A yellow zucchini hangs dangling obscenely down the side of the pot that it was planted within. The foliage covers only the place where the stem connects. In the jungle of tomato plants there are some signs of orange shapes turning to red. The peas are tired and it is time to rip out the plants.

I am waiting for the squash and pumpkin blossoms to create the promised shapes. My neighbour down the block has volunteer vines that support giant pumpkins just beyond their short fence. We are obviously in different seasonal experiences.

The watering, weeding, standing on the lawn with my right hand on my hip while I appreciate whatever burgeoning has taken place overnight is a ritual. Does my vigilance play a part in the change over time from seed to plant to a vegetable? I believe it does.

And now, this activity is anchoring because so much else in my life just seems obscured. Am I moving in the right direction? Am I gaining ground? Is my future unfolding and developing in a way that I envision? I don’t know any answers. There is only the rhythm of moving my body repetitively, weeding, plucking up fuzz or feathers from the floor, folding clothing and storing it in the dark drawer. The action itself becomes the totality of my life. The repetition itself is a signal that I am still functioning.

How much did I sleep? How much do I weigh? What tasks do I need to carry out to run my Airbnb today? I measure the things that I can measure obsessively. But underneath it all I am cross and grumbly. My first response is overcast with burdensome thoughts. The most I can hope to do is to clear the clinging vine weeds that wind about me from social media and from the leftover anxiety when others are taking action that seems to put me at risk. The most I can do is put a checkmark next to an item on my chart I have made to help me build new habits.

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“Time will tell.” That is what my mother used to say to me. “All will be revealed eventually.”

These sayings were like well-worn coins passed on through generations. I listen to them in my mind and feel the heft of them in my hand.

I go through repetitive actions not expecting anything at all. The action itself has become a form of soothing, a self-calming ritual. To expect the seeds I plant to create a plentitude in my future is too onerous for me. I will take an action, plant a seed and let go of the knowing. I will just keep rowing without asking” What surface is this I travel upon?”

The harvest will come. Time will tell. And at the same time, I can expect to be growling in the cave of my head like some sun-deprived gargoyle. Nothing is perfection now. All will be revealed. Eventually. My mother promised me.