Day 7: A Walk and Weed
The final installment of a pop-up newsletter + photo diary penned from a farm in Ireland.
Today’s the last day of this pop-up newsletter, which ran daily for the past week chronicling my adventures on a farm in Ireland. Thanks for reading along <3
I’ll be back to regularly scheduled programming next Thursday, just in time for my birthday—and my annual birthday edition! It’s my favorite edition of the year, so get ready.
A meeting with Himalayan balsam and my dream life
I wake and immediately notice, or feel, that my right hand is in a bad state. My thumb is mysteriously swollen. Much to my dismay, the nail on my right ring finger has a horizontal crack at the top of the nail bed. I search Reddit for how to remedy this. Nail glue, something about a tea bag, wait until it grows out. I hope the nail can last that long, but I highly doubt it.
My remaining days are numbered, I realize as I check my Google calendar. Already, my new life in New York is taking shape. Calendar invites spill in—dinners, plays, course work, catch-ups, meetings. I vow to appreciate my remaining days here, to be as present as possible.
____________
I allow myself to lie in bed right up until the last moment rather than waking up early to write. My body demands it; luxuriating in this way feels good. I go downstairs for my standard breakfast, glad to know I will not be digging out any driveways today.
Back to the garden I go, through the pretty white gate, breathing in the crisp air.
____________
My task today is different, yet similar—I’ll be weeding, but rather than focusing on all the weeds in a single bed, it’s a walk and weed. A weeding safari, if you will. I am to circle the entirety of the gardens (they go on and on, spanning about 2.5 acres) looking for one specific weed I heretofore hadn’t heard of: Himalayan balsam.
It looks like a purple flower on a thick, crunchy, bamboo-like stalk. Its petals are hooded rather than ringed around a center point. The flower is surrounded by clusters of tiny seed pods. It pulls easily, magnificently easy, and its roots are stringy, beet red.
I am told to be careful, to watch my eyes as I weed, because when you pull the mature plants, the seed pods tend to burst open, spitting tiny seeds every which way. This is why the evasive species is so difficult to quell: wait too long to pull it up and it seeds, then the seeds spit, and now for every plant you’ve pulled, the beginnings of hundreds of baby plants are spawned all around the garden.
A mature Himalayan balsam can hold up to 800 seeds in its pods. These seeds can throw up to 23 feet away.
That’s a lot of weeding.
____________
Straight away, I am ensconced in the task. It’s my favorite so far. Pulling up the plant is easy, satisfying. Some of the mature plants are massive, taller than me. My eyes are not the most functional part of my body, yet I find they are perfectly suited for the task of spotting this purple (or white) flower hidden amongst other plants. Each time a pod pops, I duck. I get hit by stray seeds a few times.
At some places, I only find one Himalayan balsam, maybe two. At other places, like beneath a thorny bush at the edge of a pond, I find loads of it. I crouch down and crawl beneath the bush to get to the root, but I keep getting stabbed by thorns. The thorns are catching on my jacket, my skin, my hat.
I decide I need to trim the thorn bush to properly get in there. I need clippers. On my way to the greenhouse, I pass a couple exploring the gardens. I recently discovered the gardens are open to the public—which is lovely, though I do wonder if anyone has encountered ghosts during their visit.
“Oh, you’re the gardener,” the woman exclaims as I pass.
It makes sense she would think this. I’m wearing gardening gloves and am the only one working today. I feel a sense of unearned pride.
“Yes, “ I say. “Well, one of them.”
We smile at one another, then I scurry away before she starts asking me questions I can’t answer.
____________
I spend a good amount of time inside various bushes. I like it, it makes me feel like I’m on another planet, similar to how I feel when I’m submerged in the ocean. At some point, I come face-to-face with a sweet, golden-breasted robin. I’m in a bush and we’re making direct eye contact. I want to take a photo, but I don’t want to interrupt the moment.
He hops from one branch to the next, eyes fixed on me. I try to keep still, but lose my crouched balance. He flies off. Later, I learn the robins love to visit when you’re gardening. They know you're digging, and beneath the soil is a buffet of worms.
“Thanks for visiting me,” I say, and then keep at it.
____________
I am standing at the raspberry bush after filling two wheelbarrows of Himalayan balsam, having my snack, as I always do at this point. I’m picking the plump, sweet berries by the handful and shoveling them into my mouth. I pause for a moment to look down at my hands. My fingernails are crusted with dirt, fingers stained red from the juice of the berries. The sight of my hands unlocks something like a memory.
____________
It was a few months ago and I was having lunch with a dear friend in Costa Rica. She is what I would consider a high-performing individual in all aspects. She owns her own successful business, she’s a master of wellness and fitness, she has a healthy social life, and she manages to maintain all of it without drinking alcohol or caffeine for no other reason than she’s never really liked either beverage. She’s considerably zen, not stress-laden like other A-type achievers I know (me). Also, she has great skin.
All that’s to say, she’s a friend I regularly go to for advice, skin care and otherwise. She’s a couple of years older than me, too, so I jump at any opportunity to soak in her wisdom.
Over lunch, I opened up to her about my mental state at the time, about how I was considering getting on an antidepressant, and also considering a few lifestyle changes. It was during this conversation that she introduced me to a morning exercise I’ve done religiously since.
____________
First, open a Google Doc and free-write about your dream life. You can get as creative and as detailed as you want. If you need some guidance to get you started, think about the core pillars of life: love, livelihood, community, hobbies, etc. Also, think about how you’d want to show up in your dream life. How does this version of you present, how do they feel? How do they deal with pressure? You don’t have to write a polished novel; just go for it and see where you land.
Next, feed ChatGPT this prompt, followed by a copy/paste of whatever you wrote in the Google Doc:
Tell me a story of the day in my dream life as my future self who already has it all based on this description. The story should be from the time this version of me wakes up until the time they go to bed.
Now, read the story. It’ll probably make you cry.
____________
Then, record your voice reading the story aloud, maybe with some zen music playing in the background.
Each morning—before you read any messages, before you brush your teeth, before you do anything—close your eyes and listen to this recording.
According to my friend, hearing your own voice is the real power of the exercise. Our brain finds our voice most credible, which helps us to internalize what is being said. We accept it as truth, or at least as a true possibility.
____________
By now, I’ve about memorized what I call my dream life audio.
There are several details in it that stand out—making morning tea with herbs grown and dried in my garden. The sound of tall grass rustling in the wind. My partner cooking breakfast, a table set with fruit from the orchard, eggs from the coup, sourdough. Harvesting tomatoes and herbs from the garden with my children, using the ingredients for lunch, which we eat outside on a picnic blanket, our fingernails crusted with dirt.
A semi-finished barn converted into a studio where I go off to do my work. Dinner at a long table, filled with neighbors and friends and laughter, platters of fresh food passed hand-to-hand. Before sleep, a moment of reflection by the fire with my partner. Going to bed feeling content, safe, grateful.
____________
When I first listened to the audio, this life sounded too good to be true.
And yet, here I find myself, standing at the edge of the raspberry bush at this grand estate, which I landed at quite randomly and not very smoothly. Coming here ignited a (partly inevitable) breakup. It required me to end my lease in Costa Rica earlier than planned, which warranted a long, difficult conversation with my landlords. They were not happy with me, nor was the person I was dating. These conversations happened within days of each other, causing me serious stress. I couldn’t sleep; I was consumed with guilt. I hate disappointing people.
Still, something in me knew I needed to come here. I wasn’t sure why, but it dawned on me right there, on a quick break from my weeding safari, having my late afternoon snack. I glanced down at my berry-stained fingers, my dirt crusted nails and thought: this. This is it.
____________
These past two weeks, I’ve regularly harvested ingredients for mealtimes. Potatoes, beans, carrots, berries, apples, plums, lettuce, herbs.
Each night, I’ve sat around a long table filled with warmth, laughter, delicious food. Dinner time is always its own moment, a ritual anchoring us together, a consistent communion, no matter how busy the day.
I’ve spent hours and hours outside—breathing in fresh air, listening to birds, poking around the barns out back, one of which is set up for reading or writing or getting some quiet time. The setting sunlight spills into the widows of the barn; a blessing.
This is not my life, not my home, not my country. I am merely a passing visitor, a blip on the lives of the family living at this estate. Yet here, I’ve learned a vital truth: that nothing about my dream life is impossible. Or even improbable.
____________
I continue my walk and weed, dazed by the power of this realization. The robin visits me once more. He gets his wing stuck in a tangle of weeds; I help him escape. He flutters away quickly, but I imagine he’s saying, “Thank you. I trust you now.”
The weather is unpredictable. This morning, heavy rain. Most of the day, overcast. But late in the afternoon, the sun comes out in all its glory. I pause from my work, angling my face toward the sky. I close my eyes.
After a few moments, it begins to rain. A perfect sun shower.
____________
By the time the day is done, I’m covered in dirt. There is dirt on my pants, on my hat, caked on my boots, streaked on my face. I intend to go upstairs and write. I begin to, but am offered an impromptu drive around the town. The family matriarch wants to show me some things. I gladly accept.
We let the chunky dog in the back of the car and go for a drive. Past a scenic gap where mountains surround the road on either side, the ocean peeking at us from a distance. Past long abandoned stone houses—Ireland’s population shrank by a few million during the famine, and these houses are proof. Past sheep, their backs spray painted various colors to signify who they belong to. Past old wartime forts, Irish flags, thatched roof cottages.
We stop at a beach. It is chilly and rainy. A few oyster boats bob in the ocean. The dog is having the time of his life, running laps, chasing birds, tongue flopping around. I’m having a good time, too. Taking it all in.
I listen to tales of the family’s past, upcoming travel plans, stories orienting me to their shared mythology. I am filled with something I can’t quite put words to. It’s that feeling you get when you brush up against something precious. It contains both longing and gladness.
I feel peaceful. Reflective.
____________
Dinner is late. We have chili with basmati rice—perfect, because I’m freezing—with sour cream and cilantro and crusty bread and red wine. We talk and talk, about the economy, AI, American politics, social safety nets, the future. I briefly think of the work I need to get done, but I’m not keen to rush off. I’m immersed in the conversation, even though some of it stresses me out. It’s lively, intelligent—the debate, the cheeky observations, the laughter.
____________
Reality looms just beyond the horizon, only a few days away. I find I’m not dreading what comes next but looking forward to it. At present, life feels more like a collection of opportunities to savor rather than a list of things that must get done. My appetite for life has returned.
I vow to hold on to this feeling during the next season, busy as it will be. I thank myself for trusting in my intuition, for honoring that nudge toward Ireland, toward this experience. It is one I’ll never forget.
M
Bits and Bobs
Does anyone have $298,888 to satisfy my burning curiosity?
Whenever I feel down about America, I listen to this top to bottom. Always renews my energy and makes me want to go see a show.
I’ll never get enough of exactly this.
A Quote From A Book I’m Currently Reading:
"How is it that in this country that ought to be full of such violent realness there seems nothing for me but clothes and what people say?"
-The Last September by Elizabeth Bowen
Don't ever let this go because often it's already right nearby when we're paying enough attention "...nothing about my dream life is impossible or even improbable."
I haven't been to Ireland in 20 years and probably won't go again — I liked it, but there's plenty I haven't seen — so this was a nice little excursion, 'listening in' on your stay there. Thanks.