Every year I understand less

No progress, but blooming flowers

Just when I think the dog has the hang of it, she tries to chase a garbage truck. Or a squirrel. Or a cat. Or tries to lunge with love at a pedestrian who, she is certain, wants to be her best friend. After days of walking loose-leash and calm, she’s a wild pup again.

She lives to teach me the adage, “two steps forward, one step back.” She’s my one-foot-in-front-of the-other reminder that progress isn’t a straight line. We keep trying.

And after a day or two, she’s back to walking like the angel dog that her veterinarian says she is. I say she is, too.

Two steps forward, one step back, two steps forward. We’re further than we were.

So, too, with my son getting ready to graduate high school and leave for college. Steady progress, and then he’s thrown by a group project in college algebra. Turns out he didn’t read the syllabus. The child of a college professor and sometimes adjunct, and he didn’t read the syllabus? Who raised him? He sulks for days. I sulk. But then, the group project isn’t a problem. It goes well, unlike all the internet memes about group projects.

Two steps forward.

So, too, with me. Just when I think I’m back to normal, I’m knocked over by self-doubt. Getting laid off work last year made me question everything. Maybe I only told myself I was a hard worker and an effective colleague. Perhaps only I thought I was good at what I did. There’s vanity in believing that what happened to thousands of public and non-profit service workers in 2025 wouldn’t have happened to me if I’d been just that much more competent. At night, I dream of failure.

Two steps forward, one step back.

Yesterday, I turned 53. I’m grateful to grow older. Every year, the world makes less sense to me. I’ve been practicing walking around my house without my glasses on, keeping my mind sharp for old age and learning the contours of my house. Recently, I’ve started leaving my glasses off when I take the dog to the garden for her first pee of the morning. It’s scarier. The world is bigger and the terrain uneven, not to mention the urgent and excited dog I’ve tied to myself.

I’ve started taking those first steps barefoot. The grass is cool and textured under my feet, and I remember my annual childhood goal to get summer tough feet that could walk anywhere. By “anywhere,” I meant our gravel lane.

In the blurry dawn, in the grass, in my pajamas, I inhale the scent of whatever’s blooming. It’s peonies now, which could knock you over drunk wth their fragrance. I’ve never smelled anything better than the white peonies, the ones I scavenged from next door before the old house was knocked down and the lot leveled. This summer, the college arborist will send a student to take a clump from the bush and to plant at the new house. Heirlooms will bloom again next door next spring.

I want to believe that anyone could come to my garden at dawn and be swayed by the dusky false indigo, which is what I mean when I say that every year, I understand the world less.

Two steps back.