My best friend in all the world would snort if she knew I am trying to care for a neighbor's garden. When we lived together after college, she would return home from time away to find that I had not, as promised, watered the plants. Or even looked at them.
I don't know my neighbor; she lives along the route of my twice daily walk with Atticus. There is a tiny patch of garden on the side of her house that produces breathtaking amounts of tomatoes and basil. Last summer, I watched as the tomatoes grew, ripened, withered and finally rotted off their branches.
This summer, as they came into being, I began to pick the fruits as they turned red and leave them on her front stoop. Ten or so luscious plums, handfuls of good old-fashioned staking tomatoes, nearly by the day. (I did let the neighbor across the street know what I was up to, lest peace officers were called in on the case of the neighborhood gardener).
Today, there was a bucket on the step. I filled it up. I returned later in the morning to weed. I have never weeded in my life, but walking by as often as we do has afforded me a slow-motion film of the life cycle of a garden. And this garden was in need of cleaning out.
My garden also needs cleaning out, a revisit to the reasons why I tried to quit smoking in the first place. I truly thought I was going to be able to quit, but I have discovered that I have not tended my own garden well enough and the weeds are back.
I suspect we all have weeds that return again and again into our lives. Difference is, most people's weeds don't stink up the building. Humans can over-eat in silence, berate each other quietly, or watch TV alone while their partner sleeps. But if your fall down is smoking, there is no way to hide it, especially when the non-smokers have you surrounded. Smoking used to be something I did full time. Since trying to quit, it has become a kind of window into my well being, a personal barometer, even a bellwether.
I have been, as you know, struggling with the Chantix. Its side effects are noxious, including the most subtle one, which has to do with how I am inside of myself (see Alice Flaherty's "The Midnight Disease"). Although it continues to tamp the need and desire to smoke, as well as to squelch obsessive thoughts about smoking, it changes me in a way I am not willing to tolerate.
Enter a new action plan; cognitive quitting. Some weeks ago I received an e-mail from an anti-tobacco coach in Toronto. He evidently has read me from the beginning, but waited to write me until he began to see some chips in my veneer. I guess you too, reader, can probably tell that my once hopeful descriptions of being smoke free are no longer enough to keep me from actually not smoking.
Most smokers do very well in the early heady days of trying to quit. Most smokers in the long run, however, remain smokers, through obstructive pulmonary disease, heart disease, circulatory problems and of course the stink. Hey kids, another reason never to begin.
But some smokers do quit. I really, really, really want to be one of those people. I need to be one of those people, if the quality of my life is going to remain as it is, with two working arms and two working legs and the ability to get out of bed by myself and ambulate comfortably. There is no denying I am getting older (even weeding a garden can result in aches and pains) and I don't want to add to the inherent challenges of aging by continuing to drag smoke into my body.
So, my intention this week is to reset the barometer and take the cognitive quitting gentleman up on his offer to coach me through my trying-to-quit journey.
As for my neighbor's garden, turns out she is a they. I received a gift of fresh tomato and basil confit on my own stoop tonight. I am more than a little surprised that I have taken on this patch of earth to nurture and am pleased with its yield.
As for smoking as bellwether, wether is Middle English for castrated ram. Long-ago farmers used to tie a bell on the neck of these woolly castrati so they could successfully lead the sheep to pasture. Since it must be close to shearing time, I am happy that my neighbors grow tomatoes.
Suzanne Danforth knows she hasn't returned Donna's call. She will soon, or you can e-mail her at suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.
