The Long Game
Avocados, summer solstice, Father's Day
Our avocado tree is fruiting for the first time since we moved in.
A vestige of the previous owner, it’s somehow become paramount to my self-worth to keep this inherited tree alive with trimming, weekly watering, mulching, fertilizing, and stakes to keep it from keeling over. Even with this level of support, I read that avocado trees can take 7-12 years to fruit. Apparently, due to unusual pollination schedules and perhaps other mysterious forces of the universe, some never do.
For the past year, the tree has persisted without any major signs of life or death until last month, when I noticed dramatic leaf growth concealing recognizable green orbs.
While I’m thrilled that the tree has decided to bless us with the beginning stages of fruit production, I’m under no illusion of a bountiful harvest come late summer. What happens for the next few months is in the hands of the Avocado Gods now.
A few months ago, my godfather, Rett, said something along the lines of, the more you can detach from outcome, the happier you will be. Rett has provided a lot of wisdom for me over the years, and I’ve kept some choice quotes on my notes app to refer to when needed:
“People are like a buffet in Vegas. You try some and you want to go back for more, and others you’re like that’s not for me.”
“Live deeply, laugh often, and don’t sweat the small shit.”
“I may not wake up tomorrow, but it’s been a fine day.” (Upon eating Waffle House waffles against doctor’s orders).
This detachment from outcome has been on my mind lately—as I’m walking my dog and hoping she will poop at a convenient time, as I’m helping my high school seniors work on application essays for schools they may or may not be able to attend, as I’m chipping away at my third novel.
What I’ve observed (in myself) is that it’s very, very hard not to be attached to outcome, and the attachment, is, reasonably, directly proportional to effort. I put a certain amount of work into something, and goddamn it, I want something to show for it, to prove to myself that the time was worth it.
Sometimes, life provides these rewards (in the form of fruit, acceptances, etc.), and sometimes it has other plans—at least in the short term.
I’m writing this post on summer solstice, which this year also falls on Father’s Day, historically a bittersweet time for me as I reflect on how I might have spent the extra hours of daylight with my own dad, who died when I was a teenager. When he died, my dad was on the verge of starting a new life. He’d wanted to leave his law career behind to run a boat business in Texas, where he hoped to retire someday with his best friend, my godfather. Although he didn’t have the earthly time to realize this dream, I like to remember him as on his way, moving toward something true and important.
Fruiting is an expensive process trees, one they undertake in hopes of reproducing with no guarantee of success. They do it because it’s evolutionarily wired in them, because trying is better than the alternative. If they’re lucky, they’ll never see where their fruits land.
After rushing to complete two novels that I was not able to sell in the way I’d hoped/expected, I’m taking my time with my third, lingering over passages even in early drafts, re-writing, changing perspectives—experimenting. Whereas with previous work I was so focused on finishing, on the feeling of having accomplished something, I’m learning to work towards something without my enjoyment of it being hinged on whether or not I arrive.
Sometimes we can’t see the results of our efforts for months, or years, or generations beyond our lifetime, but they do add up to something in the end, even if it’s not something we expect or even understand.
For now, I’m savoring the extra light. I’ll leave you with this poem, shared by the account poetryisnotaluxury in honor of Father’s Day:
