A SUMMER REFLECTION FROM THE BLOOMERIE - SISYPHUS AND THE STONE

Sometimes, as I tend the garden under the sweltering summer sun, pulling my thousandth weed or planting yet another seed, I’m reminded of the myth of Sisyphus.

After a life spent resisting the humility that comes when we accept our humanity, steeped in pride and running from death, King Sisyphus finally meets the fate that claims us all. As punishment for his defiance, he is forced to spend eternity pushing a boulder up a mountain.

Each time he nears the top, and he imagines the moment his ego might once again inflate, the boulder barrels back down to the base, forcing him to begin again. Day after day, he sets off toward the summit. And day after day, he finds himself back at the bottom.

At the beginning of each day, I make a mental note of the tasks that must be completed by its end, each project adding pounds to my stone. And then I begin to push. I water plants, prepare beds, pull weeds, harvest crops, sow seeds; each checked box one step closer to the summit. As the sun begins to lower and my body tires, I survey the day and assure myself that I have reached the peak, conquered the unconquerable.

But then I spot a weed that’s sprouted since I pulled its neighbor this morning. A caterpillar is chomping on seedlings that will now never reach maturity. I forgot to water that one plant hiding behind another, and it’s wilting in the relentless heat of the afternoon. And once again, the boulder barrels back.

This is a truth that has become clear: neither I, nor the ancient Grecian king, nor you, will ever reach the mountain top.

But the ascent is not the most important part of the story. What matters most is what comes after the rock begins to roll away.

In the original fable, it’s never clarified how Sisyphus descends the slope. In one imagining, he clings to the stone as it rolls down the rugged landscape, scratching and bruising every inch of his body as it accelerates until it crashes into its resting place.

But, in another view, he lets it go. He stands as close as he will ever get to the summit, perhaps mere feet from its peak, places his hands on his hips, and lets a soft smile find its way to his lips before he chuckles at the absurdity of it all. He then walks down to continue his eternity, but only after taking a moment to admire the wildflowers he couldn’t while shouldering the brutal weight.

Some days, I find myself flailing like the former, refusing to let go of the boulder, the weight of unmet expectations crushing me as I crash back down to earth. But other days, better days, I let it go and watch, before strolling down to meet my fate. Tomorrow, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to push again.

Love,

Leila