The Love of Failure

In gardening, in parenting, in writing.... but not in myself.

In the spring, Fia showed an interest in plants. Suddenly, she knew about seeds and how water makes things grow, and wind and bees too, and she was so enthralled that we bought some low stakes, hearty flowers and plants, so that she would have something to water when we went up to the roof. On a sick day, of which she had approximately a hundred this spring, I recalled that in a covid-induced panic at some point I’d bought a seed kit— a set of tiny ceramic pots with paints to decorate them and dirt and seeds to grow cucumbers and tomatoes and basil. (I linked to it and it is a truly PERFECT multi-step activity to do with a bored three year old, cannot recommend this enough, beautifully presented by this etsy seller, just A plus).

The key, I have found, to parenting, or at least to parenting my kid, is to assume failure will happen. To be prepared for it and at peace with it. For everything I attempt to simply be that— an attempt. A trip to the beach? I might stay for five minutes or five hours, either is fine. A meal I’ve made? Probably she will hate it, I will consider it a massive success if she brings it up to her mouth sticks her little tongue out, allegedly tastes it, and screams, with a huge smile on her face, YUCK! An art project we start? It will probably end in a mess and serve no purpose as she loses attention immediately. A fun lunch at the diner just her and I? I am ready for her to scream, eat nothing and make it impossible to stay. In fact, I ask for the check when I order. I’ve done this since she was a newborn. I pay before we even try to eat, knowing I can escape at any moment, knowing failure is right there, ready and waiting. And, actually, sort of comfortable.

This part of parenting has mostly come naturally to me, the comfort with failure part. It comes naturally in writing too— I teach, and practice, the idea that the point is to find joy in the work, and that failure can be a beautiful part of that joy. My first drafts are especially messy. I am, I think, known for this. But I am also known for my response to lengthy editorial letters that tell me all the ways I have not yet succeeded at the story I want to tell. I respond with enthusiasm, excitement that I can find a way to fail again, but better. Or at least bigger. That all those failures will add up to some success that looks absolutely nothing like the success I set out to have.

I have not yet found a way to bring that energy to the rest of my life— my relationships, my view of myself, my understanding of my own mistakes as a human, and that it remains elusive is frustrating. I want to approach a new friendship this same way— maybe we will have a wonderful time, maybe it will be an awkward coffee where I say all the wrong things— and feel the way I do with beach trips and writing magical worlds. I want to feel comfortable with that possibility— probability even— of failure. It seems so obvious. But for some reason, I can’t get there. I do not accept the failure, the beauty of it, or even the existence of it. I resist.

Back to these plants. For a few weeks, Fia was diligent, reminding us to go to the roof after school, watering them with great earnestness and joy, delighting in the process. And then, just as suddenly, school started a unit on the solar system and she was reporting to me all her facts about gravity and Jupiter and orbits, and informing me that astronauts go potty with a seatbelt on, and the plants and our lovely rooftop visits were gone.

On Sunday, however, Fia remembered the plants and wanted to water them again. So we went upstairs. I told her, just like I tell myself, that probably we had failed. And of course, I was mostly right. A few sad blossoms held on but there was nary a sign of vegetable and the cilantro was a bouquet of sticks.

Fia grabbed the watering can anyway, and spent twenty minutes drowning the poor dehydrated plants, informing me, confidently, that they would grow again.

And what do I know, maybe they will.

But what I want to understand is if I can’t count on a trip to the ice cream store with a toddler to go well or a cucumber to grow on our roof, why would I assume I will only grow in one perfect direction? Why can’t I, sometimes, be the sad cilantro that withered and dried up and turned into not-at-all-cilantro? Or why can’t I be my toddler, watering it anyway, smiling at the silliness of the brown stems, hugging the pot it’s in, going back to the hose for more and more and more water, unworried about the mistakes we made that brought us here, focused only on what we might do to grow it back. Enjoying, simply, the fun of being on the roof, staring at the Manhattan skyline in the distance, running back and forth to the hose to fill up the watering can. Even if we never remember to do it again. Even if we can’t, in fact, succeed.

Some Recommendations:

We watched the EXCELLENT Made You Look documentary on Netflix— a really fascinating tale from the art world that had me itching for more art world documentaries or novels. Any recommendations? This one I think would pair BEAUTIFULLY with a longtime favorite documentary, My Kid Could Paint That. if you’ve never seen it— now’s the time!

I had the opportunity to read acclaimed YA author Sara Zarr’s debut middle grade novel, A SONG CALLED HOME, and though it doesn’t come out until February, I have to mention it now, as I devoured it in a few days and it is a new favorite of mine. If you are a reader of middle grade novels or have a 8-12 year old in your life, I can’t recommend this novel about families and how they change and how that changes us enough. Worth a preorder!

As a huge proponent of vaccination (please get vaccinated!), I found this episode of The Daily podcast, which talked to different people opting out of vaccination for a variety of reasons, a difficult but important listen. I understand the world best through other people’s stories, and so I know this type of journalism isn’t for everyone, but for me it helps ground me in the world and the human experience, even if it leaves me at times depleted or disheartened.

Have a wonderful weekend, all! I hope whatever gardens you’re growing are, if not successful, at least fun and filled with hope.