Disorder in Green Beans — Ambyr Clay
My Nana has her own personal garden, buried back from the rest of the yard. It’s hidden between the garage and the window of the small breakfast nook. White-ish gray stones line the edge of the garden, with a wired fence stretching up to my waist. My Nana and I put energy into this garden. Energy to make it organized, despite the fact not many people will see it. The rows are perfect, with each dirt path having its own designated vegetable. In spite of this constant effort to keep everything organized, the roots and vines grow out of the lines. They expand like a wildfire spreading rapidly.
Just like my Nana’s garden, I’m organized on the outside, but disorder grows in me. When I’m in school, or doing any work-related activities, I hate disorder. My planner–which stays in the same place like all my other notebooks, in the second spot to the front, in my bookbag–is my prized possession. Each letter is written in the same pen, each word highlighted the same color for the month, and each reminder in “perfect” lines. My school inbox is checked at least three times a day; no email is ever left unread.
At home, however, I live in disorder. My personal inbox is checked, at most, once every two weeks and is filled with 30 to 50 unread emails. The room I flee to every day after school is an active, bustling jungle. It consists of piles of unwashed and washed clothes in one corner, a variety of the most random things scattered across my desk, and almost anything you can think of that shouldn’t be on the floor, but is on the floor. Despite all this, I have slowly fallen in love with the thought of becoming a financial analyst. The thought of organizing spreadsheets and fixing what could be wrong–ordering the disorder–causes my passion to grow like an unyielding plant.
I soon came to realize that in order for things to be organized, disorder has to interrupt order. Through chaos stems the best writing. The environment around me at my local Panera, where I sometimes go to write, plays like a construction zone in the middle of a city. Workers behind the counter shout order numbers and names. Some people converse with their tablemates, and some answer emails on their bustling computers. My document sits untouched, the mind racing to get something on the page.
I look down at my phone, still deciding which mood I’m feeling so I can pick one of my many designated Spotify playlists. Is “Cafe” the right pick, or am I “Christmas” because the snow is falling outside? It definitely isn't going to be “Tennis Playlist.” I decide to land on “All My Liked Songs,” since it is the only playlist which shows my chaotic side. And through the chaos that plays around me and in my headphones, I am able to get the words to start flowing on the page.
The unexpected can be one of the worst things ever. When things stray from my original path, I feel my mind start to scatter, as I desperately try to get back on track. My calendar app shakes in my hand as I try to focus on what I have to do for the rest of the day. The bus is on its way to tennis practice: the place where I’ll spend the next two hours. Scrolling through the rest of the week, each color-coded event engulfs my screen like an abstract painting. Most of my afternoons are filled with either tennis-related things, or work until nine, making me worry when I’ll have time to fit in homework. My chest rises slowly and descends at the same pace. There will be time, I tell myself.
A lot of people would say I’m predictable; I would agree. But even though I love my organized calendars on my wall, in my phone, and in my desk, I know I don’t always need them. Life is more unpredictable than anyone can imagine.
Opening the wired gate, I walk into a world filled with its own personal mix of organization and chaos. The smell of fresh soil and growing vegetables fills my nose. My favorite plant is the green beans. Their fuzzyish feel always intrigues me. They get two rows in the garden, but the way they grow makes it look like one big section. Stepping over the vines that stem out into the walkway, I stand next to my Nana, whose gaze is trained on some of the green beans. We both reach for a couple of the ripe ones, and drop them into a white bowl.
I look at the plants a little longer. They’re tangled and — .These plants grow how they want, despite the effort put into making the garden look organized. Disorder doesn’t always need to be put back in order. I just need to find my garden.
Ambyr Clay is a 16-year-old junior who attends Lincoln Park Performing Arts Charter School for writing and publishing. She mainly likes to write poetry, but writes creative nonfiction at times. When she's not in school, she likes to play tennis and go thrifting. In school, she is a part of the Student Council, Black Student Union, and an editor on her school's newsletter.