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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.