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Failed Insurrection in the Garden

I just harvested the best crop of strawberries ever plucked in the 16 years I’ve had the privilege of tending our little garden.

Sixteen years?!

About four weeks ago, as the strawberry leaves were saluting the sun while shading their blossoms, I got creative with the netting. In the past, I’d sort of drape the netting across the plants, clothes-pinning the edges of the net to stakes or raspberry canes or anything within reach. I’d walk out of the garden and announce to all the listening birds that they were to, “Please stay out of the garden.” Then I’d walk into the house and cross “Cover Strawberries” off my list.

But alas, there would be gaps in the netting, and the birds always managed to find the gaps. Then I could be heard lecturing the birds about staying away from the ripening berries. By the time I’d get to harvest anything, most of the fruit had evidence of beak penetration, if they weren’t eaten all the way to the stem.

I’d laugh and tell the kids, “Well, the birds need to eat, too.”

This year I attached the netting to some stakes and framed the strawberry bed with my creation, leaving some of the plants outside of the netting as decoys. There are NO gaps underneath the framework of the netting.

It worked!

You may be wondering, “What took you so long?” To that I say, “When wrangling kids and a cat and a job and bills and all the other stuff life threw at me, the strawberry patch never made it to the top of the list.” Hell, it’s a wonder I even spent any time in the garden.

As I was plucking the plump berries, I listened to a podcast about reproductive rights or the January 6 Committee or voters’ rights or some such topic. (The podcasts are all mashing together in my brain making a word cloud: vote, rights, abuse, attack, democracy, vote, SCOTUS, insurrection, fight, flee, new zip code, other democratic countries, and vote. How is it 2022 and this is where we are?)

As the bowl filled with the dark red fruit, I started thinking (and forgetting to listen) about how my netting method worked so well. Of course, I extrapolated my ingenuity with the netting to the possibility of stopping insurrectionists, because… Why wouldn’t I?

In my head it sounded something like this:

Pluck a berry for the bowl, “So if I secured the large portion of the patch with the netting, and …”

Pluck a berry for my mouth, “… left a scattering of ripening fruits outside of the net to satisfy the birds while effectively keeping them away from the majority of the harvest,”

Pluck a couple more for the bowl, “… would it then be possible to secure our democracy while leaving strategically scattered decoys (what would the decoys be?) placed around the country for the insurrectionists?”

Move stool to get access to more berries, “Would the insurrectionists be satisfied with the ‘decoys’ or would they continue to go for the whole enchilada?”

Pluck two for my mouth, “The birds seem content with the plants outside the netting. I’ve surprised them when I’ve come out of the house, and not a one has been found trapped under the net, like they have been in the past. Is there a correct number of decoys to satisfy the birds? What would be the correct number of decoys for the insurrectionists? Again, what would the decoys be?” (This question started to make me uncomfortable.)

Pull a couple weeds to gain access to more berries hiding under leaves, “Hasn’t this country been trying to appeal to insurrectionists since the beginning of, well, this country?”

Rake the soil around the edge of the strawberry patch, “While birds do have a bird brain, they tend to prioritize well, as evidenced by the effort put in to the nest on the back patio, and the energy spent harvesting worms for feeding their babies.” (I don’t want to read up on how big, mean birds attack the nests of little, nice birds to make meals out of the nice bird eggs. I know there are mean birds out there. Are there some birds who act like insurrectionists? Even a bird brain knows enough to stay away from the mean lady in the garden.)

Leave some of the berries that still need a couple days of sun, “Is the common thread the brain? Is there a Venn diagram of human brains and bird brains with a large portion in the middle of the diagram representing Mean Bird Brains and Insurrectionist Brains?”

Look to the sky and check for rain, “Crap! Is it even about the decoys? Maybe it’s all about securing the net and not leaving any gaps. Good. The whole “decoys for insurrectionists” line of thinking was creeping me out.”

Speaking of brains, I think I need to get mine out of the sun because, once again, I find myself trying to apply rational thinking to irrational people.

Here’s what I do know: 15 years of cajoling, pleading, lecturing and yelling at the birds did not get the job done.

Securing the strawberry patch got the job done.

One more thing, if you haven’t made a plan to vote, please do so.

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My Second Saturn Return

I’m smack dab in the middle of my Second Saturn Return.

While I may read about astrology and refer to it to try to make sense of things, I don’t know a lot about it. I discovered this second return business a few months ago and it was a light-bulb moment. I had been blaming a lot on the pandemic, but the pandemic ended up being the framework for me to become more myself, which, it turns out, is very much a part of this Saturn Return thing.

As a person who has spent her life wondering why she doesn’t fit in, when she’ll be in the right place, or why she can’t comfortably do things like others or feel the way others do, I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can quit wondering about that. At least that’s what Saturn says.

Don’t all of us struggle with wondering where we fit in, if we fit in, and why it’s so difficult to feel a sense of belonging? I know it’s the hallmark of an INFJ to feel that, but would we (those lucky enough to live long enough) even have a Second Saturn Return if it wasn’t necessary (for all of us) to come to a point where the stars shout out, “It’s okay to be you and it’s about damn time!”

The stars aren’t up there for only those who believe in Saturn Returns. They are up there for all of us.

Perhaps you are thinking that I’ve lost it during my second return. I’ve turned into a recluse who is angry at white men and politicians and laziness and entitlement and apathy. Maybe you’ve noticed that I’m over here screaming that we need to care more, when clearly I have work to do on caring for established white men. Yes! I am a conflicted, complicated, messy, contradictory woman in her Second Saturn Return. I am all of those things and more.

I GET TO BE ALL THOSE THINGS BECAUSE THE STARS SAY SO!

I’m turning 60 next month and when my kids ask me what I want (and what I want to do) for my birthday, I wince.

I Googled “60th birthday present” and promptly told them NOT to get me some commemorative bauble that will sit in a box in my sock drawer. I Googled vacation spots and remembered that we would most likely be in the middle of a BA.2 (or whatever variant we’ll be on by then) cloud wherever we landed. I decided I’d rather put money toward the new bathroom we’ve been needing for 5 years.

In lieu of a shiny trinket or a trip to a place I can’t afford, I requested that Jen draw something that commemorates this auspicious (?) day, and Will take a picture of the three of us on the day. That way they can both use their talents creating something I’ll cherish, and it’s crossed off their lists.

Here’s what else I want from them:

I want them to try to circumvent the astrological system and see if they can learn to be okay with who they are, long before I did. Just because the stars give permission when you turn 58, couldn’t my kids be mavericks and get there a little sooner?

Being okay with who they are requires that they make their mental health a priority. (Being okay with who they are doesn’t mean they just sit back and say, “This is it. Take me as I am.”)

I want them to pay attention to how they feel. For years, I’ve wanted to see a therapist, but either I didn’t have the money, or something else was more important. The library provided therapy for me – that and the internet. I want them to know they have options. We live in a time when there is much less stigma about getting help. Because of all the resources available, there is no excuse for not seeking help. Yes, money is a factor, insurance is a thing, and trying to get an actual appointment during a time when absolutely everyone is faced with challenges may make getting help seem impossible, but help is out there. Reading (and writing) can fill the gap until money, insurance and an appointment can be worked out. For many of us, reading and writing are all we have.

Attention to mental health paves the way for us to accept ourselves.

It’s hard. Many days it just plain sucks. It requires work. I want them to understand that mental health is something they will work on their whole lives. As they grow and change, new issues will come up, and other issues will fade or be resolved. Mental health is not a project that gets crossed off the list, but an ongoing journey that could culminate in them being the best possible versions of who they can be. We’re all works in progress. (Putting in the effort also prepares us for whatever is in store in the next go-round.)

Also, I want them to take a good hard look at who they let into their lives. Are they surrounded by people who lift them up, or are they surrounded by those who want to bring them down? One of my aunt’s favorite quotes was from William Gibson: “Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes.” Are they surrounded by assholes? Or worse, are they assholes? Some days we all are. That’s when we have extra work to do.

I want them to find their tribe. Tribe is a big word. There can be two in a tribe – you and one other, but that person has your back, just as you have theirs. You most likely won’t find your tribe in your family or on Facebook. You might find your tribe on Twitter or at the library or in the produce section at Whole Foods. It can happen. Trust in the possibility.

The last thing I want for my 60th birthday is for them (and me) to lighten up a little. I want Jen to stop insisting that every grade has to be an A. I want Will to stop beating himself up for some of the choices he made in the last couple of years. (I plan to forgive myself for some of my choices, too.) I have to wonder, if we all lightened up on ourselves a bit, would we find it easier to be kinder and more caring of others?

I plan to continue to accept myself, while working on myself, up to (and beyond) my Third Saturn Return.

Happy birthday to complicated, caring, messy Me.

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Who Will Serve Your Tacos?

“Jesse! “

“I know, Hank. It’s been awhile. At least that’s what everyone says to me after I resurface from my preferred lock-down location. But, something’s driving me crazy and I had to run it by you. Besides, I’ve missed you … and your beer.”

“Well, it’s always a treat to see you walk in that door. Having the usual?”

Jesse nodded and took off her jacket.

Hank slid a beer across the bar and said, “So what’s got your mind spinning now, Jess?”

“Okay, I know we are wired to survive. At least that’s what the books – that we are allowed to read – tell us. We wouldn’t still be here mucking things up if that weren’t the case. Many moons ago, threats looked like a saber-toothed tiger. And I get that threats have changed as we’ve evolved.”

Hank dried his hands on a bar rag, “Have we all evolved, Jesse?” Hank laughed, “Yeah, now some of us face a threat by being in the wrong place with a different skin color. Or, a threat is being exposed to a communicable disease; or being alone in an alley while wearing a short skirt; or losing connection to the internet while binge-watching Castle.”

Jesse laughed. “When Jen is home from college, we binge on Castle! Love that show, even if he’s full of himself. Anyway, if you consider the fact that many of us survived childhood, middle school, learning to drive and decades without a television remote, it’s pretty clear we’ve demonstrated that we do have the capacity to survive. The other thing is that we’re wired to protect our offspring.”

“I gotta stop you there, Jess. I know some who aren’t wired that way, or at least their wires are crossed.”

“Oh, I know that’s true, Hank. Sadly. But, it’s also true that some who didn’t procreate still have the desire to protect the offspring of others. Did they get an extra dose of empathy? Is that a carry over instinct from a previous life when they did have kids? Or is it part of our basic wiring to protect the species?”

“It’s gotta be part of our basic wiring. If we aren’t giving birth to the ones who grow up to work in the factories or plow the fields or serve the tacos, someone’s got to give birth to them. We’d all better look out for the kids in order to keep society running. Right?” Hank walked to the end of the bar to greet a new customer.

When he returned Jesse said, “So with these instincts of survival and protection of the species….”

“I know where you’re going with the, Jesse…”

“What the actual fuck, Hank?!”

Hank laughed and shook his head. “I know. I know.”

“How has the definition of a threat changed so much? I know that perceived threats change for each of us with the passage of time. A steady diet of Taco Bell, beer, coffee and ramen was not a threat in my 4 – okay, 5 – years of college. Now, I’d definitely consider that diet a threat. See, that’s proof that I want to survive, right? I’m not thrilled at the prospect of my kids subsisting on that kind of diet, but the one who does, well, he seems to be surviving. How can the definition of a threat be so different for different people? Weren’t we all afraid of the saber-toothed tiger? Why aren’t we all afraid of Covid? Why are some of us afraid of a mask? Why are some of us afraid the government will force us to get a shot? Wouldn’t we have been thrilled to have a government protect us from that saber-toothed beast?”

A customer looked over at Jesse. “Sorry if I’m a little worked up, Hank.”

Hank wiped a worn spot on the bar that had seen a lot of wiping over the years. “Never apologize for being passionate, Jesse. Maybe ‘fear’ isn’t the right word. Many don’t want to be inconvenienced. Our lives have become cushy since the days of fending off tigers. Now we have time to sit around, with a remote in our hands, deciding we don’t have to be inconvenienced by wearing a mask, or getting a shot or staying home to watch the football game when we’d rather meet friends at a crowded bar.”

Jesse slid her empty class over to Hank. “So how has business been?”

“I’ve got a bit of a reputation, I guess. Folks – not a lot of ’em, mind you – come here knowing it won’t be crowded. They know most will be masked, as much as possible, anyway. I’m doing okay, for the times.”

“I’m glad for you, Hank. For awhile, there, I worried you wouldn’t be able to keep your doors open.” Jesse reached for her new beer and took a sip. “Why does it look like some believe that protecting others puts their own survival at risk?”

“I dunno, Jess. Do they equate survival with freedom?”

“Maybe that’s it, but how free are you if you’re dead?”

“Well,” Hank chuckled, “some think that’s the ultimate freedom.”

“You’re such a philosopher, Hank. That’s one of the things I love about this place. But, all of this gets me to thinking about the need to belong to a group, which is part of that survival instinct. It was a lot easier to go up against a tiger when in a group. It’s also an offshoot of the desire to protect offspring. You try raising children as a single parent. We need a village!”

“How’s your village, Jess?”

“Don’t get me started!” Jesse took another slow sip as she pondered. “Okay, so the village raises or protects the children and the species survives. Right? Society continues to function. Fields are plowed; widgets are produced in the factories; apps are designed for our devices; and all the tacos are served. Much of the functioning of society is handled by groups – families, churches, schools – you get my point. And even though I’m not much of a joiner, I can see how the group you belong to can dictate many of your beliefs and choices. I’ve a friend who is a diehard Broncos fan. Her bathroom is decorated in Broncos memorabilia.”

Hank looked at the end of the bar. Before he walked down to take an order, he looked at Jesse and said, “Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about that kind of thing, Hank!”

When Hank returned, Jesse asked, “How does one intentionally decide to join the anti-vax group or the anti-mask group? Doesn’t that go against the basic instinct of survival and the other – perhaps, as you suggested – not so basic instinct to protect the species? What kind of chemical mash-up happens in a brain when it sees a mask and determines that a mask is bad? What goes on in a brain that decides vaccines are bad?”

Jesse shook her head. “Is that directly related to the power (brainwashing) of the group? I’ll admit to some brainwashing from my left-leaning, save the children group, but I’m not walking around boosted and masked while suffering from some sort of cognitive dissonance stemming from my choices conflicting with my instincts.”

Hank folded and unfolded a bar rag as he listened to Jesse’s rant. “I seriously think that we are all dealing with cognitive dissonance, Jesse. Maybe that’s the only thing we all have in common.”

Jesse nodded, “Oh, I know! But maybe they aren’t bothered by cognitive dissonance, just as they proclaim – those who are still alive to do so – that they aren’t bothered by Covid.”

Hank put both hands on the bar and leaned in. “At the end of the day, the members of those groups will continue to believe the propaganda coming from the leader of the group. They’ll go home and fall down some rabbit hole on the internet that confirms everything that their leader tells them. They’ll binge-watch conspiracy theories and call their friends and rant and rave, just as you are doing right now. They’ll share posts about how only stupid people wear masks, or the government tracks you with the shot. They’ll vote for those who think like them. And all along they have no real clue that their own choices are jeopardizing their very survival.”

Hank leaned back, “What ever happened to critical thinking, Jesse? How will society function when so many are misguided?”

Jesse reached for her jacket, “They think they are critical thinkers, Hank. Even though they haven’t connected the dots on why it’s not as easy to get tacos these days.”

Edit: I hit publish, and got on the treadmill to read the next chapter of Caste – the Origins of Our Discontents. Chapter 20, The Inevitable Narcissism of Caste, speaks of the narcissism of group leaders. Perfect timing? If you haven’t read Isabel Wilkerson’s powerful book, you really should consider it.

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It Always Works Out

I last posted in July. While many words have since tried to coalesce into post ideas, not a one of those potential posts seemed to matter, when looking at the state of the world.

Since my last post, Jen has gone off to college, and Will has left one job and found another. While that doesn’t even make a ripple for all of you, my boat was rocked.

Also, in the months since my last writing, we celebrated an anniversary, of sorts. It’s been 15 years since the kids and I moved out of their dad’s house.

Speaking of rocking boats and the state of the world …

How Do I Know It Works Out?

Recently, with an abundance of time on my hands, I found myself going through digital photos. (Take it from me, if you don’t have a system for organizing digital photos, STOP reading this post and make a system for organizing all your photos. Do it now.)

. . .

I’m assuming you are much more organized than I am, and that you are still reading because you created files on your laptop for years and months and birthdays and Halloween carvings and dying of Easter eggs and first lost tooth. I’m envious of your organizational skills and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are more disciplined than I, and that makes me worried that we can’t be friends because I’ll always feel that my lack of discipline is disappointing you in some way. (Wait. I think that only applied to my romantic relationships. Never mind.)

Anyway, as I was scrolling through a hard drive full of unorganized digital photos, I noticed a common theme: kinks or bumps along the way always tended to work themselves out.

The pics of Jen before braces present a case in point. I loved that face so much that I didn’t want it to change with braces. Besides, I didn’t know where we would get the money for them. She wanted them so badly, even though she knew it would be tough to find the money. I would tell her, “Don’t worry, honey. It always works out.” Scroll forward a few years, and I love her new face just as much as I loved her before-braces face. It worked out.

More scrolling, and I see a set of photos from Will’s first vehicle. “Mom, where will I get the money to buy a truck? Can we even do something like that?” He and I made lists of lawns he could mow and walks he could shovel. I looked at him and said, “It always works out.” It did. After many lawn mowings and a small loan from his sister, he bought a truck. That was a couple trucks ago.

Then there are the pictures of the kitchen with the old appliances. The old range had quit working right before one of Jen’s birthdays. She wondered how we’d be able to make her cake. “It always works out, honey.” That year we baked her cake at grandma’s house, and found the funds to purchase a new range a few weeks later.

When Jen went off to school, those first few weeks were rough for both of us. We would count down the number of “sleeps” until her next trip home. We both put Post-its on our bathroom mirrors that said, “One day at a time,” because it was clear to both of us that even though this was going to work out, we were going to be muddling through one day at a time, at first.

. . .

I’ve learned that I have to time the delivery of, “It always works out.” In the depths of stress and worry, that can sound trite. No one wants to hear that expression when they are venting about how the Universe seemingly created a roadblock out of thin air. I wait to say it until after we’ve bumped over the roadblock, found the new route, and cruised a bit. Then, it’s safe to remind them that it does always work out. Sometimes I’m met with an eye roll, but they will begrudgingly admit that it does work out.

Back when they were little folk, I could have said, “It always works out, but it might end up looking different than you thought it would.” Or I might have said, “It always works out, and one day you’ll be glad that it looks different from what you were hoping for.” Or, “It always works out but it might beat you up a bit before it does.” My goal, then, was to encourage them, not dash their hopes with realism.

I didn’t consult a crystal ball to know it would work out, and I don’t know how to read tea leaves. Even if the coffee sediment in the bottom of the saucer looks like it means something, I can’t tell you what it means. But the three of us learned to have faith and trust that with a little effort and “some leaving alone” things would always work out, even if sometimes we had to remind each other.

What About in Today’s World?

Now, given the threats on women’s rights, voters’ rights, the climate, and our very democracy, can I truly tell my kids, “It always works out?”

Can we put Post-its on our mirrors and hope for the best? Who has the crystal ball that will reveal the future? Will this be a future with women’s rights, opportunities for all to vote, a climate that isn’t taking its last breath and our democracy still intact?

Will it work out for women if we lose bodily autonomy? (Untold numbers of women around the world have never even tasted that freedom, and we could very well lose it.) How do you reassure your daughter, while there are those who want to take away her rights? Will it work out for all those who lose their right to vote? Will it work out if we ignore all the signs telling us that climate change is not just a political talking point, but an inevitability? Has it been able to work out (albeit only for a lucky few), up to this point, because we’ve been navigating the bumps and roadblocks within the framework of this democracy?

More importantly, while it has often worked out for my little family, does that even matter if it doesn’t work out for everyone?

In another 10, 20 or 50 years, when this country looks in the mirror, will it like what it sees? Who will it work out for then?

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Margaret’s Return

“Thanks for bringing the coffee, Basil.”

“I always bring the coffee, Margaret.”

Margaret looked up at Basil and grinned, “I know.  I appreciate that, so I thank you.”

Basil twisted the lid off the thermos.  “That’s one of the things I love about you, Margaret, besides your pie.  You are always thanking everyone.”

Gladys adjusted her skirt as she approached the others.  “It kind of sounded like you were calling us together for a meeting, Margaret.”

Margaret handed Gladys a thin slice of lemon meringue.  “It’s more of a Going Away Party, dear.”

Just then, Jon road up on his skateboard.  “Who’s going away?”

Margaret handed Jon a larger slice of pie and said, “I am.”

Basil grinned.  “Nice, Margaret.  It’s your time to return?  I’ll miss you, but I’m happy for you.  Are you excited?”

Through a mouthful of lemon meringue, Jon said, “Cool!”

Gladys perched on top of a grave marker.  “I’m thrilled for you Margaret!  Tell us, what are you hoping for?  What do you want to learn?  Who do you hope to see?  Oh!  I can’t wait for my turn to return!”

Before taking another bite, Jon asked, “How many times have you returned, Margaret?”

“Oh, dear.  I’ve lost track.  Really.”  She paused a moment, then looked up at the sky and said, “I have no idea.”  Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the coffee Basil had poured for her.  She looked at her friends.  “You all ask good questions.  I’ve been contemplating this next return.  You know, it’s funny, Jon.  I’m not apprehensive about the returns anymore, so I guess that says I’ve returned enough times to get the hang of it, so to speak.  I look forward to them.”  She chuckled and took another sip.  “Yes, Basil, I am excited to return.  And to your questions, Gladys.  Well, of course I’m prepared to learn more.  After all, that is the whole point of the return.  As to what I hope to learn, I have to say, I’m hoping to learn something other than service.”  Again, she laughed and took a bite of pie.

Basil said, “But service is just about the highest calling.”

Jon looked at Basil, “What’s the highest calling?”  Basil replied, “Fishing, of course.”  All four laughed as Basil poured himself another half inch of coffee.

Gladys smiled, “I’d be pretty tired of serving if I were you, Margaret.  You’ve elevated service to a new level.  It’s about time someone served you for a change!”

Margaret laughed.  “That sounds like you, Gladys.  But honestly, I’m sure I’m not done serving.  That’s who I am.  But I am tired.  Serving, thinking about how to serve, thinking about who to serve, and wondering if I’m doing enough… It’s exhausting.  It’s not that I want pampering in the next go-round, although I wouldn’t turn that down.”  Basil and Jon looked at each other and winked.  “But maybe I’ll learn a new way to serve that doesn’t leave me so tired.  I hope I learn how to serve others while serving myself, too.  Does that make sense?  Gladys, sometimes I think you’ve already got that figured out.”

Gladys laughed.  “Well, we all know that my scale tips in the direction of serving myself before others.”  Gladys smoothed the pleats of her skirt.  “I’m not always sure that’s a good thing, but I also don’t feel the need to change.”  They all chuckled as they nodded in agreement.

Margaret stood up to get ready to serve another piece of pie.  “See what I mean?  My need to serve others is automatic.  I would like to get my scale to a balanced point where I can serve myself and others.  And as far as who I hope to see…”  Margaret reached for the pie server.  “I know I’ll be seeing you all again, at some point.  We certainly won’t be in the same roles, but I’ll run into you, for sure.  Jon, I hope you’ll be older.”  Jon said, “Me, too!”

Basil said, “Maybe we’ll do a little fishing together, Margaret!”  Margaret laughed and said, “I suspect we’ve already done that, Basil.  But we’ll most likely be doing something together again.”

Margaret sat down and sighed.  “I’m ready for a rest.  I’m ready to take stock in what I’ve learned, and get prepared for the next lessons.”  She looked at Jon.  “How do you younger folks put it?  Recharge batteries?  I need to recharge my battery.”  She reached behind to untie her apron.

Jon reached out and said, “Here, Margaret.  Maybe it’s my turn to serve?”  She hung the apron on a branch of a nearby tree and turned to hug Jon.  “You don’t need an apron to serve, dear.”

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They Grow Up So Fast

I see you, Momma Bird.  You flit across the yard with a blade of dried grass in your beak.  The first nest you made still lays in a heap on the patio.  Perhaps a wind gust swept it off the beam? The winds in that recent cold snap were brutal.  I admire your tenacity.  Not even Mother Nature’s mood swings could hamper your determination.  Instead of giving up, you started over in the same spot.  The cover of the metal roof must have come in handy.  Good thinking, to decide to build there with that bit of protection from the elements and the critters.

That day with the endless rain, I peeked out the window to see you hopping from branch to grass.  It must have been difficult to find any building materials that weren’t soggy.  Do you build at night?  How did you get that done so fast?  When do you rest?

I see you, Momma Bird.  I’ve been that kind of tired.

 

When the sun finally came out after those grey days of rain, I sat on the patio with coffee, making sure my lawn chair wasn’t too close to your new home.  I was bundled in a fleece jacket and socks, with a blanket over my lap.  How do you stay warm?  Or is that why you move so fast?  I felt a bit guilty for sitting and sipping coffee instead of working, like you.

You’ve been so patient with us intruding into your space.  We’ve tried to remember to keep a distance.  The taller one is a bit louder.  Sorry about that.  His voice fills the backyard, but he doesn’t mean you any harm.  He did remember to move his chair into the grass.

I watch you watching us.  You keep an eye on us.  I see that you are torn between protecting your nest and keeping yourself out of harms way.  Your instincts tell you to keep your distance.  Your instincts tell you not to trust us, but your obligations need to be fulfilled.

I see you, Momma Bird.  Many times my instincts have been louder than my plans.  Unlike you, though, I often refused to listen to my instincts.

 

The one with the long hair was the first to notice your baby.  She’s the quietest of the three of us, and she tends to be a bit more observant.  She tiptoed around your nest and came into the house to tell me of the new arrival.  When did that happen?  We should have showered you with gifts!  Congratulations!  Nice work, Momma Bird.  Your baby is adorable.  She looks just like you!

Now you are consumed with a new kind of busy.  Does that baby eat all day long?  (I know how that feels, too!)  I hear the little one has found her voice.  I’m impressed that you can hear her above the voices of all the other birds in the yard.  I have heard how excited she gets in anticipation of a feeding.

Yesterday, I saw her head poke up high enough above the nest so that she could stretch her wings.  She’s getting so strong.  You are feeding her well!  Her head was up for quite a spell.  She’s very insistent about getting those worms.  You are keeping up as best you can.  Her little beak is always open and ready to receive.  (Sounds like a human I know.)  I saw when you hopped over into the garden.  I had the sprinkler going and that must have made it easier for you to get the worms.  Look at you!  You are hard at work, sopping wet and keeping that baby alive and healthy!  I’m so proud of you, Momma!

 

I’m waiting for the temperature to get closer to 60 before heading out with my coffee this morning.  I’ll tiptoe.  I promise.  You can trust us, Momma.  There is room for all of us in this backyard.  We want your baby to thrive as much as you do.

But Momma, try to enjoy this time.  I know it often feels like you are too busy or too tired to stop and appreciate it all, but this time is fleeting.

They do grow up so fast.

 

Best wishes to all those with graduating baby birds.  Job well done!

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When You Can’t Fix the World

Do you lay awake wondering what you are supposed to do to try and fix the world?  Or is it just me?  Even though you know it isn’t your job, do you still have a hard time sleeping because you feel like you should be doing something?   Do you find it hard to appreciate what you have, while knowing so many have so little?  Do you ever feel guilty about having so much?

I know it’s not just me.

 

I took my father to get his first shot.  The person behind the counter asked to see his insurance card.  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but he lost his insurance card.”  “Well, can I see his driver’s license?”  I sheepishly looked at her and said, “He lost that, too.”  Now she was frustrated.  “I’m not trying to be difficult.  I am trying to help you.”  I apologized, again, and told her that I wasn’t trying to be difficult, either.  She said, “Everyone has either an insurance card or a driver’s license.”  What I wanted to say was, “Apparently, that is not the case,” but what I said was, “How do homeless people get the shot?”  She said, “Homeless people have driver’s licenses.”

(I provided his social security card – the new one I’d obtained, because he’d lost his social security card, too.  After much harrumphing, speaking to the manager, and giving me the side-eye, she announced that he would be able to get the shot.)

 

Maybe she didn’t get the memo – the one explaining that not everyone has all these forms of I.D.  Most likely, she was having a bad day.  I couldn’t help thinking that there are a lot of folks out there who don’t have any of the “requirements” necessary to get the vaccine.  Are they just not getting it?  Does anyone help them jump through the hoops to get the vaccine?  Do they have an advocate to insist that they are entitled to get the shot, too?

I came away from that exchange wondering how out of touch many of us are with the realities of others.  We view the world from our perspective and make assumptions.  How inaccurate are those assumptions?  We stare at the curated feed on our favorite social media platform, and unless we check in with differing news sources, most of us tend to think that our version of reality is the most common version.

If I wake up with a solid plan to fix the world, wouldn’t my “fix” simply be my attempt at making someone else’s reality look more like mine?  It’s not like I have the market cornered on success or happiness just because I have an insurance card, a driver’s license, running water and a roof over my head.  Who am I to think I might have a clue how to fix the world when there are SO many different ways of being in the world?

 

And so I fix my corner of the world.

Spring is coming and the raspberries are needing my attention.  While I hate cutting back on any of the canes because I feel like that is eliminating potential for berries, I know they are healthier if I cut them.  I Google how to do it, again, because I can’t ever seem to remember the wise tips on proper pruning.  I put on long sleeves and leather gloves.  I really should wear protective glasses, but going to get them would interrupt my momentum.  I snip a couple at the base.  I step back to get the big picture and decide which one will be sacrificed next.  Thirty minutes have gone by and I’m completely focused on the task at hand.  I’ve stopped thinking about the woman at the pharmacy, or whether there’s another outbreak of gun violence in the country.  I stopped fretting about just what is expected of me next, or how I will most certainly fail to meet that expectation.  I pull out a long cane and scratch my cheek.  Because it’s warm enough to take off my jacket, my arms now look like I have been losing a cat fight.  The scratches hurt, but they give me something else to focus on, besides the sacrificial pruning of the precious raspberry canes or the ills of the world.

Two hours later, I’ve managed to rake up the canes into piles for burning.   I step back and admire the work completed.  The sense of accomplishment pushes negative thoughts to the background.  Tomorrow, I’ll light a bonfire to burn the canes.  With the smoke from the fire, I’ll send up thanks to past and future raspberries and the health that allows me to work in the yard.  I will give thanks for the good fortune of having a yard, a driver’s license and insurance.  I’ll say a thanks, too, for being blessed with an extra helping of compassion.

 

As far as fixing the world, I’ll help where I can, when I can, and remember to save some of that compassion for myself.

 

 

 

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Them and Us

My doorbell doesn’t have a camera attached to it.

There.  I said it.  Now I suppose I can expect a throng driving by at 2 a.m.  They’ll be riddled with bad intentions.  (Aren’t they all?)  They might take something from my yard or toilet paper the shrubs or otherwise make my life miserable.

I most certainly have just put a target on my house, because I put it out there that I am not surveilling the world while I’m sleeping.

The thing is, I prefer to believe that the world has interesting things going on in the night.  I want to pretend there are lovebirds gazing at the full moon over the river across from the park.  Maybe a hospital shift worker stops next to the park to decompress before going home to jump in the shower and wash off Covid.

Or, there are hooligans out there looking for their next score.  (Is that how you even say that now, or did I pick that up from a crime show?)  Or lost souls are trying to find themselves.  Or a homeless guy is looking in a dumpster for a good enough pair of jeans, that were too small for the guy whose house is a stone’s throw from that dumpster.

I’m not a fool.  I know that bad things happen out there.  I also know that good things happen out there.  Whatever it is, it is none of my business.  Everything that happens outside my door is not for me to know.  Just like everything that happens inside my house is not for the world to know.

I have my protected bubble, secured by three locks at both the front and back doors.  My only car is safely parked in the garage.  Any yard thing that matters (like the gargoyle that used to sit on the front step) is barricaded by both locked gates and the fence in the back.  If it’s in the front yard and someone wanders by in the middle of the night and decides they need it, they can have it.  Lighten my load.  Go ahead.  (They pinched the antique bike that was too small to ride and not sturdy enough to prop up a pot of pansies.  I learned my lesson.  If I love it, it’s not out front.  That’s why I moved the gargoyle.)

 

My neighbors have those doorbell cameras.  At first, I thought they were geniuses for getting them.  I even entertained the thought of getting on Amazon and signing up.  (I don’t patronize Amazon any more, and I’ve changed my mind about a doorbell camera.)

I am also a member of the Doorbell-Camera Neighbor group text.  (I capitalized those words because my neighbors have an agenda and they sound official.)  Lucky me.

I am getting too much information from this group.  I’ll be minding my own business, planning out my day, and get a text full of gasping emojis and shouting exclamation points asking if anyone knows who this is in the video that a doorbell camera picked up.

One time it was a young couple smoking in their parked car.  They were probably listening to music, getting high, talking to each other and praising the moon.  It felt like an invasion of their privacy.  Their moment was caught on two cameras that belonged to complete strangers.

Another time it was broad daylight, and a doorbell camera caught a yellow vest-wearing fellow, who had the nerve to walk across the neighbor’s grass.  I pointed out that the fellow was the meter reader.  I got a text back that said, “Oh, sorry.  I’m glad I asked you.”  I wrote back, “Yeah, so am I.”

I lied.

 

One of these vigilant neighbors checks into a site that lists daily/nightly crimes that happen all over the city.  She also scours Facebook for posts mentioning neighborhood crime activity.  Between her doorbell camera, the Facebook posts, and the city crime site, she fabricated an amazing story that potentially connected the car (spotted by her camera at 2 a.m.) and a Facebook report of a person shining a flash flight down an alley 6 blocks away, at 4 a.m.

I try to be helpful and suggest that the events are unrelated.  “Maybe the person with the flash light is looking for her cat,” I said.  (I’ve looked for my cat in the night, only to discover it locked in the neighbor’s garage, the next day.)

“Maybe the two in the car are young lovers who work the late shift at a drive-in and they’re hatching a plan about how to get out of this town before it eats them alive,” I said.  (Because I’ve been there, too.  I know that every kid in a car is not gonna steal the stuff on your front step.  Most of those kids don’t even look at your house.  They have their own stuff to deal with.)

 

I want to scream at my friendly doorbell-camera neighbors, and tell them that they are suffering from information overload.  I want to say, “You don’t need to know all of this stuff!”  I’d include a hands-on-my-hips emoji, if only I could find one.

I could duck out of being in the group text, but I see that there might be a benefit to being neighborly.   (When I learn what that benefit is, I’ll let you know.)

 

What brought them to the point of suspecting the worst of everyone?   When they write the text that accuses the kids in the car (or the flash light-carrying alley walker) of being up to no good, don’t their stomachs hurt?  Don’t they feel bad for making those judgments?

In defense of the doorbell camera neighbors, they do have stuff – campers, trailers, extra cars, ATVs – to keep secure.  Have they forgotten what it’s like to not have everything they ever wanted?

Us, well, we don’t have all that stuff.

 

Am I the only one who connects the dots?

You buy the things, and then you start worrying that everyone wants your things.  Then, you become preoccupied with making sure that no one will ever get your things, or hurt your things.  Can you ever go camping without worrying that your house is left vulnerable?  (Well, you can if you ask the nice lady across the street to keep an eye on your house. Where is that damn emoji?)

Now, I am the one who is judging them, and my stomach does hurt a bit for doing so.

Maybe they are coping – the best they can – just like the rest of us.  Could be they are controlling what they can control in this time when we have so little control over anything at all.

 

And so I stay in the group text, and I banter back and forth about the comings and goings in the neighborhood.   And I also agree to keep an eye on things when they take their toys and head out of town.  As for me, I refuse to buy a camera.  I will go on believing that good, unusual, private (maybe even magical) things go on in the night.

 

I imagine that you also connect these same dots on a macroscopic cultural/political scale. 

I thought you might.

 

 

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The Boat

That humming sound you hear is coming from the bilge pump on my boat.  The pump has been running a lot lately.

When Jen and I watch TV while eating dinner (go ahead and judge – this is a crucial part of our Pandemic Survival Plan), I will often ask Jen to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of my bilge pump working in overdrive.  For the length of an episode of our current favorite series, I blissfully forget that the pump is running.

 

I once Googled what that humming sound was – the (real, not metaphorical) sound I hear in the middle of the night when sleep is a stranger.  They call it the earth’s hum or the world’s hum.  It’s a thing.  Look it up.

Anyway, last night I noticed the hum.  It’s had a different pitch to it for about a year now.  I’m convinced it was an octave created by all the bilge pumps in all the boats of the world.  They are pumping as fast as they can, as all the boats try to steer through this pandemic.

Can you hear it?

Every single boat must be taking on more water than usual.

 

I’ve charted some rough seas.  I’ve even had to replace the pump.  But lately, I find myself fantasizing about calm waters.  I crave the sound of gentle waves lapping a deserted shoreline.  I see the waves go out and leave a trail of foam.  Maybe a seagull can be heard off in the distance.  There isn’t another “boat” for miles.

Jen likes calm waters, too.

Will?  He likes the rapids.  The rougher the better.  He gets crabby in the calm waters.  Oh, he’ll tell me that he likes things to settle down, but about the time he says that, something in his life creates a tidal wave that inevitably sends a wall of water right for my boat.

Jen and I used to say that things would be too boring without Will’s tidal waves but, with the pandemic and the economic and political strains of late, my boat can’t take on any more water.

I’ve noticed that I am becoming adept at avoiding anything else that looks like a potential storm.  This avoidance skill is also in our Pandemic Survival Plan.  I’m saving my energy for the storms on my immediate radar.  Apparently, there is only enough room for the three of us (and a cat) in my boat.

 

I recently told Will that if he had two married parental units, he’d know which one to go to with a new drama.  You wrap your truck around a pole?  Go to your dad, and he’ll prepare me for the news.  You get your heart broken?  Come to me.  Poor Will is stuck with only me, so he brings me everything.  And I’m grateful for that, even if it doesn’t sound like it.

My boat is on the plains.  Nothing blocks my view.  I can see when a storm is coming.  But Will’s storms seem to come out of nowhere.  Well, not really.  I know where they come from.  (Because I know where they come from, you’d think I’d be better prepared.)  As long as he likes that kind of choppy sea, there will be more coming from that direction.

After he and I (and often times, Jen) finish bailing the water from the most recent storm, we can laugh about it.  I’ll say, “Geez, you’d think that, by now, I might have learned to not over-react.”  He’ll say, “You’d think by now, I’d figure out a better way to tell you this stuff.”  And then I think to myself, “Or you might figure out that life is so much better without all that stuff.”

 

And so the Universe laughs at me while I search for ways to keep a calm center in the midst of these storms.  The Universe laughs harder when I dare to tell Will that life is better without the rough seas.

Look at that!

The Universe left me a note in the sand on that quiet stretch of beach:  “Let him steer his own boat, Jesse.”

And once again, I am reminded that I learn more from Jen and Will than they will ever learn from me.  In the meantime, I’ll prepare myself to have to replace the pump.

 

There’s a meme that says something about, “You don’t know what someone else is dealing with, so just be kind.”  I like that.  Let’s assume that everyone’s boat has taken on too much water, their pump needs to be replaced, and they are doing their best to stay afloat. 

 

 

 

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The Spirit Guides Watch TV

Jon hopped off his skateboard and approached the bench from behind.  He could see the three of them sitting side by side.  As he got closer, he could hear talking and …

Wait, was that the sound of a gavel?

As he walked around the bench, he could see an old TV had been placed on a grave marker.  “What are you guys doing?!”

Through a mouthful of pie, Basil said, “We’re watching the impeachment trial.”

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Gladys said, “Shhhh!”

Margaret whispered, “Grab a piece, dear, and join us.  There’s room.  Scoot to the edge, Gladys.  Make some room.”

Jon grabbed some pie and perched next to Margaret.  He whispered, “I wondered where you guys were.  This isn’t the usual bench.”

Basil said, “We had to find a bench next to a plug-in.”  Jon said, “Cool!  Where’d you get the TV?”

Gladys scowled at Basil, “Shhhh!”

 

They sat for awhile and watched.  At one point, Basil got up to get a second piece of pie.  Margaret had made French Silk that day.  Jon walked over and asked if Basil had any more coffee.  “I brought an extra thermos because I knew we’d be here for awhile.”  Jon said, “Great.  So, Basil, why are we watching this?”  Basil unscrewed the top of the thermos, “It’s the impeachment trial for Trump, the former president.”  Jon held out a cup.  “Why do we care?”  Basil laughed, “We don’t, but it’s interesting to see how they conduct themselves, and why they all find this so important.”

Margaret approached.  “They’re done for the day.  Good time to stretch the legs.”  Jon took a fork full, “I’d have thought you’d make an apple pie today, Margaret.  You know, kind of an American pie.”  Jon laughed at himself.  Margaret wiped her hands on her apron, “I’m a little disgusted with America right now, Jon, so I opted for something else.”  Jon looked at Basil, “Apparently Margaret cares about this trial.”

Gladys walked over, shaking her head.  “Don’t you find it fascinating that they even have to have a trial for that guy?  Shouldn’t he already be in jail?”  Basil looked at Jon as he pointed at Gladys, “Tread lightly near that one.”  Margaret shook her head, “Seems a waste of time when everyone knows how the vote will go.  You could have all the evidence in the world, but the other side made up their minds before they even began.”

With both hands on her hips, Gladys said, “What are they supposed to do now?  Are they supposed to move on and pretend none of this ever happened?  Do they just let him get away with it?!  Doesn’t this pave the way for this to happen again?  Do ANY of them read history?”

Jon backed away and looked at Basil.  “I thought you said we didn’t care?”  Basil laughed, “Well, I guess I meant that I don’t care.  I came for the pie.”

Now Margaret put her hands on her hips.  Both Gladys and Margaret faced Basil.  At the same time, they both said, “Why don’t you care, Basil?”

 

Basil put his plate down and leaned against a tree.  He took a breath and said, “First of all, I’ll remind you that we don’t have to care.  We can view this from a distance.  Fortunately.”  Basil crossed his arms, “I would suggest that the living do the same thing.  Other than those on the front lines fighting the fight, what can most of them do?  Can all those watching TV or listening to the radio …”  Jon interrupted and said, “Or checking their social media!”  Basil said, “Right, Jon.  That, too.  Can any of them really make a difference other than elevating their blood pressure?  Shouldn’t they focus on what they can do?  They can improve their own lives and focus on their families.  They can make progress in their corner of the country.”

Gladys leaned in, “They could focus on truth!  They could stop spreading lies!  They could do their homework and read and quit jumping to conclusions.”

“True,” Basil said, “but that has to start in their own home.”

Margaret relaxed and said, “Basil is right.  There are warriors who are cut out for this.  Not everyone is cut out to be a warrior.  The rest could clear the way to let those warriors do the work, but back them up by cleaning up the messes in their own backyards.  They could fight in their own way.  They could start by making sure their neighbors have enough to eat.”

Gladys said, “And making sure their neighbors have a roof over their heads, while they are at it.”

Basil said, “I agree with both of you.”

Gladys said, “Isn’t it also the government’s responsibility to feed and house the masses?”

Basil laughed, “That depends on who you ask.”

Gladys said, “Fine.  But when the masses lose trust in their government, won’t they lose hope in the process?  And when they lose hope in the process, what’s next?  Anarchy?”

Basil said, “Whoa, Gladys!  History proves that the process prevails.”

Margaret said, “History also proves that the top rarely looks out for the bottom. And while they are busy repeating history, who makes sure there’s enough food and shelter?  And, Basil, you know better than to say, ‘Whoa, Gladys.'”

Basil smiled,  “That’s right, Margaret.  Gladys, I apologize.  What I mean to say is that if they focus on their own stories and work on change in their own part of the world, the process can prevail. The top will only ever care about power.”  With a mouthful, Jon said, “And money.”  Basil, said, “That, too, Jon.  The top will never concern itself with the story of the common people, other than to give their story lip service in order to gain more power.  It’s up to the masses to look out for each other.”

 

Jon said, “And they can vote, Basil.  That’s where they can make a difference.  They can vote.”

Basil patted Jon on the back, “You’re absolutely right about that, Jon.”

Gladys huffed, “That’s all fine, until the top takes away their right to vote.”

Margaret put her hand on Gladys’ shoulder,  “Then they make darn sure they don’t vote for the ones who take away the votes of others, dear.  And in the meantime, they make sure their neighbors have enough.”  Margaret re-tied her apron, “Meet back here tomorrow.  I’m making German Kuchen.”

Basil laughed.  “See you tomorrow.  I’ll bring another thermos.”