Are we aware of the moments when little seeds are being planted in us by someone or something? Can we ever look back and pinpoint the exact moment when something pivotal was finding its way in, maybe laying dormant for a while, but eventually bursting into bloom?
I think these seeds fall more often than we realize. We walk around scattering them all over the place willy-nilly.
But every so often, if the conditions are just right, a seed will take hold and thrive.
Tonight I was having a conversation online with a very old friend, someone who features heavily in all my best childhood memories. We haven't spoken in years.
"I've been reading your blog," he said, out of the blue, "It's been making me want to write my own."
I was flabbergasted. And delighted.
I was blown away that this little thing I do, way over here, in the seclusion of my small apartment, has influenced his life in however small a way.
Are we all doing this to each other, all the time, for good or for ill?
When I was thirteen, I had problems with my friends. They were determined to throw themselves into a world of experience that I couldn't keep up with. My immature brain could not figure out why I had suddenly been cast out. I took it personally. I thought I must be lacking. For a couple of years I didn't feel like I could trust anyone, as one by one my friends let me down.
Then came Erin. She wore her heart on her sleeve. She was loyal and trustworthy and hilarious. She planted seeds all over the place. I remember being very wary of her open offer of friendship, but then she surprised me by meaning it.
Have I ever told her how much that meant to me at that particular moment in time? Does she know how her honest heart won out over the cynicism that had been growing in mine?
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The Stuff We Hold On To
It's funny the way memories attach themselves to things.
How often have you come upon some THING - in a musty box hidden away in the attic, at a neighbour's garage sale - and been flooded with long-forgotten recollections of times past?
Where have those memories been, all this time? Would we ever have stumbled upon them again, or is this THING a key; the only one capable of unlocking them for us?
Is this why we hesitate to part with our THINGS? Is it that we've realized how our memories fail us?
My in-laws own an auction business, and this week I worked for them, unpacking boxes and boxes of other people's stuff.
How often have you come upon some THING - in a musty box hidden away in the attic, at a neighbour's garage sale - and been flooded with long-forgotten recollections of times past?
Where have those memories been, all this time? Would we ever have stumbled upon them again, or is this THING a key; the only one capable of unlocking them for us?
Is this why we hesitate to part with our THINGS? Is it that we've realized how our memories fail us?
My in-laws own an auction business, and this week I worked for them, unpacking boxes and boxes of other people's stuff.
I was blown away by the sheer number of objects one person could have, as each box yielded up it contents, filling the tables around me. But, strangely, I began to see the THINGS as subtle receptacles of memory. The collection of items, when viewed as a whole, seemed to tell a story - however fragmented and incomplete - about the life to which it had been attached.
It felt weird. Like snooping through your brother's dresser.
It felt weird. Like snooping through your brother's dresser.
Today found me sitting on the floor in my childhood bedroom, sorting through the contents of my 'memory chest'. Outside, rain poured down as I discovered pictures and notes, love letters and certificates. I let forgotten memories wash over me, soothing that deep inner thirst we all have for the answer to the question: Who am I?
Yet, while memories give us clues, I don't think any real answers are to be found in these relics. We are bound to stumble if we keep our gaze fixed over our shoulders.
I laughed and remembered, kept a few dear THINGS, then let go of the rest. I stood, brushing the dust off my clothes, and left the room. Trying not to look back.
Yet, while memories give us clues, I don't think any real answers are to be found in these relics. We are bound to stumble if we keep our gaze fixed over our shoulders.
I laughed and remembered, kept a few dear THINGS, then let go of the rest. I stood, brushing the dust off my clothes, and left the room. Trying not to look back.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Unexpected Detours
It's so easy to get sidetracked, isn't it?
On the drive from Philadelphia to New Haven, my husband and I drove fifty miles out of our way because of one small mistake. Was it carelessness, an unavoidable error, or something else? It's hard to know for sure. But there we were, thrown miles off track, with nothing to do but go forward.
Has this ever happened to you on the road? What about in life?
In the first year after I finished theatre school, I got a call from a cruise ship company offering me a seven-month contract as a dancer. I was surprised. I thought they were going to offer me a singer's position. I turned them down with the hope that they might change their minds and ask me to sing.
They didn't.
It felt like a big mistake at the time. I was watching my exit fly past as I flew down the road at a hundred kilometers an hour. I was wasting valuable time and energy in a huge detour.
Then I got a call. Did I want a gig in my hometown, choreographing a full-length show for the first time ever?
And another call, this one from a certain great guy I had had a crush on since our first meeting in grade seven homeroom. Did I want to go for coffee?
A few years and one big question later, we're married.
From where I stood that first year out of theatre school, I could never have predicted where my life is now. The twists and turns have been many; some for better, some for worse. The detours have, in many cases, led me away from the arrow-straight highway of success. But I wouldn't trade this sweet, soulful, winding road on which I find myself.
Miles and miles out of the way of our destination, my husband and I stopped for a break at a road-side rest stop. We stood surveying the scene, stretching out our car-cramps. My husband ate a ripe plum and it oozed down his chin.
The sun was beginning to set behind the distant peaks of the Catskills. The dusk was warm and fragrant with the smell of moss and damp earth. Ivy climbed in a verdant frenzy up the towering trees that wrapped around us. I shaded my eyes with my hand and gazed out over the golden trees.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I asked.
He nodded, grinning. The sun behind him created a halo of light.
"Beautiful," he echoed.
On the drive from Philadelphia to New Haven, my husband and I drove fifty miles out of our way because of one small mistake. Was it carelessness, an unavoidable error, or something else? It's hard to know for sure. But there we were, thrown miles off track, with nothing to do but go forward.
Has this ever happened to you on the road? What about in life?
In the first year after I finished theatre school, I got a call from a cruise ship company offering me a seven-month contract as a dancer. I was surprised. I thought they were going to offer me a singer's position. I turned them down with the hope that they might change their minds and ask me to sing.
They didn't.
It felt like a big mistake at the time. I was watching my exit fly past as I flew down the road at a hundred kilometers an hour. I was wasting valuable time and energy in a huge detour.
Then I got a call. Did I want a gig in my hometown, choreographing a full-length show for the first time ever?
And another call, this one from a certain great guy I had had a crush on since our first meeting in grade seven homeroom. Did I want to go for coffee?
A few years and one big question later, we're married.
From where I stood that first year out of theatre school, I could never have predicted where my life is now. The twists and turns have been many; some for better, some for worse. The detours have, in many cases, led me away from the arrow-straight highway of success. But I wouldn't trade this sweet, soulful, winding road on which I find myself.
Miles and miles out of the way of our destination, my husband and I stopped for a break at a road-side rest stop. We stood surveying the scene, stretching out our car-cramps. My husband ate a ripe plum and it oozed down his chin.
The sun was beginning to set behind the distant peaks of the Catskills. The dusk was warm and fragrant with the smell of moss and damp earth. Ivy climbed in a verdant frenzy up the towering trees that wrapped around us. I shaded my eyes with my hand and gazed out over the golden trees.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I asked.
He nodded, grinning. The sun behind him created a halo of light.
"Beautiful," he echoed.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
What Kind Of Wich?
"I'm three-burger-hungry!" I declared as my husband and I sat across from our friends in a little pub in New Haven, Connecticut. It was our first night visiting them and, having made an unintended detour (more on that tomorrow), we had arrived late and hadn't eaten.
By the time our main courses came, we were well into our first pitcher of beer, the wings and fries had covered our mouths and fingers with a pleasing smear of grease, and the conversation had become loud and animated.
I took a bite of my "Southwest Chicken Wrap", paused, then shook my head. Hmm...That doesn't taste right. But no, it can't be. I took a few more bites, trying to concentrate on the question one of my friends was asking me.
The room was hot and loud, and the beer consumed on an empty stomach was starting to send warm fuzzies to my brain.
"...I'm sorry," I interrupted her, "I think there's something wrong with my sandwich."
The men looked over.
"What's wrong with it?" someone asked.
"Well, it sort of tastes like..." I blush and falter, then begin to giggle, throwing my hands up in defeat, "...POO?"
Their mouths drop open. Then a general burst of laughter.
"What!?" they cry in disbelief. The sandwich is passed around, and it's confirmed. It's a definite poo-wich.
Next, I have to explain the situation to the waiter, and if saying the word 'poo' to my friends wasn't hard enough, imagine how I blushed and choked as I told him that the food he had just served me tasted and smelled exactly like excrement.
It was really a shame. Apart from the chagrin of having eaten more than ONE bite of the stinky crap-wrap, I felt a little sad as I sent back food for the first time ever. The waitress in me rebelled.
But the rebellion was brief, and in the end the rebellion of my olfactories won out. The poo-wich disappeared into the kitchen, never to be heard from again.
By the time our main courses came, we were well into our first pitcher of beer, the wings and fries had covered our mouths and fingers with a pleasing smear of grease, and the conversation had become loud and animated.
I took a bite of my "Southwest Chicken Wrap", paused, then shook my head. Hmm...That doesn't taste right. But no, it can't be. I took a few more bites, trying to concentrate on the question one of my friends was asking me.
The room was hot and loud, and the beer consumed on an empty stomach was starting to send warm fuzzies to my brain.
"...I'm sorry," I interrupted her, "I think there's something wrong with my sandwich."
The men looked over.
"What's wrong with it?" someone asked.
"Well, it sort of tastes like..." I blush and falter, then begin to giggle, throwing my hands up in defeat, "...POO?"
Their mouths drop open. Then a general burst of laughter.
"What!?" they cry in disbelief. The sandwich is passed around, and it's confirmed. It's a definite poo-wich.
Next, I have to explain the situation to the waiter, and if saying the word 'poo' to my friends wasn't hard enough, imagine how I blushed and choked as I told him that the food he had just served me tasted and smelled exactly like excrement.
It was really a shame. Apart from the chagrin of having eaten more than ONE bite of the stinky crap-wrap, I felt a little sad as I sent back food for the first time ever. The waitress in me rebelled.
But the rebellion was brief, and in the end the rebellion of my olfactories won out. The poo-wich disappeared into the kitchen, never to be heard from again.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Leaving...
I'm flying the coop for a week. A glorious getaway, a giddy galavant, a tumultuous traipse! I wanted to let you know since it's more than likely that you won't be hearing from me while I'm away.
But isn't summer the perfect time to slack off a little? Isn't it wonderful to pack up the car and drive for parts unknown? Isn't there something exhilarating about flip-flopping down some foreign pavement in the ten o'clock dusk with the laughter of friends around you and a warm breeze whispering against your bare legs?
And then when the moon rises and there's nowhere you have to be, doesn't your heart burst open like a glittering night sky?
But isn't summer the perfect time to slack off a little? Isn't it wonderful to pack up the car and drive for parts unknown? Isn't there something exhilarating about flip-flopping down some foreign pavement in the ten o'clock dusk with the laughter of friends around you and a warm breeze whispering against your bare legs?
And then when the moon rises and there's nowhere you have to be, doesn't your heart burst open like a glittering night sky?
Monday, July 13, 2009
When Your Presence Is Not Presents Enough
"I don't think most 26-year-olds would know that thing is meant for holding garlic," said my husband.
"They wouldn't?" I asked. I looked at the hand-made pottery and furrowed my brow. "What about this?" I picked up a beautiful, blue and purple glazed serving dish, and caressed its smooth loveliness.
"I don't know," he said, hesitating, "I don't think most 26-year-olds who live in the city cook."
I sighed in frustration, "Well, the wedding's this weekend, we've got to get them something. What do you suggest?"
"Cash."
The conversation got me thinking about the joys, terrors, and potential pitfalls of giving gifts.
For there are many social guidelines for gift-giving, but are there really any hard and fast rules?
Some people say "I don't want anything" and really mean it. Others are just testing you. Some people are genuinely pleased to receive a gift, whatever it is, while others are happy only if it is something they want, while still others couldn't care less about the whole process.
I think it's important that our motives be true:
If someone you know genuinely does not want a gift, but you insist on getting them one anyway, who is that gift really for? Or maybe you know someone who wants something, but it's not in your taste so you get them something else. Maybe you are so afraid of making a mistake you don't even bother.
It's a tricky business.
It didn't take my husband and I long to realize that we're on opposite spectrums of the gift-giving scale.
He's not a gift-guy. He doesn't appreciate presents for himself, he detests the societal pressure to give gifts at prescribed occasions, and he thinks the commerce of gift-giving (taking wine to a dinner party, for instance) is at best stuffy, and at worse a cheap attempt to buy friendship.
I, on the other hand, LOVE giving and receiving gifts. I am thrilled when I have found just the right thing for somebody. I feel loved and cherished when opening something, anything, given to me by someone who cared enough to think of me.
Suffice it to say, this combination doesn't always work well.
Christmas can be dicey.
"I want a present this Christmas," I'll say.
"I don't want anything," he'll answer.
Some years we fail each other, usually when we both insist that our way is the right one.
But the best years are when we both succeed in truly honouring the other's wishes, despite our own personal views and desires.
Because, really, isn't this what gift-giving is all about?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Uncertainty As Freedom
Nobody likes uncertainty. It's uncomfortable, and vaguely threatening.
'What's going to happen!?' we all want to know.
And yet, even though it doesn't feel like it, isn't uncertainty a kind of freedom? Doesn't it reveal that there are multiple possibilities open to us? Isn't it beautiful that we have the freedom and capacity to choose our own paths?
So why does uncertainty oftentimes feel more like a cage, trapping us and hindering our forward momentum? We fear to take a risk because of uncertainty about the outcome. In many cases this is a good thing, as our wax wings can't take the heat. But frequently we are so afraid of the terrifying unknown, that we barely allow ourselves to look at the sky.
As Melville wrote in Moby Dick: "Ignorance is the parent of fear."
My days right now are steeped in the emotional upheaval that is the result of living in uncertainty. I'm impatient to know what's coming next. I want the illusion of security that comes with feeling certain about where one's life is heading. I want it now!
But when I stop to reflect, I realize how foolish it is to try to chain myself to the ground, just because the wide sky that has opened up overhead frightens me with it's vastness.
I realize, too, the hard (yet liberating) truth that it's no more than a pipe-dream; this notion that certainty exists at all in the world.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
How Rude
Yesterday, a friend and I were talking to a man who had recently attended a funeral. His eyes widened and he spoke passionately about it.
"Could you believe," he asked us, "That this Korean priest kept his HAT on during the whole burial?" He shook his head in disbelief, "I mean, show some respect!"
I listened as sympathetically as I could, but all I could picture was this man, standing at the graveside of a friend, witnessing the momentous passage of her human body into the earth that sustained her...seething about a hat.
It verged on the ridiculous.
"Maybe they don't take their hats off at burials in Korea," my friend suggested, timid in the face of his outrage.
It's amazing to think about the complexities and subtleties of the rules of etiquette that keep us all on an even keel. Most of these things are so ingrained in us that we don't even realize they're there until someone from a different culture points them out to us. Because, although globalization continues to make the world feel small, the rules of fair play are not universal.
Did you know, that in some parts of Asia it's considered rude to finish all the food offered to you? As rude as if you were to say "Well, that was an awfully small meal." In other parts of the world, not finishing everything on your plate would mean that the food wasn't up to your standards. And whatever you do, don't lean back at the end of a meal in Australia and announce to the table that you are "stuffed". If you do, expect some hearty congratulations, as they'll take this to mean that you're pregnant.
In China, a common greeting on the street is "Where are you going?" It is less of an actual question and more of a casual hello, but to someone from the West, it might be taken as curiosity verging on impertinence when asked by a stranger.
Public smooching on the streets of Paris? Go for it. Kissing in the streets of Cairo? You might get arrested.
Speaking of bad manners, Prime Minister Stephen Harpur was in the news this week:
He was attending a Catholic funeral, when the priest offered him the host. In a Catholic service, non-Catholics are not supposed to partake of communion, and the Prime Minister should not have taken the wafer.
But, take it he did. Then, most likely realizing his mistake, he put the host (to a Catholic, the very body of Christ) into his pocket. Not good.
But my first thought is, what were his intentions?
Did the Prime Minister INTEND to disrespect every Catholic from here to the Vatican? I doubt it. For that matter, did the Korean priest MEAN to thumb his nose at the dead body of a 92 year-old woman? I'm thinking not.
Don't get me wrong, I think manners are very important. They are the key to showing every human soul that crosses our path the reverence and respect it deserves. But when someone makes a mistake, wouldn't it be good manners to give them the benefit of the doubt?
But, take it he did. Then, most likely realizing his mistake, he put the host (to a Catholic, the very body of Christ) into his pocket. Not good.
Catholics everywhere threw back their heads and howled.
But my first thought is, what were his intentions?
Did the Prime Minister INTEND to disrespect every Catholic from here to the Vatican? I doubt it. For that matter, did the Korean priest MEAN to thumb his nose at the dead body of a 92 year-old woman? I'm thinking not.
Don't get me wrong, I think manners are very important. They are the key to showing every human soul that crosses our path the reverence and respect it deserves. But when someone makes a mistake, wouldn't it be good manners to give them the benefit of the doubt?
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Your Own Personal Pot Of Gold
How much do you like money? A lot? A WHOLE lot?
How often does it influence your decisions? What percentage of your day is devoted to the pursuit of it? Has your personal value system ever been altered by it?
Money is a huge part of our lives, but we rarely talk about it except in very limited terms: "I need to make more money", "That's too expensive", "You owe me five bucks".
Rarely do we think about its deeper impact on our psyches.
Have you ever done something you didn't feel good about for money?
As a waitress, this issue arises daily because, in every customer interaction, the all-important tip is on the line. Do you flirt with the guy at the bar who is demeaning you, so you can part him from a little more of his cash?
Has money ever come between you and a friend? (i.e. He's not pulling his own weight, or she's taking advantage of me). How much is too much for the friendship to bear? What is the friendship worth, monetarily? 20 bucks? A hundred? A thousand?
Recently, I've become aware of the desire of people to take any talent or skill a person possesses and commercialize it: Bake really great pies? You should sell them! Enjoy helping your elderly neighbour with yard work? Why not start a small business?!
For a while I was working two jobs, one in the day, and another at night. At first it was exciting to see how much money I could make, how little sleep I could survive on. But eventually, I began to notice changes in myself. I felt my normally cheery disposition begin to sour. By the end of a workweek, I was screaming profanities at people in my head over the tiniest things. I also became slightly obsessed with the growth in my savings account, determined to hang on to every last dollar.
I had literally chosen money over my soul.
Still, everyone needs money to live on. The fact is, that most of us will be faced, at one point or maybe often, with a choice to make between more money or more time.
Neither of these choices is wrong in and of themselves. They are right or wrong only in relation to the way they affect your quality of life, and that of the people around you.
But, when the time comes, let the decision be yours and yours alone. Don't let the pressure of a money-obsessed world decide your values for you.
How often does it influence your decisions? What percentage of your day is devoted to the pursuit of it? Has your personal value system ever been altered by it?
Money is a huge part of our lives, but we rarely talk about it except in very limited terms: "I need to make more money", "That's too expensive", "You owe me five bucks".
Rarely do we think about its deeper impact on our psyches.
Have you ever done something you didn't feel good about for money?
As a waitress, this issue arises daily because, in every customer interaction, the all-important tip is on the line. Do you flirt with the guy at the bar who is demeaning you, so you can part him from a little more of his cash?
Has money ever come between you and a friend? (i.e. He's not pulling his own weight, or she's taking advantage of me). How much is too much for the friendship to bear? What is the friendship worth, monetarily? 20 bucks? A hundred? A thousand?
Recently, I've become aware of the desire of people to take any talent or skill a person possesses and commercialize it: Bake really great pies? You should sell them! Enjoy helping your elderly neighbour with yard work? Why not start a small business?!
For a while I was working two jobs, one in the day, and another at night. At first it was exciting to see how much money I could make, how little sleep I could survive on. But eventually, I began to notice changes in myself. I felt my normally cheery disposition begin to sour. By the end of a workweek, I was screaming profanities at people in my head over the tiniest things. I also became slightly obsessed with the growth in my savings account, determined to hang on to every last dollar.
I had literally chosen money over my soul.
Still, everyone needs money to live on. The fact is, that most of us will be faced, at one point or maybe often, with a choice to make between more money or more time.
Neither of these choices is wrong in and of themselves. They are right or wrong only in relation to the way they affect your quality of life, and that of the people around you.
But, when the time comes, let the decision be yours and yours alone. Don't let the pressure of a money-obsessed world decide your values for you.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Comfort Food
Free Orange Macro Macaroni and Cheese Creative Commons
Originally uploaded by Pink Sherbet Photography
My first thought was: "A good day to make chocolate chip cookies."
What is it about rainy days and comfort food?
I think it has to do with childhood. In summertime, when you're a kid, if it's sunny you play outdoors, and if it's rainy, you stay in. I remember being happy as a clam, curled up in a window seat as the rain pattered against the glass, with a book and a whole sleeve of saltines.
I still read for hours when it rains, and I inevitably turn to those comfort foods that feed my soul much more than my body: Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, bowls of honey nut cheerios.
I think it's important to relish these quiet days of contemplation, when the sky opens up, pours down, and urges you to 'slow down, stay in'.
Think about it, next time, when the weatherman is calling for 'bad' weather, and rain threatens to 'ruin' your weekend, because there is a whole world of creature comforts just waiting to be enjoyed indoors.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Our Secret Lives
Free Pretty Princess Picking Her Nose Creative Commons
Originally uploaded by Pink Sherbet Photography
Many of the secrets told were dark - secretly hating a parent, lying, cheating, stealing - so I remember the levity one particular confession brought:
A beautiful, smart, accomplished woman stood up in front of us all. Her face turned red. She began to giggle hysterically. Then, barely able to speak, she blurted:
"Sometimes, when I sit on the toilet...(blushing, giggling)...I like...(giggle)...to...(then all at once in a loud rush)...PICK MY NOSE!"
The class erupted. We laughed for a solid minute, and she laughed too. We wiped tears from our eyes, and held our aching sides. We chuckled all afternoon.
It was the most amazing confession. One of those things that we have ALL done. But which you would NEVER, EVER confess to.
It makes me wonder, what other things do we all do and never confess to?
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Alone With Humans
It's easy, if you don't live in the country, to go days and weeks without animal contact.
Even for a nature lover like me, the reality of apartment living is that the places I do 'escape to nature' in, are generally well worn forest paths, or parks, or beaches, and it is seldom that anything more exciting than a seagull crosses my path.
I wonder what this does to us? Is it not strange to live in a world teeming with living things - cougars, slugs, porpoises, otters - yet live a life that fairly denies their existence?
Children are fascinated by animals, yet as we grow, we forget to imagine all the animals living LIVES around us, and see them in a narrow, limited sense: food, threat, nuisance, or pet. (To counteract this, please read the children's classic, "The Wind In The Willows").
Being home, surrounded by lush green places of my youth, I have lately been reminded of the presence of animals. There were puppies for sale at the market on Tuesday, and I nearly brought one home.
Then, yesterday afternoon, still trying to shake off the last remnants of the flu, I sat quietly by the pond on my parents' farm, writing. I wrote a little, then lay back to watch dragonflies skimming the surface. I wrote a little more, then investigated a turtle. A big, black snake slithered past my feet as I walked back to the dock, and I jumped, then laughed at myself. Looking up at the far field, I could see something yellow creeping quickly along. Through the telescopic lens I watched as a yellow coyote leaped into the air and pounced down onto something in the grass. He looked up as if he could sense me watching him and stared straight into the lens. I looked away out of a sense of propriety, and he slipped away over the crest of the hill.
It was an animal day. A rare, precious day in which I glimpsed a world larger than the mostly invented cares of my daily existence. I closed the laptop, leaned back, and opened my eyes wide, waiting to see what the world would reveal.
Even for a nature lover like me, the reality of apartment living is that the places I do 'escape to nature' in, are generally well worn forest paths, or parks, or beaches, and it is seldom that anything more exciting than a seagull crosses my path.
I wonder what this does to us? Is it not strange to live in a world teeming with living things - cougars, slugs, porpoises, otters - yet live a life that fairly denies their existence?
Children are fascinated by animals, yet as we grow, we forget to imagine all the animals living LIVES around us, and see them in a narrow, limited sense: food, threat, nuisance, or pet. (To counteract this, please read the children's classic, "The Wind In The Willows").
Being home, surrounded by lush green places of my youth, I have lately been reminded of the presence of animals. There were puppies for sale at the market on Tuesday, and I nearly brought one home.
Then, yesterday afternoon, still trying to shake off the last remnants of the flu, I sat quietly by the pond on my parents' farm, writing. I wrote a little, then lay back to watch dragonflies skimming the surface. I wrote a little more, then investigated a turtle. A big, black snake slithered past my feet as I walked back to the dock, and I jumped, then laughed at myself. Looking up at the far field, I could see something yellow creeping quickly along. Through the telescopic lens I watched as a yellow coyote leaped into the air and pounced down onto something in the grass. He looked up as if he could sense me watching him and stared straight into the lens. I looked away out of a sense of propriety, and he slipped away over the crest of the hill.
It was an animal day. A rare, precious day in which I glimpsed a world larger than the mostly invented cares of my daily existence. I closed the laptop, leaned back, and opened my eyes wide, waiting to see what the world would reveal.
Friday, July 3, 2009
In The Grips Of Something Sinister
Yesterday morning I awoke at 3am and knew something was very wrong.
I was flushed with fever, overcome with wave after wave of nausea, and I spent the next ten hours unhappily revisiting what I had eaten the day before.
It was a dark day. The darkness of the apartment with all the shades drawn mirrored the darkness of my soul. My normally cheerful disposition left me via the toilet bowl, accompanied by so much filth. I writhed on the living room floor begging for relief, succumbing to childish tears of frustration.
Then...
My mom appeared at the door.
She bore freezies and ginger ale. She smoothed my hair and brought me things. She called me "sweetie pie", and clucked sympathetically.
It was just what the child in me had been crying out for.
Isn't it strange how one malevolent microorganism could sweep away my pride, my many years of independence and self-sufficiency, and make a child of me? It was a humbling experience, this needing someone else for comfort. A test, too, to be deprived of activity. To feel my body weak and incapable, watching the world going on without me through the window.
I was forced into a monk-like state of deprivation, a meditative state: no food, no conversation, not even a book to read (for reading only made the nausea worse), only the constant prayer of a body crying out for mercy.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
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