a little girl, I used to save my allowance and lunch money (yes, by going hungry) so I could go to the mall. I usually made a beeline for the bookstore, and one day, a gorgeous hardcover of The Secret Garden was perched on top of a shelf.

I happily spent all of my money on it. And I read it over and over again, never tiring of the magical story.

Then, there was the movie Edward Scissorhands. My grandmother was actually an Avon lady, so it was entertaining to see the way they weaved that comedic occupation into the storyline.

However, I couldn’t understand why more people didn’t create art the way Edward Scissorhands did with the shrubs and trees. I still don’t. Imagine how incredible it would be to walk down a street with green unicorns, dinosaurs, giraffes, swans, and children inhabiting every yard.

I guess it all comes down to losing our sense of awe as we get older. Whimsical things are pushed aside, and the acceptable “adult” things take precedence. Because the guy with the shrub safari in his front yard would be pretty ballsy, am I right?

I’m not over-the-hill in my thirties, I understand this. What’s tricky about your thirties is that you’re an adult now. When you’re in your twenties, you don’t know what the hell’s going on, but you play along and pretend you’re figuring things out even when you’re lost as shit.

In your thirties, hopefully you somewhat have your shit together—in a place that makes you sing, on a career path that challenges you, surrounded by genuine people you want to continue investing your time in.

But, what about the awe? Do you still have it? Or, did you lose it along the way?

Often I feel like I’m struggling to hold onto it, to continue marveling at life when the days keep flying by, faster and faster. I try to slow it down, I try to stop and notice. Somehow it’s alarmingly easy to go with it—and suddenly you realize a year has passed. A year.

So, one Friday this summer me and Mr. H took a sanity day to hang out around the house and just be. I was determined to do a 90-minute Yoga class, something I rarely have time for as I’m squeezing in 30-60 minute classes throughout my hectic week.

I had just started my practice, and I was centering myself. Then, wouldn’t you know it?

The gardening equipment struck up in our courtyard, a symphony of shrill that—despite my serene start—pissed me right off.

It was Friday. I’m never home on Fridays. And just like every other apartment I’ve lived in, Fridays are gardening day.

I live in the city, so getting bent out of shape over any noise when meditating or practicing Yoga is silly, I know. It’s a control thing. I have this time that I want things to be a certain way, quiet and peaceful, because I’m trying to de-stress, dammit!

But that Friday, it was gardening day.

I had two choices. I could give up my Yoga practice, try again when the coveted quiet, peaceful setting was more attainable. Or, I could get over it, and continue with the racket outside my window.

I decided on choice #2. I thought it was perfect actually, because it complemented the past month of craziness I had experienced in my life, especially at work—the struggle to remain calm in the chaos.

So, I worked with it. Every time my irritation rose, I breathed deeper. Every time I wanted to give up, I kept moving.

Because at the end of the day, there is very little we can control. Rather than getting upset, we can find the correlation between the emotional instigator and a tough situation in our lives.

I’m not saying it’s easy, because it’s not. Once you begin to recognize this, believe it or not, life gets easier.

Anyway about halfway through my practice, I was in one of the Yoga poses I truly struggle with…Utthan Pristhasana (Lizard Pose).

I know what you’re thinking.

I’m a Yogi, I’m not supposed to hate. Well I kinda hate this mofo pose, because it’s one of the most evil hip openers out there. The heat rises within me and I want to run away from my mat, never to return.

Lizard Pose took a strange turn this time. When I looked up, cursing under my breath with a cat on my back, there was the gardener—standing in front of my window with his leaf blower.

Do you know what the guy did? He smiled at me and waved.

I did the same, somewhat awkwardly as you can imagine.

Then, he went on his way.

I laughed. I laughed at myself, at my ridiculous attitude. The carefree gardener was like, “Hey, this is kinda weird but kinda awesome.”

And, he was right.

Sunset Moment

I love the word moment. I love every part of it—the way it looks and the way it sounds, how its meaning is crystal clear.

It’s now. It’s a flash of beauty that sears your mind forever, because it’s so damn special you can’t help but notice it.

Nothing else can compete with a moment.

This was a moment Mr. H and I shared together last week when we stayed at the Oregon Coast. We were spoiled, with the ocean in our front yard and 60 degree, sunny October days.

I brought my laptop with me, but I never opened it. I read, but not as much as I thought, as I was distracted by the view.

Every evening started the same way, sitting on driftwood in the sand, a front row seat at the Pacific Ocean theater.

There was nobody around. We had beer and a sunset.

And, we had a moment of…

AWE

HUMBLENESS

POSSIBILITY

AWAKENING

IMAGINATION

RELEASE

SURRENDER

CONNECTION

PURITY

FREEDOM

MINDFULNESS

Huge thanks to Mr. H for manning the cam with his usual brilliance.

And believe it or not, we didn’t touch these photos. There are no effects, just moments.

Do you guys have a sunset moment fave?

The Life Enthusiast Chronicles with Joey

Last month Eli Pacheco showed us the beauty of enthusiasm meeting life through creativity, family, and dreams. In my monthly series, The Life Enthusiast Chronicles, lovely humans from all over the world remind us how awesome life can be.

This week I’m super excited to feature the wonderful Joey Mottern of Joeyfully Stated, who is visiting us from Indianapolis. Oh, man…I can’t remember how I stumbled upon Joey’s blog, but I’m so glad I did. Her writing is full of sass and heart, speaking to the wonders hidden inside what most of us think as the ushe (the usual, for my non-American friends).

Through domestic trials and tribulations, insights gained from being deep in the trenches of life, Joey brings humor and intellect to her experiences. We’re the lucky ones she lets tag along while she’s on her Life Enthusiast journey.

Keep Reading…

I’m Having an Affair with My Library

It all started back when I got my library card, right before summer. I felt sad and confused, having said goodbye to my Milwaukee County library card long ago.

I never recovered from that loss. It took time to heal, to open up to the notion of loving again.

Strange, because I love books so much. I continued to read, mainly on my Kindle or the occasional used book from Powell’s. I wasn’t reading as much though, not as much as when I had my last love—my library card.

Stranger still, my neighborhood library is two blocks away. I would pass it often, lusting over the dusty shelves from the sidewalk, pining over the stories I longed to hold.

One day, fed up with loneliness, I was ready to love again and I got my Multnomah County library card. And so began my library love affair.

As with any new relationship, there were uncertain and embarrassing moments. It had been so long since I had been inside a library, that I forgot to use my “library voice.” When it came time for me to use the self-checkout, and I struggled with the machine, I begged for help in my outside voice. (For those who have never heard me speak, my voice carries far.)

The library stopped—the symphony of whispers, the rhythmic flick of the pages. I blushed and the nice librarian man came to my rescue.

The library resumed its mellow song.

I scurried out of the musty building, a far cry from the way I sauntered in. I looked down at my book on the gum-stained sidewalk and smiled with love.

For the first time in life, I discovered reading outside on a summer night. It was magnificent.

Another first for me…reading at the bar. People read at bars in Portland, so it’s not frowned upon.

Without planning it, my beer and book ended up with matching outfits. Darling, aren’t they?

After a long run with ebooks—unable to grasp the length of the story—I gasped when I picked this one up and understood the life commitment I had made.

Then there was the one that changed me, long after I returned it…”How Yoga Works.”

Instead of getting angry over this cigarette burn, I marveled at its progression through the pages.

For any book that is well-loved will carry the stained memories of those who loved it.

Traditionally I have been a devout protector of books—never one to write in the margins, highlight a sentence, or burn or rip it for whatever reason. Except for the occasional chocolate smudge that just won’t rub off, I don’t spill on books either.

Why? Because books have always been living beings to me, and I never want to harm them.

As I explored many books this summer, I was simultaneously horrified and fascinated by the dog-eared pages. When I found one, I would narrow my eyes at the page, silently shaming the person who dared to molest that crisp corner. But then I scanned the page, curious to read which sentence or paragraph compelled them to crease it forever.

And because that part touched someone else so deeply, it had the same effect on me. So I decided to fold the corner of a page this time—to leave my mark, to affect someone else through the majesty of words.

“People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.” – Mr. Ernest Hemingway, from “A Moveable Feast”

** This post is dedicated to the lovely Letizia at Reading Interrupted, who lost her dear furry friend, Baffi.

You have reminded so many of us about the magical importance of loving books and libraries. Thank you, Letizia.

Come Back

This isn’t one of those posts where I, the blogger, apologizes for an unexcused absence. I told you about my summer departure and I told you why I was doing it.

It was excused, planned, deserved.

I was losing my joy for writing. And that is something I cannot do. Not because I’m a so-called “writer” but because I’m not the same without it.

This was the longest break I’ve ever taken from my blog. It was hard.

I missed it. I missed all of you.

But the things I learned this summer were too good to pass up. There isn’t enough time in this blog post to share them all now, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sure if I can explain what happened to change me.

I will say this. I came back to myself.

The separation gave me the room I needed to consider it all. And, I do mean “all of it.”

For this summer, I think I finally grasped life—its vast, violet landscapes that stretch forever. There’s absolutely no way to see it all, smell it all, touch it all. It’s impossible to experience all that beauty in one lifetime.

I’m a Life Enthusiast. Not because I’m one of those chipper individuals, dishing out too many compliments for the hell of it or going with the flow when they should react.

I’m sparing with my compliments, but I love to give them—to make people feel good when it’s right. I can’t brush things off or go with the flow…it’s not my style. I care too much about what’s happening.

I want to take it all in, all the time.

I often feel like that little girl still, the one hell-bent on learning to fly. I loved heights and I used to climb everything. I often jumped from places I shouldn’t have, trying to transform my scrawny arms into wings.

I wasn’t trying to look cool, I was trying to cover more ground. I wanted to see everything and I knew that flying was the quickest way to do it.

One day, when I was seven or eight, I fell out of a tree. I landed on my back and I screamed so loud that my dad sprinted out of our crappy condo, dropping the wooden spoon he had been stirring the spaghetti sauce with on the kitchen floor. He scooped me up into his arms and everything was okay.

That was when I realized I couldn’t fly, and I was devastated. I had been practicing inside my mind, imagining that if I concentrated enough, if I kept trying, I could do it.

My husband scoops me into his arms now. When I try to fly and I can’t. When I try to do everything at once and I fall out of a tree.

Thank God, he’s there to catch me.

I learned to fly this summer. Not physically, but mentally, I soared.

I came back to myself, and though I didn’t travel anywhere the entire time, I discovered new people, places, and things. Even the people, places, and things I already knew seemed different.

My mom and sister came to visit. And me, “the baby” of the family, saw everything differently as we drank beer and talked, as we found new ways to come back to each other in this part of our lives.

We are older, we have scars and memories, but we’re still family. No matter how little time we have spent together over the years, our laughs and hands are still the same as one another’s. We could be anywhere and do anything and still make it.

It was at once comforting and paralyzing to have this kind of clarity about my family.

I went whitewater rafting for my first time. It was a team-building activity at work and I was scared shitless. I refused at first, swearing up and down that I was going to stay on dry land where it was safe…and smart. That day another coworker couldn’t make it, and I decided to face my fears.

Rafting on the Salmon River is no joke—you won’t see a bunch of wasted people floating along with straw hats and cut-off shorts. You have to have a guide and you have to be sober. The water is also 45 degrees, so you need to wear a wetsuit. (For anyone who wants to see wipeouts on the final waterfall we went over, there’s a carnage montage video you can watch.)

I saw the great Northwestern beauty of Washington from the water, gliding along the rapids, working with a small crew to do everything in our power to stay in that little yellow raft, far away from the sharp rocks and raging river. I found a way to come back to my adventurous self that occasionally said “hell, yes” to crazy things.

I took a chance on a beautiful experience that ended up changing me for the better. To think, I almost dismissed it.

What else? Oh, man. So many things.

I guess I should tell you all that I finished the first draft of my book. Writing novels is nothing new, but I came so damn close to never writing one again. Summoning the strength to move forward with another one was a big deal for me.

I found a way to come back to my writing, without expectations or judgment. And I explored something new, a dystopian/fantasy genre, a HUGE change from the historical fiction I typically do.

It flowed. It flowed like the raging river I was just talking about.

I was so unsure and I almost didn’t do it, then I got in the little yellow raft and I paddled until my arms felt like they would never be the same. I paddled because it was the only way to move forward, to keep going when everything seemed against me.

The featured image I chose for this blog post is a bit racy and strange, I suppose, since I’m practicing Yin Yoga in my skivvies with a cat on my back.

I wanted to use it though. This is me when I come back to myself.

I bow down in gratitude, pressing my face against the sturdy earth, because I need it to ground me. I don’t look fancy, and just like in life, comedy swiftly follows even the most serious moments (in my case, that’s usually being mounted by a panda cat).

My cat knows. She climbs on top of my back and sits there, purring. She feels my agreement with peace and she likes it.

I hope you weren’t expecting too much from me—some great revelation or wisdom. In fact, I’m more confused than ever.

All I can tell you is that I used to want to fly and now I need the ground. So if you find you’re in a constant state of flight, unsure and unstable, do whatever it takes to come back to yourself. Because that feeling of being grounded is rare and difficult to grasp, but it’s truly the best place to be.