Time and time again, I am struck by the differences between the Erin of 2005 and the Erin of 2006. I look back, and I can recognize me, but I sometimes wonder if I wrote down a profile of Erin ‘05 and Erin ‘06, would anyone know that they were one and the same? I honestly doubt it.

A year ago,

• I had just graduated from college,
• I had moved to a new town,
• I had gotten my first real job,
• I was married,
• I was thinking about my future in Virginia (and seriously believed that I could live the rest of my life here),
• I was contemplating when to start making babies (eek!),
• I was enjoying every aspect of nesting.

Not one of those is true anymore. I am really getting going with my professional life, I am loving not being married, I can’t wait to leave Virginia, babies are not seriously on my brain (although I do look forward to the day that they will be), and I am definitely not a nester.

When I was up in Philly a week ago, I was spending time with one of my best friends, Sarah. Sarah is getting married in June ‘07, and we were discussing her new life, including the townhouse that she and hubby are looking for. She was going through her stuff (knick-knacks, dishes, etc.), and looked up at me with a glowing face, “Erin, I am such a nester! Are you?”. “Ummm”, I stumbled, not wanting to burst her bubble, “no, not really… or at least, not right now.” Because I’m not, but that’s not to say I never was. Because a year ago, I loved to cook, show off my house, and generally nest.

So what has sparked this panic attack of reflection that I’m having right now? Well, I just ripped up my garden. It had been sitting in the corner of my yard, the perpetual child mid-temper tantrum: arms crossed, glaring at me in defiance. I guess my garden had the right to be mad at me. Last year, it was my pride and joy. I prepared the ground with tender loving care. I bought my seeds months in advance. I bought graph paper and mapped out the perfect garden layout. I started the seeds in March/April and grew them inside, protecting them from the salivating mouths of the cats and the rough paws of the dogs. I was a good gardener, and my garden was good to me in return. She gave me fresh lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, carrots, strawberries, oregano, mint, thyme, basil, and cilantro all summer long. I was a fresh-food queen.

This year, I had very tentative plans for my garden. But when it came right down to it, I just didn’t have it in me. A garden is not a simple hobby; it takes hours per week, out in the heatstroke-inducing sun, the sweat pouring down my face enough to water five gardens. But honestly, it wasn’t that. It was just that the nesting instinct had fled my body. My soul, like millions of white-blood cells fighting an infection, had purged me of the desire to make home. And so I didn’t bother to take care of my garden. I hardly noticed when it started producing strawberries and I didn’t give a crap when the weeds started to take over.

So today was the day that I got rid of the eyesore. To call it a garden would be an injustice to its previous glory: it was merely a fenced-in area overtaken by weeds and the occasional herb or strawberry. But as I ripped out the fencing, I thought. As I pulled out the stakes, I contemplated. And when I finally mowed it over and smelled the sweet scent of crushed herbs, I fought back a few tears. Because my garden was really the last piece of Erin ‘05. To destroy the last remnants of my garden was to shut the very last door to my past.

I’m okay with who I am today. More than okay, actually. I love my life and I really love where it’s taking me. But sometimes when I get extra pensive, I think about all the twists and turns that life has dealt me (or that I have dealt myself), and they make me sad. On Friday, I wrote about how much goodbyes suck. But what about when they’re not just temporary goodbyes to people? What about when they’re very permanent goodbyes to the people we once were? Because to say goodbye to yesterday is to let go of old hopes, dreams, and passions. To say goodbye to yesterday is to embrace an unknown future. And the unknown can be very scary, indeed.

I don’t have a witty or upbeat ending to this post. I guess that’s because I’m still thinking about my little garden, completely dead, plowed-over, and re-seeded by my very own hands. Because it is I who let go of Erin ‘05. I chose to turn my life in a different direction, to pursue different goals, to be a different person. And while I love this new direction, these new goals, and this new me, I feel sorry for the old Erin. Because she was happy, too. She loved to pick veggies out of the garden to cook for dinner. She loved to toil in the garden in order to produce yummy goodness. And it is out of a fierce loyalty to her that I feel sad. Part of me still wants to honor her, while the other part can’t distance itself quickly enough.

My elementary school graduation song was “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” by Boyz II Men. And who can really say it better than a couple of boy from Philly?

“I don’t know where this road
Is going to lead
All I know is where we’ve been
And what we’ve been through.
…
And I’ll take with me the memories
To be my sunshine after the rain
It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.”