Liz Cultivates | L.M. Fern

April was a month for creating and growing! (Dare I say, it was for cultivating.) Bad jokes aside, I am happy with how I ended the month and am anxiously anticipating what May brings. This month, I focused the most on the additive – filling the proverbial cup, as it were.

Finding solace in lampwork

At the beginning of the month, I joined Art Club at the university art center, which lets me take advantage of the same resources and facilities that the art students use. Which means . . . I’m making beads again!

I have been going once or twice a week for the last couple of weeks. Unfortunately, they close the art center during the summer break, so I have to get as much time in the lab as possible before exam week.

I’ve found that since the lampwork process requires such concentration, patience, and (maybe most importantly) attention, it’s helping me turn off my brain. The effect this has had on my psyche is so immediate and so obvious that it makes me want to kick myself for not doing it sooner. And the beads are beautiful. Hopefully I’ll get the opportunity to do this in the fall, as well.

Burying my hands in dirt

The gardening season has officially begun, and that of course means I have killed at least two full trays of seedlings so far. The weather continues to be my enemy, with chilly temperatures giving way to warmth and then back again, on repeat, for the last couple of weeks. The last week of April, I started another two trays, and I’m hoping this time is going to stick.

This means they won’t get planted until well into the season, but I’m not in a rush. I will pick up a few adolescent plants at the garden center to get into the ground after Mother’s Day, but I’m looking forward to the babies I’m nursing. A few are from my uncle’s garden, and a few are from plants I enjoyed in years past. Not really things I can just go to the store to buy.

At first, I was really upset that the first seedling trays didn’t make it. It’s always a disappointment, especially after the early excitement of watching the seeds germinate and break through the soil, their little green leaves tentatively reaching upward for the light. But upon reflection (and a bit of crying), I realize that I have to let that go. Sometimes things aren’t going to work out. And that’s okay. Gardening isn’t supposed to be a formulaic thing. Everyone has different circumstances, different soil, lights, temperature, combination of all those things. There are different levels of effort, different plant labels, so many variables. It’s not going to be perfect every time, or at all — but that’s where the beauty of this is. Because I can try again. I can start over and see what works, what doesn’t, what I need to remember for next year, what I don’t.

(Funny enough, this goes for most things in life.)

As a younger person, I was obsessed with doing things the right way the first time. I pretended to be okay with failure, would laugh things off, outwardly indifferent and chill. But on the inside, it felt like a Jenga tower. Something is going to give, and when it does, it’s not going to be pretty or chill. And then that thing did give — I got divorced, left nearly my whole life behind, started over. Rebuilt. And if I had to do it again, I would have the ability. I’m getting better at taking criticism. My therapist has her hands full, but it’s sincerely helping.

Looking ahead…

I have a conference in the northern part of Ohio this month, along with lots of excitement as we ramp up the summer season. I’ve got lots of appointments and plans and my best friend’s birthday celebration. Maybe some podcast recording. Definitely some writing. Mostly just trying to exist in the most comfortable way I can.