​Let It Grow (Until It Doesn’t)

The river held its breath this morning—clouds drifting like half-formed thoughts, lamp posts standing guard, and the hills whispering, “Let it grow.”

That patch of blue sky peeking through puffy white clouds this morning has officially surrendered. Overcast now reigns, with a darker sky hinting at rain like a moody barista deciding whether to steam the milk or just glare at it. A few drops did fall along the waterfront—five seconds of drama, then nothing. As if the sky itself said, Not yet. Let the people walk. Let them stretch their limbs and greet the day before my rays go full blast and turn everything into a sidewalk skillet. Even the earthworms, poor souls, deserve a chance to cross the concrete before it becomes a death march.

Journaling, for me, is a way to get things out. This blog, being public, offers plenty—but doesn’t quite slice into the meat of who I am. That’s reserved for the locked journal, the one with the emotional fingerprints and the occasional tear stain. Still, this is journaling. Or blogging. Or procrastinating from fiction writing. Whatever you call it, it’s a way to keep the pen moving—whether through words, photos, or whatever art form grabs you by the collar and says, Do something.

I paid attention to the sky this morning because I was thinking about Amanda. Amanda, who radiates good energy and earthy charm, oversees the Peekskill Regeneration Farm. She was already there, bright and chipper in jeans and a beige blouse that somehow made beige look like a color worth celebrating. Her smile pulls you in, and her long, light-brown plaited hair seals the deal. She’s trying to recruit me to volunteer with her team. I’m considering it—early mornings only, though. The hot sun is trauma I’ve already lived through.

I still remember my grandfather’s farm in South Carolina. Acres of cucumbers. Endless rows. The sun rising like a cruel joke. It wasn’t that I was lazy—I just hated cucumbers with a passion that bordered on Shakespearean tragedy. My grandfather, ever the early bird, would be out there at daybreak, picking before the sun had a chance to flex. By the time we arrived, the field was already simmering. My brothers and I made a game of it to survive, but the real thrill came later—taking the cucumbers to market in Gresham. Watching the workers sort through our sacks, picking out the #1s and #2s, discarding the big ones like they’d committed some unspeakable offense. The #1s got more money. And money, back then, made the back-breaking labor feel slightly less back-breaking.

I’ll probably join Amanda’s yoga group too—Wednesday evenings, right there in the grass. I’m oddly looking forward to it. Something about stretching in the open air while the river hums nearby feels like a good idea. Or at least a poetic one.

The rain hasn’t come yet, but I expect it will. I could check the forecast, but sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I just let life happen. I was glad to see they’ve cut the grass along the waterfront, but left the weeds and wildflowers and bushes to do their thing. This morning, I spotted insects, birds, bees, and even one snake—all reveling in that untamed patch of paradise. Let it grow. Let it be wild. By fall and winter, it’ll all be gone anyway.