Freedom's Bloom

Thoughts on freedom, independence, and of course, my garden.

We’ve reached the point in summer where the dill is almost taller than me, and I’m still asking what freedom looks like.

I asked it back in June, when my plants sat cute and contained in their own little spaces, before they tumbled into one another, throwing elbows for sunshine, back when it felt like therapy to kneel down at dusk and pinch the weeds.

I asked it in May, when Cory sowed the seeds while I sat in the grass and penciled a diagram in my notebook in an effort to stay on top of it. One year ago, a clump of feathery foliage sprouted and grew. Several people called it a weed. When Google lens followed suit, I wrenched it from the ground, knocking its root ball against the ground to loosen the extra dirt, and tossed it on the trash pile.

All year I wondered if I’d made a mistake. If I’d called it by the wrong name.  

I wondered if I missed out on something beautiful in a rush to bring order to a place that was meant to be wild.

When the same foliage cropped up again this year, I consulted my notes and knew to leave them alone. (diablo cosmos)

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I recently wandered outside after being gone all day only to find a 10-section length of white, plastic privacy fencing between two of the properties across the alley. A lump formed in my throat.

With confusion in her eyes, a friend reminded me that people put up fences all the time. It’s not personal. Especially not for the woman flicking beetles off her zinnias from the alley’s other side. All I can say is that it’s different over here. An unsaid agreement was made between us, and it has worked well.

You might remember the first time I drove down the alley, scoping out the empty lot where we thought we might move our family, and how I sobbed the whole way home, doubting God’s love for us, wondering how we’d ever know fun and freedom again on such a tiny portion of land? Yes?

The part I didn’t know was that our backyard would actually extend from the empty corner lot with its lone apple tree, to Heather and Dustin’s yard, where they would hang a sheet some summer nights and we’d all watch Boss Baby while swatting at mosquitos. It would blend seamlessly into Laura and Angel’s yard, with the trampoline and the shared driveway perfect for riding scooters, and then into our “own” yard, with a playhouse and tether-ball.

Yards aren’t small at all, when everyone defaults to sharing theirs.

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We celebrate each July 4th with our neighbors. I don’t know how it started. The group is bigger some years than others, but always, at a minimum, it is us and the folks next door. They are the one we chat with most Summer days. We make small talk and share veggies. We bless each other’s sneezes from our separate patios. We laugh at the kids. Water each other’s flowers when one of us is gone. The men trade beers.  

There’s a language barrier between us, and they end up carrying the bulk of the burden. I imagine this is what keeps us from being together more often.

But somehow, July 4th is our secret handshake.

After last year’s socially distant celebrations (wildly less fun, though the Alan Jackson Christmas album played on a loop did add a memorable flair,) this year was a welcomed relief. They lugged over an enormous dispenser filled with horchata. Calvin made kimchi pancakes, which Laura placed on a bun and ate as a sandwich. I produced a strange salad that absolutely no one but me enjoyed, forgetting one of the fundamentals of neighboring: familiar > fussy.

For several hours, we sat in a wider circle of nylon chairs and did our best to push through the awkwardness and connect. We lit firecrackers after dark and fell into bed itchy and satisfied.

We keep showing up for each other, all these years. I’m beginning to believe it is enough.

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Rumor has it, the fence-guy cut down the shade tree with its tire swing and erected the partition because he was tired of the parties his next-door neighbors threw.

Parties they invited all of us to, including him.

Parties with endless pans of carne Asada and beans, warm tortillas, and 2-liter bottles of Fanta. Parties with dancing and cheek-kisses and pinatas and individual plastic cups of jello. Parties where we did our best to talk to the others, but where often, the best we could do was smile.

We tend to use the words “independence” and “freedom” interchangeably, but I’m convinced they’re antonyms, and I believe in naming things correctly.

I can’t say for sure exactly what freedom is, but I know our country hasn’t found it yet.

We spend so much time wrestling against flesh and blood and blanket threats of invisible danger, when what we should be wrestling is our compulsion to keep others out. To keep ideas out. To keep conversations drowned out.

In the process of fencing others, we end up fencing ourselves.

Freedom is not found in looking at our “own” backyard, assessing the threat level within the narrowest of parameters, and deciding everything is fine.

It’s found in looking past and through. In listening to those who are still dragging chains, especially if what they’re saying is unfamiliar or uncomfortable. (After all, until we accept the futility of fences, we’ll always be on the other side of someone else’s.)

Dante Stewart, a brilliant theologian and thinker writes, “We have to dismantle and decolonize theologies that believe in freedom in heaven but tolerate injustice on earth.”

He continues, “Our faith teaches us that the world we imagine should look much better than the world we inherit.”

Independence is not freedom. And it is neither our calling nor our solution.

We must imagine a better way.

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The next time I send an email, it will be August. I’ll be dealing with peaches and pickles and trying to finish writing my next book. (Lord, make it so.) But I hope we never stop working to untangle our bad ideas about what is ours, who “they” are, and what it surely means for God to have placed us all on the same patch of grass.

I hope we name things truthfully and lean into the inherent wildness around us.

I hope we pull the weeds and protect the flowers.

I hope we never settle for independence when what we really want is freedom.

And I hope we remember with every sigh, every warm bowl of cauliflower curry, every untroubled drive across town, that until everyone is free, no one is.

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Speaking of freedom and listening to those whose experiences are not my own, I read and endorsed Taylor Schumann’s brand-new release, When Thoughts and Prayers Aren’t Enough: A Shooting Survivor’s Journey into the Realities of Gun Violence.

This is the right book in a desperate age. Grab your copy on Bookshop (it’s already sold out but more copies are on their way!) on Amazon, or anywhere books are sold.

“This book is a rallying cry for a culture that has simply not cared enough to tackle the problem of gun violence. Taylor Schumann invites us into her pain, then guides us toward thoughtful consideration and practical, long-haul action. Vulnerably told, packed with both data and empathy, our list of excuses ends within these pages.”

– my endorsement

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This + That

:: Dinner last night: Curry Cauliflower Rice (Even better the next day! Needs salt. Cilantro and something crunchy on top are a must.)

:: Dinner tonight: 20-Minute Chicken Cutlets with Garlic Tomato Sauce (post edit: Delish! I toasted the orzo pasta before boiling it and subbed basil and thyme for the herbs they suggested)

:: Favorite movie in recent memory: In the Heights (I want to go again!)

:: Currently watching: The Crown on Netflix (trying to catch up on last season so we can dive into the current season, the Princess Diana era.

:: In regards to anti-racism and properly naming things, I’ve been hosting an enlightening conversation this week in Instagram Stories. Catch up here.

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