a garden of self
Last week in my community garden, a conflict exploded. Relational chaos and interpersonal mess ensued, colored by block politics, neighborhood history, and a generous dose of racism and misogyny.
I have been reflecting on how we each handled it, responded, showed up. Some of us skirted back to the fringes, and some of us waded into the fray. A few of us tried to deescalate; a couple folks chased the fight. One person gripped a hand tightly; others got in each other’s faces; a husband touched his wife’s shoulder. Several people left altogether, and one person walked in just to settle it.
I noticed my own stress responses, the tightness in my chest responding to the tension in the space before anything broke. I felt other people emanating panic, calm, distraction. I saw the gentle tugs and strong pushes for co-regulation, many attempts both successful and failed at self-regulation.
In therapy lately, we practice parts work. We envision the self as mediating a collection of selves, each with a voice and a perspective and often, a very strong opinion. We practice welcoming each character, acknowledging their backstory. We let the conflict play out between each part, spinning the thread to its end, as relational chaos often does. I start to notice each complexity and wrinkle — the young and belligerent self, the steady and wise self, the panicked anxious self, the attention-grabbing distracted self, the calmly unflappable self. Some of the parts skirt back to the fringes, and some wade into the fray. A few try desperately to deescalate; a couple will always, always chase the fight. I name the histories and systems that have shaped each of them — racism and misogyny live here, too.
I am discovering the self that gets to decide, deescalate, return the bids for attention and co-regulation. She’s the grandmother of the community garden, sitting rooted under the big peach tree, recognizing the deep, generations-long stories that influenced the hurts, not allowing harm to spill onto the center patio, staying mostly out of the chaos in her own well of calm.
I wonder how she will encourage amends, repair, restoration. In the meantime, I weed the flagstone paths, clean out the dry brush, touch the new seedlings growing amongst the mushroom beds, despite it all.
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a few medicines:
maybe I think too much, rediscovered on a 2007 iPod for some early-aughts mixtape nostalgia, originally via this throwback playlist source
until next time.