No Mud, No Prairie

Back in the fall, I took a risk. I hired someone to pull out most of the grass from my front yard, and in the bare dirt I sprinkled prairie seeds.

I’d been wanting to do this for years, but I’d been too intimidated. I’m not much of a gardener, and I was completely overwhelmed every time I tried to google “native prairie front yard.” But last summer I noticed a house in a neighboring community with a prairie for a front lawn. They had signs about their landscaping posted, so I pulled over one day to see what they said. I was hoping they’d lead me to a website that explained the process in a way that didn’t sound like too much work, but all they did was encourage others to plant native gardens. As I got back into my car, dejected, the owner of the house pulled into the driveway.

I must have been feeling good that day, or possessed by Mother Nature herself, because I hopped out of my car and chased the poor guy down (by which I mean I walked up his driveway and said, “Hi, can I ask you a few questions about your yard?”) Thankfully he was very friendly and eager to tell me how he made it happen: “I pulled up the grass and put down seeds.” He gave me the name of the place where he bought the seeds, I thanked him profusely, and that was it. That was it? Suddenly, I felt like I had permission to just do the thing, avalanche of internet tips and tricks and soil ph be damned.

So I did.

All winter and spring I was nervous. What if nothing came up? What if my front yard became nothing more than an empty mud pit? I panicked and sprinkled even more seeds. And slowly, eventually, things began to sprout.

At first it was only weeds. Turns out all that advice I ignored online had had suggestions to minimize the likelihood of this. But my mom *loves* pulling weeds, and my kids do, too, so it turned out it wasn’t a problem. Before long, non-weed plants started sprouting, too.

Meanwhile, my body began to fall apart.

No big deal, I told myself. This happens sometimes. Life with EDS is unpredictable. I’ll have a few good weeks, and suddenly BAM—I’m flat on my face. I figured this was more of the same. I’ll lay low, I told myself. Rest. It will pass.

The prairie flowers got taller. The weeds continued to be vanquished.

But the flare didn’t pass. New types of pain started, gripping me by the back of the neck, running down my spine, pushing up behind my eyes. My joints ached. My muscles screamed. I did all my usual crisis management.

The weather changed. The sun lingered in the evening sky. The first flower bloomed.

I wish I could tell you that this was when my flare retreated. That I felt better than I had in years. All my joints were stable! My blood pressure was normal! My EDS had magically disappeared!

But this isn’t that kind of story.

It’s been about two and a half months. The flowers have continued to bloom. My yard is full of color and life. Fuzzy, dizzy bees. Butterflies. Birds. When I scattered seeds back in the fall, this is exactly what I pictured for the prairie.

It’s definitely not what I pictured for my health.

But there’s only so much we can control. I can clear grass, pull weeds, and plant seeds. I can take my medication, meditate, do physical therapy, stick to safe foods, get plenty of rest. Stay hydrated. Sometimes the garden flourishes. Sometimes you end up with a mud pit.

I am well aware of the Thich Nhat Hanh saying “No mud, no lotus.” So much so, that after surviving my first debilitating EDS flare (which wouldn’t be properly diagnosed for another FIFTEEN YEARS), I had a lotus tattooed on my forearm. And a lot of lotuses came out of that particular mud. I finished and published my memoir. I got back into photography. I became a parent. I developed a spiritual practice. I appreciated the hell out of everything I got back during my recovery, and learned how to let go of what I didn’t.

I don’t know what, if any, lotuses await me on the other side of this current mud pit. I want to believe Anne Lamott when she says: “when a lot of things start going wrong all at once, it is to protect something big and lovely that is trying to get itself born—and that this something needs for you to be distracted so that it can be born as perfectly as possible.” But I can’t help feeling the same anxiety I felt after I scattered my wildflower seeds. What if nothing grows? What if this is nothing but mud? What if it’s that Neverending Story mud??

I feel like I’m supposed to have some kind of wise response to these worries, but I don’t. What I do have is anxiety medication, legal weed, and a chair next to a prairie, where I can sit in the sun and watch flowers sway.

Keep your fingers crossed for me. I’ll let you know if anything else starts to grow.