Herbs, again

The fact that I planted herb seedlings this Memorial Day brings to mind Samuel Johnson’s description of remarriage, though on an admittedly different order of magnitude. Me trying once again to grow something is truly the triumph of hope over experience.

It is also on some level a refutation of my newfound belief in core competencies. After reading Laura Vanderkam’s “168 Hours,” a time management tome that reassured me that the best things to spend your time on are the things you’re good at, I decided to stop dwelling on all the talents I don’t possess, all the skills I haven’t developed, all the intellectual pursuits I haven’t pursued, and concentrate more of my attention on what I already know I can do.

But even in adopting that philosophy, I recognized the downside: I was essentially giving myself permission to avoid all potential challenges. By finally admitting that I don’t want to learn yoga and I don’t seem capable of understanding the finer points of the health care debate, I was throwing in the towel.

Plus I don’t have that many core competencies. If I gave myself permission to focus on only those skills for which I possessed both interest and aptitude, my day would be restricted to writing newspaper features, baking cookies, going running, and taking walks.

So in a way, it was a relief to realize I still wanted to try growing herbs this year, even though my inaugural attempt last year didn’t yield very impressive results.

Last year, one of my four attempted crops grew: the garlic chives that my friend Jane gave me to plant. She assured me they were foolproof, and she was right. They grew, they spread, they flowered, and best of all, they reappeared this spring.

Not so with the three seedlings I bought at a nursery last year: basil, rosemary and thyme. They never grew beyond the size they were when I put them in the ground, and after one or two recipes’ worth of their leaves, they were of no more use to me. They dried up, and were apparently reabsorbed by the very same soil that was expected to help them grow and prosper.

But with the warm weather this month came the same old fantasy. Other people smell spring and imagine they’ll take up running or do a spring cleaning; I imagine myself finally having all the fresh oregano, cilantro, mint and dill I could possibly want, and all at a moment’s notice, easy as walking out the back door and into the garden.

So I decided to try again. I started small and worked hard: three herb plants – basil, rosemary and oregano – and a few hours in the garden, first weeding, then troweling a hole, then tamping in the dirt around the roots.

As I watered my young charges, I tried to convey to them a sense of hope. No, I’m not a talented gardener, but maybe they could choose to hang in there anyway. Maybe the circumstances of soil, sunlight and temperature will be propitious enough this year that they’ll flourish in spite of my inabilities.

Like a little kid, I couldn’t resist going outside to check on them several times in the 24 hours since they were planted. They look the same, which is not a bad thing. So far, so good. Rain is predicted for tomorrow, which sounds promising even if I don’t really know that they need more water just yet.

So yes, adhering to one’s core competencies is probably a good idea, or at least a safe one. But maybe it’s possible to develop new core competencies. Maybe I’ll not only be lucky this time but actually get good at herb gardening.

Go ahead and grow, little seedlings. I’m rooting for you every step of the way. And if you do prosper, maybe I’ll take another look at some of that coverage of the health care debate and try a new yoga pose or two. If I can get good at gardening, it may be time to rethink all my assumptions about core competencies.

Still me

Yes, I was already aware of it. Every time I fill out class notes for my alumni magazine, I recognize that I don’t have much to report that’s very different from what I reported the year before.

But faced with the interesting challenge this week of summarizing my life in two or three sentences for a college friend I hadn’t seen in 26 years made it clear to me the full extent to which I’m the same person I was at 19. Two or three sentences…and the phrase “I still” came up again and again. “I still run a lot, but I’m still a really slow runner.” (Admittedly, it would be surprising if I were a faster runner at 45 than at 19, but nonetheless.) “I still live in a small town outside of Boston.” “I still write a lot” (though whereas back then I wrote journal entries and college papers, now I write for a major metropolitan newspaper.)

I tried to put my finger on just what this tendency for sameness said about me. “Am I static? Stagnant? Steadfast?” I wondered on Facebook. Supportive friends came up with other descriptions. “Solidly anchored,” said one, but of course, she’s a Unitarian Universalist minister; she’s arguably in the business of making people feel empowered by their own choices. “Consistent!” said another. “Practice makes perfect,” observed my husband, surprising me by coming so very close to calling me perfect.

So many of the things I enjoy doing are things I’ve always enjoyed: running, of course, and writing and reading, but also biking and walking. Cooking and baking. Traveling to some types of destinations but not others. Sometimes I try to remember the last new skill I acquired, and I almost always come back to the few new computer skills I’ve picked up recently, but in a way that’s more about the changing times than the changing me. Last winter I learned to drive a tractor, of which I was proud, but that’s really just an extension of driving a standard shift car, which I’ve been able to do since I was sixteen.

On the other hand, earlier this spring I read Laura Vanderkam’s 168 Hours, a book about managing time mindfully and intelligently, and I was particularly struck by her concept of core competencies. As she sees it, people are both productive and happy when they concentrate on what they do well and avoid dissipating their focus with a lot of other pursuits.

Of course, this flies somewhat in the face of the many societal messages about learning new things and being open to new opportunities. We’ve all heard inspirational stories about octogenarians taking up the piano or people who reach retirement only to begin a new career.

I don’t think that will be me, though. In early 2011, I resolved to try two new things: specifically, yoga and growing herbs. Both, I thought, could open up entire new areas of talent and experience for me in my mid-40’s.

I tried yoga for a few weeks, but I just couldn’t develop any excitement for it. “Runners can’t slow down enough for yoga,” I said by way of excuse, but I’m sure there are plenty of runners who disprove that theory. I gave yoga up. The herb gardening fared a little bit better. I grew enough chives, basil, thyme and mint to use all summer. (Okay, mint is a weed; I can’t take credit for that. But the others required a little bit of nurturing.) And I enjoyed it enough that I’m going to try growing more herbs this summer. But it’s more just something I did than something I learned to do.

So maybe I’m stagnant and maybe I’m steadfast. Maybe both. Mostly, I’m me: almost the same at 45 as at 19, other than a few obvious changes in life circumstances. These are my core competencies, and I might as well claim them proudly – then, now, and if I’m lucky, in another few decades yet to come.