Fruitlessly Prolific*

Today I discovered and read a handful of "sent" messages from me to someone far away and long ago.

They were... thick. Full. Too much. And, if memory serves, such messages were plentiful.

How did that person not drown, I'm wondering. How did they stay afloat in my words and words and words for so long?

They probably did it because they loved me and were as broken as I was at the time. But I realize now, just today, how much from me this person had to have choked down.

Too much. 

That's how I was during that season, with that person. I forced too much upon them. 

I've since stopped doing that when it comes to love, or even like. When I consider what I have poured out to others over the years, whether it was spilled, forced, coaxed from me, or even taken, it was usually too much.

So much so that now... now I allow very little. Sometimes not even a drop. Or, when I do have love (or, again, even friendship) to give, I disguise it with humor, with apologies, with indifference. Or I give nothing at all.

My single tomato plant is bursting with leaves. I have two small blooms - late - looking at the ground.  Harvest time is nigh, and I have have an awkward oxymoron* and uncomfortable irony in my basket.

I suppose I could add hope, though, to make things a little more bountiful. I have learned from those old messages from me, rambling and wearisome as they were (I gladly swept them into the refuse after reading).

So instead of beating myself up over my young(er) misguided missives, instead of comparing my actions to his or anyone else's, instead of apologizing, I'll reap what's good and useful.

I can learn to start again... and to stop before it's too much. It truly isn't too late in the season. There is room and time for so much more.

And I'll be thankful - to myself - for it.