This past summer unfolded under the heavy blanket of heat, complicated by a troublesome left knee, a souvenir from a spring mishap – certainly not a heroic tale, unless you count the Herculean effort of achieving a full night’s sleep during menopause. My morning alarm was a 65-pound dog deciding my knee was the prime napping spot.
Despite the physical comedy of errors, I persisted. My sanctuary was the yard, the plants my solace. However, summer’s true initiation arrived with a wheelbarrow overflowing with soil and an uphill battle.
Overgrown garden weeds symbolizing feelings of being overwhelmed, relevant to 'why am i crying yellow' theme.
The result? A strained right biceps femoris. While my anatomical jargon might not win awards, trust me, it was a biceps femoris strain, possibly entangled with the posterolateral compartment – the iliotibial band likely joined the party. Suddenly, the knee was old news; this new pain was a louder, more insistent cry. Perhaps this physical breakdown mirrored a deeper, unspoken question: Why Am I Crying Yellow inside? This strange, internal hue of distress seemed to seep into everything.
My sister, a seasoned observer of my stoicism, remarked on my uncanny ability to mask pain. Years of conditioning to minimize fuss often leave me feeling like my whispers of discomfort are amplified into screams, unheard by the world. The vibrant summer I had envisioned began to dim, tinged with this internal “yellow” sadness. The allure of the outdoors faded – no more herb gathering with friends, no backyard escapes. Yet, the pull of community and nature was undeniable. With gentle steps, I rejoined my herbalist circle, the company of women and plants a vital balm. The ambitious garden plans with housemates, the envisioned herb bounty, the dream of revitalized soil – they felt distant, overshadowed by this persistent, inexplicable “yellow” melancholy.
Still, small victories emerged. Two fruit trees found new homes, alongside currant and spice bushes, pollinator-friendly blooms, and a few cherished herbs. The elderberry bushes, planted during the isolating summer of 2020, finally gifted us with berries. Small wins, yes, but the undercurrent of pain, both physical and perhaps emotionally “yellowed,” remained. Even the simple act of descending stairs to unleash my frisbee-obsessed dog could trigger tears – tears that felt strangely muted, almost colorless, or perhaps, in their emotional dryness, tinged with yellow. Our yard became her running track, frisbee chases replacing our usual walks, a compromise dictated by my body’s rebellion.
A peculiar truce formed with the garden’s rabbit residents. Their brazen feasting on young plants, once a source of gardener’s frustration, now evoked a wry amusement. After all, my column is named after Br’er Rabbit – nature’s humor was not lost on me. The irony felt strangely fitting, even tinged with a “yellow” hue of acceptance.
Therapeutic massage became my anchor, a way to keep motion in my world, both giving and receiving. My own self-massage sessions targeted knees, hamstrings, legs, ankles, low back – wherever the pain decided to reside. Meanwhile, the garden, indifferent to my struggles, thrived. My housemates’ dedicated tending brought it to its full, verdant glory.
Then came the morning my sacrum joined the chorus of pain. Frustration boiled over. “Second chakra, center of creativity,” I muttered, “Enough. I’m done.” This “yellow” feeling of creative blockage, of being stuck, was overwhelming. Remembering the infrared therapy’s soothing warmth at my acupuncturist, I impulsively booked a session at a new wellness center boasting an infrared sauna. Within an hour, I was enveloped in its heat, sweating and releasing a torrent of tears – ugly-crying for 45 minutes. Emerging from the sauna, showering, and returning home, a small miracle unfolded: I could descend stairs without pain for the first time in weeks. Had the “yellow” tears finally washed something away?
A week of relative ease instilled a false sense of invincibility. Courage surged to confront the overgrown wilderness. Towering weeds dwarfed the young trees, yet they persevered. But as I wrestled with the tenacious growth, digging and tugging, my physical limitations resurfaced. Out of shape, fear of reinjury loomed, hopelessness crept in. I felt a profound failure, a neglectful steward. Alone in the dense overgrowth, I finally wept. These were not “yellow” tears of muted sadness, but tears of raw frustration and vulnerability.
Yet, amidst the thicket, a sensation arose, not quite words, but a feeling, a vibration – “We missed you.” The garden, in its untamed state, seemed to offer solace. In that moment of vulnerability, I recognized the garden’s sanctuary status, a rare space of safety.
Last weekend, order returned to the patio. Umbrellas, absent all summer, finally unfurled. Months late, perhaps, but I was back, among my plants, reciprocating their silent summer’s wait. Rejoining my green companions felt like shedding the “yellow” film of distress, embracing a renewed connection, and rediscovering the vibrant hues of life.
