What Shapes Us

I was haunted all summer by a fractured, but clear memory that has stayed with me for 40+ years.



I'm four, maybe five. It's summer. I've come to the favorite place in our large backyard in Boise, Idaho - my mother's garden. The memory begins here, in her garden, as I'm walking between the jungle of tomato plants that tower over me, pushing the branches away from my face. I feel a little like the men who stumbled upon the pyramids in Egypt - I'm searching for treasure. I step deeper into the jungle and I find the biggest, reddest tomato I have ever seen. I have to use both hands to pick it from the vine, and time freezes for a moment as I contemplate whether I should eat the tomato, warmed by the sun and sitting in my hands, here and now, or step out of the secret, quiet jungle to enter reality and find the salt.



I bet you can guess what I did.



I began attending school soon after, and my involvement in my mother's world promptly ended. I never enjoyed the magic of her garden again, even though she gardened all through my school years. But the memory of that tomato, that tomato warmed by the sun and so huge I had to use both hands to hold it, has lingered with me, pestering me to grow my own tomatoes. And somehow it never happened . . . until this past summer.



Steve made a planter for me, I filled it with dirt, and I planted a number of plants, but it was the tomatoes who spoke to me. I actually went out in the mornings and sat in the grass next to the planter to stare at those tomato plants. It made me happy. I waited for the flowers, and when little green peas began peeping from the dried buds, I was thrilled. It seemed to take forever for those little peas to grow into green tomatoes, and even longer for them to turn red. I was waiting for the day when my fractured memory could breathe again, almost forty years later.



It did finally come, multiple times. Faxon enjoyed many of those rebirths with me, as he is the only one of my five that enjoys a fresh tomato, warmed by the sun, and picked from the vine to be eaten immediately. Because as in the fractured memory, I didn't leave the jungle for the salt. I ate the tomato, right there in the garden.



Today, I looked at my garden and realized it was time to let it go. The last tomato was picked and eaten just before it began raining. The season has ended. The plants need to be torn out.



I'm already anticipating next year's garden. What seeds - of plants and of memories - will be planted next season?

Thank You, Basses

"Wow. I'm going 15mph without half trying. My legs are getting stronger. I'm making progress!"

So ran my thoughts as the mile markers flew by while pedalling east toward Folsom on Thursday. Usually, I can do the hilly terrain between Lower Sunrise and Folsom doing 12-13mph, but on Thursday, I was sailing around the curves and up and down the hills without over exerting myself. Smiling, I mentally patted myself on my back.

"Woohoo! Watch out. Speed demon coming through!"

Reaching my turning point, I only rested for half a minute to swig down some water before making the trip back, which is easier and quicker because the decline is greater than the incline. Besides, this was the new Sarah, the speed demon Sarah, the Sarah who now does 15mph on her bike without much sweat, yes?

No.

I never consider the wind until it's in my face.

My easy speed demon ride back to the van suddenly became a fight against an invisable force pushing at my chest and hampering my speed even while slipping into higher gears to gain momentum on the downhills. With a bit of humility, I realized that my triumphant and exhilaratingly quick ride to Folsom was the work of the wind at my back, which I hadn't noticed, nor respected, until it was in my face hindering me.

It reminded me of listening to the kids' choral practices and never noticing the bass support until it wasn't there. My habit was to revel in the melodies, carried by the sopranos and enhanced by the beautiful, soulful tenors, forgetting that the basses give the root of the harmony. December taught me to listen for the basses. Without the basses as the foundation of the harmony, the pitch falls apart. Easy to miss, the bass notes are usually pretty mundane and repetitive, but they are always there, keeping the music where it should be.

As my leg muscles ached for respite while fighting the wind and the inclines, I questioned how many times in life when feeling savvy and sharp, my tasks completed, accolades ringing in my ears, had I been ignorant of forces supporting my momentum. And on the flip side, do I show grace when others happily overlook the support I've given them? Or, have I grumbled that they could have at least said thank you?

Honestly, I could not recall an example of either, but that really isn't saying much considering I have entered into that fun new phase of existence where short term memory lags so much it is frightening. Afterall, I had that wind in my back (HOORAY!) and then in my face (DANG IT!) just the other week with similar conclusions and then forgot all about it on the way to Folsom on Thursday. Hopefully, I'll ride my bike enough to have the lesson sink in. Meanwhile, I think I'll write a post-it note reminding me to thank the kids for putting up with me on my bad days, and my good ones.