I want this day to last longer. To watch the crows’ about-face strut to eat peanuts in the yard, to plant tomatoes, to browse and shop for patio furniture, to listen to the extra-loud cardinal’s call, to mix up ingredients for another sourdough recipe, and to contemplate—deeply—what I care about, what I don’t, and why.
It’s a rest day from running, and I’m soaking it in. My body is toning and adjusting under my skin, rearranging itself into a Terminator-level athlete as I type. That this is part of training—the act of not—and that I’m allowing myself to cozy into it is simply fantastic.
I feel so at peace. The electric energy in my chest is still. The gristle-chewing, looping thoughts are absent. My mindset feels like Midas—but instead of turning things to gold, it turns them light.
Up next is a chicken casserole dinner, followed by three back-to-back night sessions. My favorite. It’s nice to be productive in the garden and house, to fill up my own cup.
I’m rehabbing tomato plants. The wilting, container-bound plants at Maria’s were going to be thrown out anyway, and since I didn’t have much going on in my own garden, I decided to step in. With several vats—around forty plants total—I was driven back to my house in the Polaris by her daughter, Annaleigh. After unloading them, I grabbed one, dug a hole, and tucked it into the ground.
My hypothesis is about the soil. It’s too hot. The middle stretch between our yards gets zero shade, and in those smaller containers, not only do the roots roast, but the water evaporates quickly. What I noticed when planting them in our backyard is that the soil, thanks to the shade, is cool—and it holds moisture. My guess is that their young root systems can’t handle the heat, both from the temperature itself and from how quickly the water disappears.
As they mature and send their roots deeper—into cooler, more moisture-rich soil—they’ll likely handle the heat better. Tomatoes love the sun; that’s well known. But the sun alone isn’t enough, as we’re seeing here.
We’ll see if they can be rehabilitated. I hope so. If nothing else, it’ll be a good tomato lesson for all of us.
Instead of asking myself what to write next, I’m asking myself to feel. That shift in mindset tunes me into the heavy push of the fan at full speed. It has me closing my eyes to soften the pressure of a forming headache. It slows my breathing—steady, even, in and out.
Feeling reminds me to slow down. That there’s space to check in with myself. That there’s value in it.
How easily I rev myself up—and how equally important it is to slow back down.
I hope you had a stellar day, and I really appreciate you being here.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 