Lavender Fields That Bloom Without Me: On Being Me Anyway

There are days when the words arrive like eager guests—knocking politely, ready to be let in and arranged on the page. Then there are the days when the house is full: sister laughter echoing down the hall, Monty’s tail thumping against the floorboards, the scent of shared coffee lingering longer than usual. On those days, the words don’t knock. They wait outside, patient but distant, knowing the door is ajar but not quite open.This week has been one of those. My sister is here, visiting in the way only sisters can—bringing chaos wrapped in love, stories that span decades, and the unspoken agreement that we’ll pretend everything is fine even when it isn’t. We had plans, the kind that sound romantic in theory: a detour to Château Lavendre (or whatever lavender-draped dream-castle we were chasing this time), a slow wander through fields that smell like memory and Provence, a pause in the middle of everything to just be. Then, without warning or reason, she reneged. No explanation, just a casual “nah, not feeling it anymore.” The fields stayed where they were; the plan evaporated like morning mist.It stung, quietly. Not the kind of sting that demands a confrontation, but the slow-drip kind that reminds you some people carry their own invisible maps, and yours don’t always overlap. In the background, the denial demon whispers its usual nonsense, but these days it’s more static than shout. Foreground belongs to other things: Monty’s extra-adorable bounce this morning, the pink fuzzy jumper that feels like armor, the orange jumpsuit + poncho vision for next weekend’s expat panto with Hannah (pure hurray energy incoming). And, of course, the ideas—Quon Zarl chief among them—simmering on low while I give my brain the space it’s begging for.And here’s where lavender steps in, not as a lost destination, but as the quiet teacher in the middle of it all. Those fields in Provence don’t wait for visitors to bloom. They stretch purple under golden sunsets, releasing their scent whether anyone walks the rows or not. They don’t renegotiate their season because someone changed their mind. They just are—rooted, fragrant, unapologetic. No apologies for being too purple, too scented, too much in the heat of summer. Who cares if the tour bus skipped them this year? They’re blooming anyway.That’s the reminder I’m holding onto right now. Plans dissolve, explanations don’t arrive, people pull back without a word—but I keep blooming in my own rows. Pink jumper days and sherpa-hat crowns? Yes please. Grapes that refuse to become raisins? Absolutely. Solo wine supremacy and panto outfit daydreams? Non-negotiable. Quon Zarl and the rest of the pipeline (Rodney Bartlett collab, light-time reunion, NFT-poetry horizon) can wait for quieter air. They’ll still be there, ready to unfurl when the house empties and the predawn twinkles return without interruption.Because who cares if the lavender fields I planned to visit stayed unvisited? They bloomed without me. And who cares if my sister’s map diverged from mine again? I’m walking my own path, boots clicking, poncho swirling in my imagination, ideas marinating like the best dauphinoise. Who cares about the reneging, the whittling, the background static? I’m being me—freakish, vibrant, exhausted Mister Thinkalot and all—and that’s the only harvest that matters.So here I am, postponing the lexicon launch, letting Quon Zarl marinate while I wear the pink, plan the orange, snuggle the dog, and remind myself: creativity isn’t a race. It’s a garden. Some seasons you plant, some you water, some you simply sit and watch the bees do their thing—while you bloom anyway, purple and proud.What idea (or lavender field) are you letting bloom without apology right now? Drop it in the comments—I’d love to hear.