Author: beneshja

Deer Fence

Deer Fence

When we came here, there was a fence. Standard issue, subdivision allowed, six foot wood fence, slightly rotting from the ground up, due to poor maintenance and the generally shitty quality of builder grade fences. Beyond the fence there were woods – partially ours and beautiful. Standing outside the fence it seemed like we owned a park. “We’re taking the fence down”, my husband said. “It will make everything open.” Looking back, our naivete was almost awe inspiring. The stuff dreams are made of. We didn’t hear the laughter.

It had to happen. The open space, the beautiful woods, the building of year round blooms in the garden. Stopped. Infested. Like mold, slugs or blight. But worse.
Deer.

The deer are like other insidious garden destroyers. Like grubs, or chipmunks. But bigger. And more clever. And much more snide. Sarcastic even. More annoying and arrogant. More knowing (like how your mother knows you’re up to something but lives 800 miles away). But stupid. Unable to cross a street without meeting headlights straight on. And potentially less driven (chipmunks are very driven).

And so the battle began.

The deer started with one, maybe two, small heads peaking into the yard. Not even in the garden, just from the corner of the woods. Noses high. They are simply admirers. (Posers. Imposters.)

Until they are not. Then they are like deer-shaped guerilla fighters. In. Destroy. Out. Keep watching. Laughing in the woods. A deer laugh.

I am a mere mortal, spreading wolf pee all over the yard until every dog in the neighborhood senses the pack is near and start to howl. Believing this works, but knowing it doesn’t, as the ghost deer take out the green sprouts of lilies and all the Lenten roses. Next, they consume a summer buffet of begonias, inpatients, daisies. This is followed by a sumptuous fall feast of coleus, Rose-of-Sharon, anything that flowers – and even those that don’t. Down to the roots. Bark stripped.

We stalk each other. They prance in groups boldly into the hostas along the path; dinner-party of eight, please. I clap, chase, and shoot marbles at them (clearly having lost my own some time ago). They scatter into the woods and laugh their silent deer-laugh at us. My neighbors watch sly-eyed from behind their own fences. Madness follows. And the garden is a wasteland that brings me to tears every time I walk through it. The white name tags of rare lilies and perennials are chewed and scattered, like food left under the table when feeding unruly children. My daily meditation becomes a litany of what isn’t there anymore. Not even the stone gargoyles want to look, turning their backs to what they were there to protect, but failed.

And now, because we must, a fence. My husband builds it day by day. A post, a gate, the rolling of boulders and the transplanting of bushes. Not a wood fence. An ten foot, barely visible, but solidly there, fence. A deer fence. The proverbial line in the sand/woods fence.

It’s early false spring here. The daffodils are breaching the earth. The garden smells green. Of hope. But its early yet. While the Lenten roses are making a show of it, there is more enticing temptation to come. Lilly shoots. Then we’ll see.

And the deer? They watch. Far back in the woods, staying away from the yard as the fence goes up, locking them out, but shitting by the posts because they can, as if to say “So what?”, laughing the silent deer-laugh. Plotting.

I think to myself, are they in or are they out? Which side of the fence are we viewing ourselves from? Who is truly fenced? Who wins this way?

Maybe that’s why the deer laugh.

Unboxing Day

Unboxing Day

I am a hoarder of small things. I save receipts, restaurant cards, flight stubs, hand written notes that are no longer meaningful. Whenever I clean a purse or a drawer I end up stuffing a plastic baggy full of miscellaneous scraps of paper and placing them in one of those “assemble yourself” paper boxes from Ikea. I stack them in various places in the house so my failure to purge it isn’t quite so obvious and with the well-meaning intent to revisit at another time when I will be more self-disciplined.

Placing these small items that are like short stories from my life into a box is not just for the tactile. Mentally compartmentalizing, sorting and setting aside, is a survival skill I have long honed. A coping mechanism in order to “not take it personally”, to “work the problem, not the personalities”, to get through a meeting, a day or a month or a year in corporate life. Salvage what is good, put the rest in a box and put the box away, back in the corner where I do not wander often. Where I do not dwell on it.

Sometimes what goes in the mental Ikea boxes are scraps. Scraps of anger, regret, resentment. And more often than not, they are work related. The easiest way to face another day in an often brutal and abusively dysfunctional environment was to pack the worst of the previous day away. Add another plastic baggy to the paper box marked “Work” and move on. Look for the good and stay focused. It helped me work with individuals who were demeaning, get through days that were meant to grind down to the bone, and survive leadership actions that were often incomprehensible. There are many work boxes. It is no doubt a waste of space.

But other boxes are more precious, filled with heartbreak and grief that simply could not be processed. Days and nights that were so difficult, conversations so painful that I still have no ability to share them. They are delicately wrapped and the box glued shut for self-preservation. Placed carefully on a shelf, always visible. I do not look away from them, but I do not open them either. In my mind’s eye they sit in a soft glow of a nightlight. Waiting their turn.

Like any hoarder, I know this cannot go on forever. I have read Marie Kondo, and its clear I have many boxes that do not “spark joy”.

Recently, when mentally shuffling Work boxes (to make room for Frustrating Pandemic Shit boxes), I noticed that while full, they felt light, a reflection of how little I still cared about what they contained. Maybe they are ready to toss. No need to unbox – no actual life lessons learned to sort through. What was of true value, (people, purpose, friendship), I carry close with me. Mentally, it seems time to put them on the curb and bring some light into the room. Spring cleaning.

And the precious boxes? They remain heavy in their cargo. They’ll stay. They are both a reminder and a challenge. The mind only has so many compartments, so many spaces to cordon off with Temporarily Closed signs. Deep emotions do not run silent forever. There will come a time of strength and solace. These boxes do not go to the curb. They are slowly opened and embraced. Looked through with care and remembered. Each day their own.

As I wait I think of how to open the box. In this time in between I prepare myself.

For unboxing day.

Popsicle Daffodils, crystalized crocuses and the Heartache of False Spring in the South

Popsicle Daffodils, crystalized crocuses and the Heartache of False Spring in the South

I live in what could be deemed Natures Amusement Park – otherwise known as spring in the south. The park consists mostly of thrill rides (60 degree days in February, 22 degree nights in March), and of course carnival games you cannot win (predict the last frost date at your own peril, loose your fig tree even before it gives you a fig). I try not to engage, not to get excited by those early warm days of false spring. I stare at the calendar and tell myself no, no, no – do not shop for lilies now, it is cruel to both you and the lilies. But the first soft rain blurs the dates and my heart starts humming “Spring” by Vivaldi. Who is really afraid of that old, silly wooden roller coaster? Not me!

And so like the call of an old time carnival barker who knows a sucker when she sees one, spring lured me in. A few sunny days, the slow creeping of the thermometer to temperatures above 50. And then the first green shoots above the mulch. Spikey little crocus leaves, the broader flat daffodils. Another day, another rain and suddenly a pinch of color by the ground, a soft purple against the brown. One brave little crocus indeed. But what took my breath away was waking up to the tall shock of yellow against the woods. A daffodil. Like pure sunshine in glass it stood stark in the winter garden.

It’s too early, my pragmatic Northern brain warned. We are only 10 days into February. It will snow!

No its not, my hopeful Southern heart whispered in my ear. February is almost half over! It was 65 yesterday!

Soon more crocus burst wide their buds, like a game of connect the dots along the lower garden. And like daring young girls who choose to go sleeveless in March, the daffodils were radiant patches of yellow and green along the stone path. There was no fear here.

The heart wants what the heart wants, but the brain is smart enough to hear the warning sound of a roller coaster in motion. The click, click, click of the coaster car climbing the first large loop as the temps broke through 65, then 70! And then the obnoxious five day forecast from Alexa, showing the steep drop below, the dreaded hard freeze warning on my weather app. My heart simply closed its eyes, painting roses and tulips in bright shades of watercolor. But my brain remained focused with fear, unable to look away from the impending disaster. The coaster ride was locked, loaded and there was no getting off.

The morning after the first sub-freezing night I looked at the garden from the window, it showed no outward sign of damage. The day itself remained cold, never above 30. The predicted low for the next night was 19. It seemed unnatural that everything wasn’t brown or turned to mush. As I walked along the stone path I touched one of the daffodils. It was frozen solid. A bright yellow popsicle. The crocus were also frozen, folded up from the night before, they looked like ice crystals in sunlight; brightly colored, but ice none the less. Did this mean they would die and melt when they warmed? I was heart broken. My husband looked at me exasperated. “They make their own antifreeze. They’ll be fine.”

And just like that the 19 degree night was followed by a 54 degree day, and the flowers stayed bright and colorful, no melting puddles of daffodil yellow. There was the occasional burnt leaf tip, a setback in some of the too early perennials. But green shoots continued to push through, dismissive of the weather forecast and the subfreezing nights ahead. Fear is clearly a human emotion, but none exists in the spring garden, calendar be damned.

It is now the second week of March and everything seems to have some life to it. The many varieties of daffodils are a daily pleasure, while looking for new growth on old perennials is a treasure hunt we do twice a day. And while we know the risk of a freeze is still quite real (ask any azalea lover) we’ve already put in the summer bulbs and bareroot plantings, embracing the Magic 8 Balls prediction that spring is here (“Count on it”). Because what is spring without some temptation and a little heartache? It would be an amusement park without rides. And who really wants that?

The Year Without

The Year Without

This post begins in the past when I first started it. Late. In a month that seemed to rush by, every day shorter and more hurried. Never catching up I seemed to have lost all of November as well. Where did all the time go?

October 29th  

I am actually writing this in a word document on my little Microsoft tablet because my internet is out, and I cannot write directly into my blog. At this exact moment there is no internet, no TV and no Alexa. So there is no background noise and no music. The upside – no commercials about Attila the Hun or other nonsense. Like so many other things that weren’t this year, it seems just another sign of the times.

This year, for the first time in more than 25 years, we will not have a Halloween Party. While Halloween has not been officially canceled, it has officially become one of the scarier days of the year. Because of everything out there, goblins and monsters being the least of it, even the real ones not as scary as what we do not see.

Last night we had a tropical storm warning, and of course along came the winds and rain. A tropical storm warning 3 days before Halloween seems incomprehensible. I’ve seen my share of pre-Halloween weather warnings; snow, ice, wind, no burn (the saddest, because there can be no fire). But the tropical storm out did all that. The eeriness of the day layers on the spookiness as we close the year. Even our giant pumpkin, a gentle soul selected from a beautiful farm in the North Georgia Mountains did not survive for it’s grand debut, but melted unceremoniously on the front lawn. The day the storm threatened, the great pumpkin gave in and wallowed in its yuckiness. And now my yard smells like pumpkin death. Not a welcoming scent for Trick-or-Treaters – assuming any come.

October 30th (Devils Night, Eve of the Full Moon)

Today I am carving pumpkins, drinking a glass of wine and trying to get into the holiday spirit. I have my favorite orange sweater on and a ghost wine glass in hand (“I’m just here for the boos!”). But my heart isn’t in it and I am having a hard time coming up with faces. Even the witch painting I started sits unfinished. She beckons, but I cannot seem to get her on her way out of the woods. We both sit at the in between space, waiting.

Halloween is tomorrow. And the full moon. A convergence of things to celebrate. We should be folding up scape paper and filling the Monkey Head with negativity to burn or divining the recipe for Witches Brew through tasting trial and error. Winter silence approaches, a time of renewal. But something is missing and it seems to have trapped the joy in there with it – someplace out there, just not here.

Dec 29, 2020

Two months have gone by since I sat at my desk and tried to write here. I look at the snippets above and notes I had jotted down for future posts trying to recall what was at the heart of it. In my journal, somewhere in November, I lament that going out now feels more alien than staying home for a 4 day vacation used to feel (back in the day when I was on the hamster wheel called “work”). There is a sense of displacement, an inability to enjoy it, a constant nagging feeling that something is not quite right and maybe we shouldn’t be out here.

That day in November I had gone to my daughters houses to drop off some promised supplies and goodies. Something I had done many times in the past as they live so close – becoming the ultimate emergency delivery service. But it was made awkward by the standing on the porch, the no hugging, the no welcome into the chaos of the home to see what was up, the grandkids standing 6 feet away for mutual protection. Looking at those words on paper, it was clearly not a good day. This would not be the year with the Thanksgiving family chaos and food shared across 4 households. It would not have shopping and silliness and bonfires. It must have rankled me that day, another loss in a year that wasn’t.

As winter completely closes in it seems hard to stop reflecting on all this year was not. It was often without family and friends except in grief. It took loved ones and distanced us from those we would normally turn to for support.  It took away the fairs and fireworks, the scavenger hunts in tiny stores for special gifts. It took hold of our traditions and tried to wrest them away. It took more than it gave. And left sadness in our hearts to take up the empty space therein. A sadness that can be hard to push out and left me silent.

I look out the window now and the sun is shining, the sky azure blue despite the time of year. It tells me a new year will come, even with all the loss. The days are already infinitesimally longer. At some point we will write “2020” on a scrap piece of paper, put it in the Monkey Head and burn that shit appropriately under the light of a mostly full moon, tossing in some sprigs of sage for good measure. We will come back inside and light a candle. A light to push back the dark, because that is what we need to do. It’s what we can do. And while New Years is still a few days away, my New Year’s resolution is to keep that candle lit and keep these pages full. So there are no empty spaces for the dark to hide.

Peace.

The Snowman

The Snowman: Into the Woods

Into the woods we go

Looking for what we do not know

Only we must, so we look, we fuss

We walk and sigh and know not why

But into the woods we go….

The Storm Catchers

The Storm Catchers

It started mid-day. The sea was calm, blended into the sky, the beach somewhat nondescript. Just beachy. The eye was unimpressed.

I walked away from the scene, unsatisfied. I had spent significant time on the unimpressive calmness on the watercolor paper in front of me. It needed more. But I needed to fight the urge to overwork, scruffing my paper and having mud for a focal point.

I sent out feelers to my art supporters (my daughters – my clear eyed assessors of when Mom tilts wayward). What does this need? It’s kinda bland. Maybe that’s okay – some days its good to have a calm sky that blends into the sea with a beach that is beachy. Some days we need that. It just didn’t seem that was where the sea and shore wanted to be. It wasn’t the heart of what wanted to be seen.

I thought maybe something distant on the water? Sail boats? It was a well received idea, of course – why not? A calm sea, an un-noteworthy sky. Why wouldn’t you go sailing? I would sail if I knew how. Maybe that was the key.

I returned to the painting. The sky was really bland. Not even good clouds seemed to break up the happy Caribbean blue. So I mixed a few more shades. Gently worked them to the sides – not to much. Maybe. Just hint of something on the horizon.

Then I practiced the happy little boats on scrap paper. They were very happy. They seemed to stand upright into the wind – headed home. How clever. Scrap paper is such a liar.

Brush in hand I tried to do the happy little boats in the painting. Two seemed to be sea worthy, a third (because of the rule of three there is always a third – beware any sailing trip without 3 boats) listed slightly. The more I tried to fix it, the more disproportional to the others she became, not merely listing, but dangerously close to full operatic Poseidon roll. It clearly needed to be swallowed by waves – quickly. I tried to place a tiny sail to the left to distract, but it only seemed focus more on the slipping ship. The dark spot on the horizon. Poseidon revisited. It had to go.

Watercolor is an unforgiving medium for an impatient painter. What is laid down can rarely be fully taken back up. There are no paint overs. Water is both the friend and the enemy. An apt medium for one who wants to be a pirate. I used all my self-taught YouTube tricks. Both the ocean and the sky became darker to disguise the imperfection of a “sunken” sail boat. The shift from bland to warning was stark. Clearly time for the boats to get to ashore was running out.

Night (an ultramarine blue with grey and crimson blend) was approaching. The rest of the sky was threatening. I worried for my little sailing companions. Why were they out there? Why were they not ashore with drink in hand telling outrageous stories? I gave them another escort (one more boat – strength in numbers), but did not turn them from the storm. What if that is why they were there? Chasing it, seeking the wind, daring the sea? Small boats on the horizon with cunning captains and fearless crews, knowing exactly what they wanted – the chase. Perhaps to catch.

I put the brush down. The mid-day serenity had blended and shaded itself into an encroaching night, harms way in the distance. But I knew the sails would reach port, would be okay, better for the thrill of the chase. Tomorrow was another day. A different adventure. And I knew they would be willing to sail again. As would I – brush in hand. More dangerous than the storm and relentless.

What Keeps Us Up at Night

What Keeps Us Up at Night

The world is a large and wondrous place. And in these uncertain times, it seems scary as well. Between wonder and fear there is much to contemplate. To think about. To worry over. Our issues seem unfathomably immense, something for the greatest minds to dwell on. For the average person, it can drive you crazy. Or to drink. Or to sleepless nights. The enormity of it all.

And then, there are the frogs.

I have a waking dream. I usually have it early in my sleep cycle, when I try to think of good things to lull me into the night. It is a bit of a fever dream, in that my room, despite the air conditioning, is still too hot. The blanket is too heavy, the air vent makes too much noise, the windows are not sound proof. If anything, the windows have brought the outside in. I can hear the water of the small fountain, the crickets, the cicadas, the frogs. Especially the frogs.

In this hazy half-sleep dream, the setting seems familiar, like a “60 Minutes” interview. The guest seems familiar too; a knowledgeable, credible, empathetic individual who people would naturally turn to for thoughtful critiques and visionary insights on how to solve our ISSUES. Someone tall enough to slouch. Maybe it’s Bill Gates. A Leslie Stahl type host leans slightly forward and asks The Most Important Question Known to Man.

“So, what keeps you up at night?”

The guest does not assume the pose of a person in thought – no tented hands to engender trust. He doesn’t wax elegantly on medicine, economics or miracles. The Gates imitator instead leans forward as well – eye to eye with Leslie.

“Damn squirrels. And the frogs! The incessant croaking. Who the hell can sleep with that going on?” And he launches into a detailed description of the mind boggling, ear-splitting song of the 17 year cicada. In the studio, people start to whisper. They swear they can hear them. And the frogs.

Leslie, appalled but a consummate professional hesitates slightly, then pushes on over the growing background chaos, “Surely these are little things?”

“To you!” Snorts fake Gates. ” Do you know what time I get up in the morning? Did you know that shortening your average sleep time by even one hour takes years off you life? Don’t you have a Fitbit? Have you seen my sleep score?!”

The dream dissolves as the frog chants grow louder, like two bad high school bands trying to outdo the other. The cicadas hit their crescendo and Leslie walks out of the studio swearing under her breath, while Fake Gates tries to cram AirPods in his ears. There is the fluttering of bats overhead.

And I wake up. The frog by the fountain is so loud he could be sitting on my pillow. I swat it just to be certain and wake my husband. My sleep score drops 10 points.

There are a lot of things to worry about these days. Liquidity, deficits, and viral load are no doubt robbing some of our most creative minds of the sleep they need. My nights can be an endless recitation of worst case scenarios as I watch the DOW on a roller coaster ride from hell. My God – did my husband just sneeze? Where the hell is the Lysol?!

But I am only human. And fear can be both exhausting and dehumanizing. Somewhere in the over riding fear of the last 6 months we seem to have lost our sense of humanity. And in these most uncertain of times humanity is what we crave. From our fellow citizens, our leaders. From those we turn to for hope. Often that flash of humanity is seen in efforts of kindness, generosity, comfort. But it can also be seen when just admitting we are mere mortals, with faults and fears both great and small.

When we admit that frogs are what keeps us up at night. And we turn back into humans once more.

Judgement, Procrastination and the Art of Plank Walking

Judgement, Procrastination and the Art of Plank Walking

So what is it that keeps us from making that final move and accomplishing that small goal for today? That simple thing we just needed to get done, and its been on the list forever. It beckons, and whispers to us. But we don’t feel called. We feel pushed. Pushed out on a plank above deep water. Finishing the task is like taking the last step. And there is no net.

We spend years procrastinating. This is a not a broad brush condemnation of others, this is a self own. I am a master of the art. Trips spent not picking up or buying the small beautiful items I will never see again – pictures, jewelry, baubles of glass. Always a reason not to – to wait, to come back later. Places I did not go, things I did not try, groups I did not join. Because. What if no one liked it, or me? What if I am no good at it? Better to do it the next time. I’ll be back when I have more time. Later.

In my past life this procrastination was hidden behind the curtain of not having time. Enabled by a poor work-life balance, I put things off because work came first. It was unnatural to find time to create and enjoy. It was easy to procrastinate. In fact, it felt quite justified. After all, I was “leaning in”.

But times change, and here is the rub. I now have time. Quite a bit of time to be frank. And yet I only write two or three paragraphs before I tuck away my draft blog, before it is set aside to ponder on. Before it goes to live in the Draft folder for months on end. Never complete or good enough to post. That last step before the plunge. I balance on at the end of the plank, looking down.

Worse yet, I now pause to think before I create. I do not put brush to canvas or pen to paper because – what if its not all that good? To put it off is to not be judged. Because I will judge it. I sail this ship. I built the plank. It is my battle that keeps me standing on its edge.

Why? Why would I, suddenly enabled by fate, become my own disabler? The struggle is palatable, daily. Why?

According to my “Strengths” assessment, I am a “Learner” at heart. And years of being in the corporate world has taught me much. The lesson that becomes ingrained is that there is always a score card. A small, black chalkboard with your name on it that tracks every mistake and misstep. No matter what BS McKinsey & Co is selling or leadership nonsense about learning through failure – failure is not generally well tolerated. It is marked on the chalk board and carried relentlessly across the years. There is a significant gap between what is said in a Bloomberg interview or TED talk and what happens in the slow, inevitable, everyday grind of just getting the job done. You are judged. And in return, you become judgmental, with the harshest view turned inside.

Self assessment. Self judgement. That is the creativity killer that sticks. A motivational double-think. The instigator and nurturer of penultimate procrastination. To procrastinate is to avoid judgement. Even if self inflicted.

So now here I am. Hardly anyone reads my blog (by design no less), but I hesitate to finish because what if I offend or bore (the biggest offense of all)? No one sees my art except for beleaguered family members who cannot escape the wine fueled texting, but still I hesitate to start. Or if started, to make the final brush stroke to finish. Because once finished, it can be judged – because I will judge it. To delay judgement, I perfect procrastination. Because who wants to be judged? No one really volunteers to walk the plank.

With all this time in hand, a blank piece of paper should be an invitation to hope and beauty and joy. To heed the whisper to come hither and create. Not viewed as a jump into shark infested waters.

So everyday I fight this small battle with myself. To start the story. Pick up the brush. Take a pen in hand. No one is looking. Only me. And I have to stop. Step out of the ingrained habit to judge and criticize. Step away from the blackboard. Put down the chalk. Erase my name.

But, while I do battle alone, I know I am not alone in this battle. Others struggle too. Many close to me. Some to exhaustion, fueled by guilt. We must see each other. And put down the chalk. Pick up the eraser. No judgement.

Lastly, and most importantly, this is not a coy plea for affirmation. The compliments I receive are jewels I cherish. They feed my soul. I write this in acknowledgement that finding joy is hard. It can be sidestepped by self-doubt and the inner harsh critique. This battle will not end with more followers or a love emoji. It will always be here. Plank in sight. And we must master the art of walking it. Stepping cleanly to the edge and jumping without fear. And while falling, think not “that was poorly done”, but think of the color of the rising wind, the sound of the deep night, the vast ocean. The whispering of paint on paper. The solidness of words. These are the treasures at the end of the dive. They are mine if I can reach them. Treasures to take into battle next time.

Without judgement.

Shooting Stars and the Rules of Wish Making

Shooting Stars and the Rules of Wish Making

When I was much younger, nothing compared to the magic of seeing a true shooting star. In the deep night of a farm field, laying on a blanket, looking up, and there it is was. A brilliant streak across the sky, or a small but longer fall into the dimness, they were indelible in our memory. Wished on fervently, they carried the mystery of future promises. Our very own magic.

I am no longer so young. Now meteor watching takes planning and is often fraught with disappointment. Is it a weekday or a weeknight? Stay up late or get up early? Stay in the yard and hope the neighbor cuts the flood light, or get in the car and go up a mountain? Will it rain? Clouds? Are we in the poor viewing area? The wrong hemisphere? Is this even worth it? Who really still does this shit? And when the night stays cold and empty, a promise broken, even adults feel a little betrayed by the celestial beings.

But to make a wish on a falling star still seems to hold an ancient pull for us. It still has a magic all it’s own. Are these not the strongest of wishes, those sprinkled with star dust and said earnestly into the darkness? They sparkle in our mind like small jewels, coveted, their possibilities endless. Who truly can resist?

And so came the Eta Aquarid, worming its way into my plans, tempting me. Googling “meteor showers” several times a day, following the internet into rabbit holes on moon rise/set, radiant rise, and the myth of Aquarius, the Water Carrier. The promise of 10-30 meteors per hour could not be resisted. I took the bait. I opted for a wake up early approach, setting the alarm for 4:00 am, optimistic that I had a chance at being outside by 0430 – five at the latest. Predawn. Perfect timing.

I slapped the phone when the alarm went off. Without glasses, I missed stop and hit snooze. It went off again as I looked for socks and sweater in the dark, much to my husband’s sleep deprived chagrin. Eventually, phone in hand as a guide light, I stumbled down the stairs and onto the back porch where I paused, hand on the screen door.

It was dark. Beyond the screened-in porch there is nature. Specifically, spiders. Spiders which have built webs throughout the night just to catch some stupid, clueless prey. I needed a stick to hold before me and check for webs. “A spider stick!” my mind screamed. Finding an old broom handle I felt more prepared and slashing it up and down before me like a giant wand, I stepped onto the deck and sat in a chair. Cleared of webs, but wet as hell.

Back into the house for a blanket, a roll of paper towel, socks from the dryer – anything to keep from going upstairs again. Wrapped in a throw I settled once more into the chair, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Staring easterly as instructed by Google and Star Finder. Within minutes a dark shape flew close over my head, black and swift. An owl? A bat? Carnivorous flying squirrels? Spider stick in hand, I pulled the porch door closed cause who needs that shit in the house. Alone in the night once more, I sat on the deck and looked up. Staring, hopeful.

And then the waiting and thinking and pondering started. I composed wishes. Having read “The Monkey’s Paw” and seen Aladdin several times (not to mention every episode of Twilight Zone), I tried to frame my wishes without “gotcha!” loop holes. To the tired mind there are so many ways a wish for happiness could go wrong, none of them absurd. If I simply wished for someone to by my old house, was I wishing for a foreclosure auction? If I wished for my husband to be happy, how did I know he wouldn’t be happier without me? What then? Exactly how would I disappear? On and on it went. Over the next few hours I had many unanswered questions, each more irrational then the one before, my mind spiraling.

Can you have pending wishes? Can you wish in advance and just wait for a star to fall in case your mind is too numb to wish when you actually see the damn thing?

Is it possible to use the same wish too often? I really, really really want to sell my old house, but how many times can you wish that before its nullified? Is there a secret limit? Who keeps track?

Does the size of the falling star matter? Or the length traveled or its brightness? Little stars, little wishes; big stars, big wishes? Who classifies these? What if you put the wrong wish with the wrong star? Does it just bounce back like an email with an overlarge attachment? Who sends you the “Unable to deliver” note?

Do stars get tired of hearing us bitch wish? Wouldn’t you?

At some point I saw a meteor. A large, flashy one that fell into the Big Dipper, as if it were a basket to catch them. I made a quick wish, which had nothing to do with selling the old house (so much for planning ahead). I saw a few smaller ones, floating quickly above my house then down to the treeline. I continued down my list of wishes, waving my spider stick every now and then as a preemptive measure against a predawn spider attack. A crazed wizard wrapped in a blanket with a broom handle, practicing incantations at 5:30 in the morning.

Finally the sky began to lighten ever so softly. The birds were a loud cacophony of chits and tweets. And there was certainly now a bullfrog living in my fountain. The noise was alarming in its sudden intensity. An owl called. I was covered in dew, despite the blanket. It was time to go inside. My work complete, I had done all I could do on the wishing front for one night. I crawled into bed cold, slightly damp, and cynically optimistic I has done good.

There is a phrase adapted from a proverb: If wishes were fishes we would all cast nets. I am certain it is meant to speak to the fallacy of “wishing” instead of “doing”. But it doesn’t stop us. Deep inside we are all fishermen, whether we cast nets for the small silver fish or look down the wood of a harpoon seeking white whales; the size of the wish doesn’t matter. Its just always there, waiting for the turkey wishbone bone, a coin in a fountain or shooting star. It remains, buried inside each of us, waiting for its time. So I will keep mine close and shiny, saving them again for the Perseids, or the Leonids, or the deep December cold of the Geminids. My spider stick waits on the porch, and I have magic at my finger tips. Just ask the stars.

Whales in the Rare Air

Whales in the Rare Air

“I feel like a drenched whale.”

I heard myself say it even as my brain said “Seriously?” It was a toss-off statement, one I am certain I had made before, but never heard myself. Never heard how it had to sound to others. An inner WTF moment ensued.

What is a drenched whale? Whales are in the ocean. Wet. Drenched, so to speak. Like really down under the water line. Unless breaching. With water rolling off their flesh in waves, it’s a brief sojourn into the sea air. The sea spray announces their reentry to home. They are more comfortable below.

I live above the water. I do not swim. I would not, without much consternation and persuasion, put my face below the water. I would never “drench” myself that way. Nor would I know, therefore, what a whale, already wet, would feel like. Under water and drenched.

But if the words seem nonsensical taken individually, maybe it is the weight of those words strung together that expresses a deeper, more poignant exhaustion. A graceful animal in their environment, suddenly weighted and heavy. Heavier. Drenched in rolling water, trying to breath.

Could be me. A person neither light nor graceful. Neither deep in the sea or with face under water. But weighted in a way nonetheless.

I think of what above the water and in the light used to feel like. A little fresh. A little expansive – maybe feeling risque enough for a selfie and a walk without a coat. When I could sleep.

But the world is not a constant. Just like the ocean it moves and swirls; rises and falls – brings life and pain.

We try to navigate as best we can. Whether with bio embedded instinct, soul led faith or just an organic need to survive we keep trying to move forward, surface, breath, and move on.

But still one can feel like a drenched whale. If held too tight, held down too long, drenched too suddenly, or simply pushed beyond our natural boundaries of how we’ve managed in our world. Like the whale at sea, we press ourselves up through unnatural air, drenched, then seeking the solace of deep water. Breaching. Beauty above and below.

And myself, on dry land, seeking the solace of a better day, a lighter feeling with fewer sleepless nights. A whale with few wishes. But feeling the pressure. Seeking now an open sea. And clearer skies. Rare air. A graceful creature above the water.

As all of us wish to be.

Physics and the Fallacy of Saving Time

Physics and the Fallacy of Saving Time

We are told we must spend our energy in the right places. We are told constantly that time is of the essence, live urgently. Hurry.

Essence. Time. Energy.

Not quite the power of E=mc2. But important and powerful in its own way.

Time travels only in a straight line – forward. Time is everything. “In the essence of time” we hurry, skip steps, words and visits, abbreviating life. All our energy pushed into “saving” time, the law of inertia driving us relentlessly to keep moving. But we really don’t save anything. There is no wallet for time saved, no secret lock box to open and savor all the things we said we would do later because in the essence of time we simply didn’t do those things when we had the chance. Phone calls, letters, trips to places far and near. Time saved, opportunity lost. Energy scattered randomly across the universe.

But time. Time as an entity doesn’t care about your savings plan. Doesn’t give a shit that you saved a moment or two by not returning a text or call – that savings plan is a pyramid scheme for the gullible. Time ain’t giving you those minutes back or sewing them onto the end of a longer rug. Time is selfish. Like a crooked casino dealer it holds all the cards and the odds are in its favor. Because time will move forwards in a linear fashion, head on. Head on into any delusion you had of collecting your bank roll of saved time.

Waiting to reach out?

Waiting to go to the shore, the mountains, your family rerunion?

Saving time today to spend tomorrow?

Sorry – that account was not insured and is bereft of funds. The lock box is just a sieve where everything that goes in leaks remorselessly out. Net zero sum. The only accounting is a deficit in what you didn’t do. Red ink in the minus column and no savings to make it right. That is just the plain physics of time. It does not bend. It does not stop. It does not give back. So just stop.

Essence. Time. Energy. Take the time, spend the energy and savor the essence of life offered to you in this moment. Be that force that can change how you move forward. Because time is paving that road ahead of you and it will not stop. Time has its own plans.

Time is truly of the essence. The essence of life. Which also doesn’t wait. Be warned.