Grace

The movement of passing things by (and passing by things)

Welcome to Vera Monstera! Movement is Everywhere. Step into an embodied world where life springs from the power of play and slow-osity. What’s that? It’s like velocity, but instead of speeding in one direction, we dive into spacious, internal rhythms. No destinations, but lots of sights to see. It means the world that you’re here!

Marking dance—passing through movement with a light touch feels different, transient

This essay comes to you from years ago, when I had a neighbor named Grace. She wasn’t, on the surface, a people person. Our interactions were short, infrequent and odd. She was decades older, and although I had beloved older neighbors and friends, we were not friends. Grace circled in her own solo orbit. We barely spoke. And if we did, Grace did the talking. I don’t remember her words, but I remember the energy. Gruff, direct, no embellishing niceties or gestures. In stark contrast, my whole being is made up of embellishing niceties and gestures falling all over themselves. Looking back, maybe Grace just had great boundaries.

It was clear she cared a great deal about plants. Once—out of the blue—she gave me a hanging basket with a trailing cactus in it. I wish I could remember exactly what it was. I wish my thumb was greener at the time. I wish the cactus didn’t kick the bucket. I’ll never know why she gifted it to me. But it’s nice (not a nicety) when someone thinks of you, out of the blue.

I haven’t seen her since. And in revisiting and revising this writing ten years later, the space separating me from Grace has narrowed. I now crash around erratically, introverted-ly, thinking often of plants. I gift clippings to whomever will take them. And if you’re lucky, I’ll tell you something in passing.

So Grace, wherever you are, this one’s for you…

passing by leaves or leaves passing me by

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"Let it die," said Grace in passing.

Grace is always passing, quickly, calling over her shoulder as she walks. Our conversations never begin or end, she just picks up in the middle, as if nothing happened in between. Maybe nothing has.

She was talking about the cactus she had given me in a hanging basket. It was left one day on my front porch with no fanfare, just a cryptic note:

"Not much light at night."

She meant the cactus, but maybe she meant…everything? Anyway, as she passed by my porch and saw it hanging, she said, "Let it die."

She might have said it another way. Grace, I mean. She could have said, "If it dies, who cares." Or, "If it dies, it dies."

“Let it die.” How cold and sad. Graceless. But there is a ring to it—peaceful and wise, coming from an older woman who has seen much death. This plant will hang in the balance. It will die. It will come back as fodder for future-hangers-on in the basket.

It becomes even as it dies.

Fall is falling now. Most of the time I see the blur, all the leaves at once brilliant and bright or cold and hunkered down against the wind. Roar. Last week, they started slipping, back and forth, down. That is a comfort.

I saw this one particular leaf this morning, walking the dog. There’s always a first leaf that catches your eye and stops your heart. The dog saw it first, most likely. She was looking down. I wasn't. I got mad at her. It was cold and she wasn't going fast enough. It wasn't her fault. But waiting felt impossible. My gut dropped. I apologized to the dog, to the air, to anyone in earshot. She trotted on in spite of me.

And this leaf. Okay. I saw death all over it. Greenish, mostly, with yellow and brown, devouring. A slow, slow crush. Alive and dead at the same time. (The box with the cat—before we crack it open. Alive or dead? Right this minute—both.) So are we. All of it at once. We learn and then we unlearn. We start fresh. But we don't know that to begin with.

Don’t leave me hanging.

At home, writing at the big table, I sit left foot crossed over right, head in hand. I am here—dead or alive. And, slyly, still in there somewhere. Light wanes. Sky with a hint of blue in the white. A kind of blank grey. An absence. Dying leaves press the windows. Fragile yellow. Some green left. Tips of branches alone against the elements.

I'm going, they say, look after me. Stripped, nothing left to hide. It's all been said. Keep whatever you need for spring, but only what you need.