Why "Tough Garlic?"

A friend of mine, in a casual conversation about our families, mentioned a Buddhist uncle who planted a garden and made a conscious decision to cultivate “tough garlic” and other vegetables. His plan to do this was to actively not weed the garden; he figured the plants that survived and weren't choked out by the weeds would be stronger and as a result richer, healthier, and overall tastier. The garlic survived and every year became stronger and more fragrant. Some people allow the negative events that take place in their lives to wreck them; I choose to let those moments make me tougher, smarter, and more capable: tough garlic. There is beauty amidst the weeds.

To begin: A journal entry while in London after "the event."

I can't write. Can't draw. Can't feel. I am absorbed by an undeniable sadness. Want to cry but I refuse. Will.not.do.it. An American in London. Brixton to be exact. Oddly I am the only person who seems to be alone...or maybe to feel alone. Yet, at the moment, it's the only thing I want to be: alone. I don't even want him and maybe that is the worser thing. Presently, I need to despise you...imperfect lamb. You have tricked me into believing what you believe: that I am"Twelve-fingered, out of mind." You, young and DISLOYAL...I yearn for a real man with heart and song and brevity of spirit. Youth tempered by wisdom; beauty that you only see at night when the lights are out and the spirits of your insides are streaming through the window, highlighting my face in the past...the deep part of myself that I carry with me into the war, into the trenches---huddled down in a pit, clutching my weapon tight to my chest, waiting for the enemy. I want a comrade to strip away my gun and say: I have you. You can sleep. This is my watch now. Rest. Sleep. Be comforted. Be well. Be you, just as you are because you are good.

I am well into the heat of it now. "Write while the heat is in it." Strength: I am calling to you...waiting for you...calling you into being. It's hard to understand how I could end up here at the Ritzy. Wed. night, June 16th, 2010. It feels scary but satisfying. I am weird but closer to fine--closer to myself than locked in that beautiful tomb of the past. If you had died would it be easier? You always said you were afraid of me dying, but you don't know the courage in my soul or the wisdom in my being, the truth that I hold to my breast. I will die but not yet. Not yet. There is something for me to do. I must raise this child who needs me, who I am blessed to have call me "Mom." This is more powerful and more real than any ring on my finger: an empty promise that really means, "I love you now and I will love you until it is hard to love you anymore. Then, I will pretend everything is okay. I will make love to you and live in our home. Until one morning, I will tell you good-bye and that I love you. I will pull your car out of the garage and pack your lunch. Then, when you are backing down the driveway, I will wave while I plot the rest of the day. I will use your truck, and I will pack my belongings. I will remove my clothes from the closet and remove my pictures from the wall. Then, I will write you a note that explains I have just done these things. You will find that note on the table, the table where we share meals. Your son will be with you. You will have to explain to him why I am gone and you are crying."