Mother Earth

Crimson red leaves spin, dizzy as they reach the ground. Mushrooms peak out from the dark depths below. The fresh smell of decay lingers in the foggy misty mornings. The death that occurs in this season makes everything else feel more alive.

It's not surprising that mortality peaks in the cold winter months. After all, we are a part of our environment, even though most people these days try more and more not to be.

All life comes from death. We nourish our bodies by killing and eating not just animals, but also the vegetables we harvest. And even the vegetables flourish in the remains of the dead veggies that lived before them. And shit of course, but the fact that great things grow from shit is an article for another day. 

We live because of death. Mushrooms show us some of the magic that can come from decay. Growing in and out of wise and ancient trees, birthing new and magnificent ways of being. So many shapes and colours, slimes, textures, smells.

My mom calls me to talk about her depression. Her days begin with a smoke and a coffee. In the afternoon, red wine. In the summer, she lathers oil on her body and sits out in the sun to burn. She's tried all the pills but nothing helps her mood. She admits that some days she wishes she would die, that it would feel like a relief. Yet, she continues to trudge along, some days wishing she wasn't. I wonder if I'm her mushroom.

A best friend, an organic farmer, tells me she has cancer living in her bones again. She has a life worth living and will do everything to keep it that way. She has decided choosing joy will be part of her treatment plan, and chemo amongst other things.

My mother wishes joy could be a part of her treatment plan but she can't find it anywhere. So she pours another glass, lights another smoke.

It confuses me how it all works. It's a mystery why my mother hasn't had a heart attack or gotten cancer. Instead, the healthiest human I know gets tapped on the shoulder in this horrible version of the game of Duck Duck Goose.

What does it look like to fearlessly leap towards joy? Well, she quit the job she’s known since being a little girl (farming) to spend more time doing what she loves (writing).

Mother, on the other hand, is too stuck to change any habit. Too afraid of any small change. It’s gone on far too long, the cuts are far too deep. She calls again to chat about what we chatted about yesterday- her misery.

Unlike my mom, I can find joy most days. Maybe my mom generously gave me all of hers when she birthed me. I wouldn't be surprised. She would do something like that.

This season, as I focus on falling into fall, I let my extra garden produce die. This brings me joy. I harvested what I could and let the rest return to the earth. 

Letting go of picking and frantically pickling every last bean felt like freedom. Living in a place that values food and the preservation of food so highly, I feel like a rebel when I yell "I live on Lasqueti, and I hate canning!"

Doesn't it feel great to be honest with yourself?

You don't see Mother Earth holding on, trying to preserve anything.

Besides, we had our fun picking and eating fresh beans in the summer months.

This year, instead of slaving over hot pots of boiling water canning every last bean, I spent my time tromping through the forest with my young children, learning about spider webs and taking pictures of them, drawing them, and learning to weave.

As we weave our differences and our days, in and out of weeks, months, and years I want my children to watch a mother who chooses joy. This makes me determined to live a rich, fulfilling life.

In spring I'll always grow a garden. Hands in the soil, birds singing, and the smell of the tomato leaves as I brush past them- my happy place.

In summer I may or may not bother to weed. I may rather lay in a hammock, camp, or swim. Sure, I'll water sometimes.

In the fall, I'll happily harvest what I can. The rest will become soil for next year's crops. I'll plant garlic and daffodils. If I find the time, I'll even throw in some cover crops- enough for the birds to snack on too.

In winter I hope to be cozy reading a book by the fire. Cuddling in the evenings and making love by the fire in the long dark nights. I’ll rest more and make ice sculptures with my kids.

I'm choosing daily to be okay with my truth, and with myself so I can live more fully as me. It’s never too early, or too late to choose joy as a part of the treatment plan.

Mother Earth chooses joy. She embraces it all. She turns fallen forgotten old growth into mushrooms. She accepts it all, us all. I want to be like her. And I can be because, after all, she's my Mother too.