White Roses

I’ve gone full organic. Everything I eat is pesticide-free, hormone-free, GMO-free, and none of the meat I eat has ever been exposed to antibiotics. I have two stories that I tell myself about this.

Story 1:

Me, in ten years, feeding my four-year-old son a bowl of organic quinoa: “Here you go, blessed child, eat of this nourishing meal.”

Son, elocuting perfectly: “Thank you mother.”

Husband, sitting cross-legged on a hand-woven mat: “Rachael, your antioxidant-rich, neurotoxin-free womb was the perfect environment for our son’s development. Thanks to you, his chakras are open and he’s two standard deviations ahead of his peers in every way.”

Me, blushing: “Oh, it was nothing.”

Story 2:

Me, in ten years, holding a newspaper with trembling hands, reading headline: “Organic food is a FRAUD and pesticides ARE JUST FINE and YOU WASTED ALL YOUR MONEY and YOU ARE PRETENTIOUS.”

è It should be noted that in this scenario, I’m usually alone in life, sitting in a poorly-lit studio apartment in Torrance. Through the bars on my ground-floor window, in my peripheral vision, I see a flickering neon sign: “O’Malley’s Bar.” My floor is littered with scraps of paper—the poems I have scribbled, crossed out, and torn into pieces. These scraps symbolize the littered remains of my writing aspirations. I also drink heavily.

So. When I lay awake at night in my bed, thinking about this Los Angeles life, it can get confusing. I talk to myself a lot.

“Rachael, you’re doing a good job. Organic food is good. Your tummy doesn’t hurt when you eat bread anymore.” Pause. “Maybe organic food benefits are a hoax.” Nods to self. “Possibly. Don’t know what to do about this.” Cue minor crisis. Ruminates, ruminates, ruminates. “Well, time to go to sleep.”

My body does feel good, though.

Organic food is just one of MANY changes I’ve made. Moving to California has been lovely. There are white roses outside my bedroom window.

Everything blooms. On the curlicue lanes of my neighborhood are spreads of watercolor-delicate flowers; vines climb over trellises; capacious sunlight works a sweet glow on the clean white homes on my street.

This area is quiet. It amplifies the feeling of alone—not necessarily lonely, but here, present, intimately synchronous with myself.

Remember when Sabrina (from the eponymous Sabrina (the one with Harrison Ford is my favorite, sorry to all purists)) goes to France to discover herself, and she talks about seeing the world through rose-colored glasses? I identify. Sometimes I imagine accordion music playing while I study and look at my white roses.

I set out to claim my body as my own when I came here. I seek a changing palate. Less sugar, more nutrient-infused things. I’ve been doing a LOT of yoga, and for the first time in my life, I have observable muscles. They’re not impressive but they’re there. I’ve been reading The Madwoman in the Attic, which details the history of the fetishizing of female weakness, and I’m forgiving my body for being out of fashion—read as strong, getting stronger—and I’m allowing it to be.

Identity is such a lovely thing. I’m not trying to discover Rachael, because we’re already friends, but I’m definitely getting to know her better. Body and mind.

The writerly part of me has been growing too. More and more, people in my life feel like characters to write, to store away for a future novel. I think we all fictionalize each other, but this method is self-aware, which I like.

I think I’m fictionalizing myself too. In a good way. We have to create a narrative for ourselves. From one perspective, creative nonfiction’s goal is to breathe meaning—fiction, or opinion, or creativity—into observed real-life patterns. In other words, the creative nonfiction writer creates reality by interpreting it.

If you’re reading between the lines and thinking that I’ve been challenged by this move, you’re right. I’m growing a lot. I’m also surrounded by sweet roommates, fantastic writers, and an incredible cadre of saints, both in and out of the church. I’m choosing to breathe these meanings into my experience: strength, beauty, growth.

I’m excited and nervous about my future here. Prayers and fingers crossed!