In All Uncertain Terms

Spring has become my favorite season. As a kid, it was always winter, which does still remain a close second. A snow-covered landscape feels clean, calm, and soothing to me. No mosquitoes or ticks come to take my blood, no flies attack my food, and a romp through the woods is not soured by the threat of poison ivy. I especially love to be outside at night when it’s snowy. Though the sky is dark, the flakes reflect the minimal light from the moon, and it is so very quiet. It’s that quiet that I like best, the snow’s ability to absorb and muffle the constant buzzing, humming of our industrialized, electrical world. If I lived farther north, winter still might be my favorite. Alas, Missouri winters are mostly brown.

I don’t really mind the brown, either. In high school, my friend group used to joke about brown being our favorite color. The thought that a person would look at the whole assortment of hues available to us humans, and select brown as their favorite, seemed utterly ridiculous, and we thought no such someone would actually exist. I’ve come around to brown, though. I find that the older I get, the more of a naturalist I become, and my visual tastes have adjusted accordingly. I recall with horror the teal and lime green bedspread of my middle school room, with despair the navy blue and gray of high school, and now find myself in a difficult but joyful young adulthood of olive and forest green, and, despite my teenage self’s mockery, brown.

I used to think brown drab and boring. If you asked me to describe it, I probably would have said, “Blah” or “Meh.” For many, it is associated with death. The bare trees and dry grass that give the land where I live its winter wardrobe can be felt as a statement that all that is good is gone, and there is nothing to see. In media, too, the world hates brown. The Aryan ideal of a white-skinned, blond-haired, blue-eyed person is still often held up as the example of utmost beauty. When it comes to eyes, especially, many authors or songwriters single out characters with blue or green eyes as particularly beautiful, and in my own life, I’ve heard many a brown-eyed person describe their own eyes as “just brown,” while praising my blue ones.

Brown brings to mind the death in winter–the fallen leaves that are neither lively green nor the brilliant oranges and reds of their final days, crunchy grass in barren yards, naked trees that provide no shade, no flowers, no fruit, and of course, rotting things. Recently, however, I have found myself also associating brown with life. Yes, brown is the dried up old flowers still haunting my yard from when I tossed them out after they’d begun to mold, but brown is also the soil in which I grow dahlias. Brown is the eyes and hair of the person I love most in the world, the soothing ritual of my morning coffee, the wooden furniture passed down and between families, filling the house that contains the laughter and tears of my children.

So it’s not the overwhelming brown of Missouri winters that has driven me to prefer the springtime. It’s the bursting forth of new life, especially flowers. When I saw the first daffodils popping up this spring, I was filled with such excitement that I had to pull over my car and romp through a random patch of land to pick some. It was windy and chilly and still very much felt like winter, but those yellow trumpets called to me.

Stardew Valley is one of my favorite games. In it, the player’s character inherits their grandfather’s farm and moves to a small town in order to manage it. It’s a call to slow down, enjoy the simple things, and to build community. The town isn’t perfect; there is a depressed alcoholic character, a homeless character, implied infidelity in one of the marriages, and dark magic. The underlying current of the game, though, is one of wonder, freedom, and intentionality. There is also good magic, the player is free to spend their days how they will, and encouragement to know your neighbors.

It wasn’t until recently that I realized that perhaps I like the game so much because it parallels my life. There is a store in Stardew Valley, Pierre’s General Store, where the player can buy seeds and fruit trees. One of the quirks of Pierre’s which has caused many a frustrated player, is that his store is closed on Wednesdays. There is a whole subreddit dedicated to the hatred of Pierre.

As I pulled into the driveway of my local green house, I realized with dread that it was Wednesday, and they were closed. The sign says, “Monday-Friday 9-5,” then in tiny print below, “Closed on Wednesday.” I would have been enraged, were it not so comedic. The irritating circumstance experienced by every Stardew Valley player was now mine to feel in real life. I couldn’t help but wonder if the owners are fans. It’s probably coincidence, but I like to think they are, and that it’s the sole reason for their day off.

I am not a farmer, nor do I wish to be, but my love of gardening grows with each passing year. My aspirations in growing things have gone through a sort of curve. Early on, I thought gardening (and homesteading) was a great idea because you could save money and be self sufficient. The more I learned about how difficult it really is, the more I came to realize that often (not always, but often), folks spend more money on the seeds and plants and soil and water and mulch and fertilizer and gardening beds than they ever save by not buying produce. Unlike in Stardew Valley, in real life it isn’t easy to turn a profit, or maybe even break even, from a small backyard garden. I then thought there was no point to gardening. I later changed my mind again, realizing that life isn’t always about efficiency and saving money. Sure, frugality can be great, but I now enjoy gardening for a different reason entirely. I labor under no delusions that I will ever be able to grow all the food I need on my own, or even that my berry bush purchases will save me so much money in the long run. The sun and fresh air are good for me, seeing my neighbors is good for me, and I think that the endeavor hearkens back to the original location and calling of humanity.

Another similarity between my own life and the story of Stardew Valley is my family’s choice of home. My husband and I love good food, live music, third wave coffee shops, and art museums. It would seem that a big city would be the perfect place for us. When we lived near a city for him to go to college, however, it became apparent that although we loved all the dining and cultural options available, the lifestyle was not for us. It seemed as though everyone was simultaneously busy and isolated. Building a tight-knit chosen family proved almost impossible, and we yearned for the intimacy and investment of the town and church from which we’d come. Like the Stardew Valley protagonist, we left the “hustle and bustle” for a slower but happier life.

It’s this life we chose that I pondered recently, on a drive home from seeing our friends at a local park. I was exhausted, but knew that at home there were laundry and dishes awaiting my return. I’d done something with friends every night that week, and thought that perhaps that busyness was a mistake. In Stardew Valley, if the player isn’t in bed by 2AM, they pass out wherever they are, to wake up the next morning and find out what damage was done (often, items are lost or stolen). It’s happened to me more times than I’d like to admit. Though it’s exceedingly rare for me to stay up that late, I do often feel that I’m pressing up against the real life boundaries of my energy. With two small children, I find myself consistently staying up an hour or two later than I’d like, just to get done all the things that I need and want. On that drive home, as I dreaded the work to be done, I wondered if I should spend fewer evenings at parks or on bike rides.

It helps to be reminded of my death. Thanks to my good friend, both-life-and-death brown, I don’t have to try much. I don’t go long without remembering my own mortality, since I’ve surrounded myself with a color so associated with the winter where I live. When I think of the end of my life, I don’t imagine I will be filled with regret over having stayed up to write or paint or read or talk to my husband. I doubt I will say, “Well, I have had a good run, but there is one thing. . . I just wish I’d kept a cleaner house and seen my friends a little less.” So the never-quite-empty kitchen sink will have to stay, along with my perpetual drowsiness, but it won’t always be this way. I want to get and give the most out of this life, but I have the fortune to know that it’s not the only one I’ve got. This is just the winter, but spring is coming, and I’ll get to stay in my garden forever.

Memento mori!

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