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.

Unsubscribed

I’ve been blogging for 11 years and I’ve yet to create a process (need?) for subscribing to either of my blogs.  I was never going to send you a newsletter or ask you to become a member of a club, so I didn’t see the point.

A couple weeks ago, I was giving serious thought to the idea of no longer self-hosting these blogs.  Are these blogs two leaves drifting down onto a forest floor covered in (prettier, better-written, more interesting) leaves?  Often I feel I’m in the middle of that forest, spilling my thoughts to the trees, moss and birds.

 

Hello?

 

Is anyone there?

 

This blog has been, and continues to be, my therapy.  While it’s nice to know others are out there reading, the benefit comes to me, even if I’m spewing to the trees, birds and other woodland creatures.  That’s why I’ve kept hosting them all these long years – the blogs, not the woodland creatures.  (See what I mean about better writing?)

But it costs money to self-host a blog.  It’s not a lot, and it’s certainly less than monthly therapy appointments.  That being said, whenever I need to tighten my belt (2020?!), I often look at those monthly charges and think about not paying Hostgator.  Hell, I could save that money and use up some of the kids’ unused (except for a few random pages of doodles and complaints about the teacher) spiral notebooks from home school to scrawl out all those thoughts – thoughts I’ve been paying to spew into the moss-covered forest inhabited by birds, who clearly don’t give a rip.

And then, a few days ago, I opened up the Jesse Blayne email account and there was an email from one who was wondering how to subscribe so she wouldn’t miss any of these words.

I ask you, when the Universe sends you a wink like that, what would you do?

I know, right?

So I created a page on this blog where you can subscribe.   If you like.  And then, apparently, this plug-in thingy will send you an email when I’ve written a new post.  Then you, and the moss-covered trees and the birds, will know what I’m ranting about. (Like that matters?  I dunno.)  But, just maybe you’ll be glad to know another soul out there feels the same way you do, and you’re not alone in all this craziness.

And I’ll save the kids’ old spiral notebooks for a different project like notes on gardening, or potential remodeling ideas (that are way too expensive), or how to understand my 22 year old son, or maybe donate them (the notebooks, not Will, of course) to Goodwill with the other home school books we no longer need.

 

Speaking of subscribing, I requested to be part of a Facebook Group about Covid.  I was hoping it was going to be filled with science-minded, caring folks who wanted to support each other through these crazy times.  I now see that there most likely isn’t that sort of Covid Support Group – at least not on Facebook.  I unsubscribed.

 

Speaking of unsubscribing, what have you unsubscribed from this year?

If Covid could have a silver lining, maybe it’s that we have an excuse to unsubscribe, unfollow and back away from many of the things we wanted to get away from, but were too polite to, before this virus.

Like that guy I unsubscribed from, a few years back, whose voice I hear saying, “No one reads your blogs,” right before I’m about to hit the Publish button.

I’ve tried to unsubscribe from the shenanigans in the White House.  My mental health is whispering (okay, sometimes screaming) that maybe it’s not such a great idea to pay attention to that circus.  What can I do about it, anyway.  But it reminds me of a big black hairy spider there, in the corner.  I’ve got to keep my eye on it.  Oh wait!  It just went under the green chair.  “Jen!  Grab a shoe!  Quick!”  And while Jen runs to grab a shoe, I’ve got to keep watching the floor under the green chair, because if I lose sight of the big hairy spider, it’ll reappear where I least expect it, and scare the crap out of all of us.

Also, who’s bringing the shoe for the spider in the White House and could they hurry it up, please?

 

I do hope this year comes to a peaceful, healthy close for you and that you feel encouraged and lighter about the possibilities that the new year might bring.  Thanks for being here.

and so the people …

And so the people found themselves in a modern-day pandemic.  It wasn’t a problem that kept itself on the other side of the globe, adversely impacting only those people.  This pandemic impacted all the people.

The pandemic caused the people to lose most of their preferred constructs.

Schools had to close their buildings, leaving parents to navigate learning via Zoom, email, and homework packets.  Rants changed from,  “Get off your screen!” to, “Get on your screen and pay attention to your teacher!”

Bars, gyms and theaters were closed.  Sporting events were canceled.  Worship could, in some cases, only happen online.

(Did anyone else hear the Gods laughing?  Seriously, the people have yet to figure out that their Gods are everywhere, not just in a building or a tent.)

Shops could bring you what you wanted to your car, or through a window.  Due to crazed online orders, many started a cardboard collection, sorting their deconstructed boxes by size, but keeping them out of the house because of the risk of contamination.

You could drive up to your favorite tavern, order a Manhattan, have it delivered to your car, and drive home sipping.  Read that again.  You could drive home sipping on a cocktail.  (Apparently, pandemics encourage drinking and driving, or is that just in my neighborhood?)

 

The people either watched the news and ranted, posting their opinions on social media; or they avoided the news, learned to bake bread, and magically revived all their dead and dying houseplants.  (Yeast is the only item I’ve seriously considered ordering from Amazon as our stores are perpetually sold out.)

The people either re-connected with their kids over board games, pizza nights and a 5th showing of The Princess Bride; or they holed themselves up in separate rooms of their too-big house and crossed off the days of the calendar until this “damn quarantine is over,” wondering why they ever thought it was a good idea to start a family.

 

The people learned how much they could do on their own, or they realized how much they needed each other.

 

Some of the people felt their hearts soften when they called to check on neighbors or made masks for co-workers or baked extra muffins for the guy at the end of the block.

Some people felt their hearts harden as they raged at the government for taking away their privileges and keeping them from living the lives they’d grown accustomed to – lives often full of self-indulgences and instant gratification.

 

The people were presented with an opportunity to evaluate, learn, and grow.  They could take stock in their progress – decide what was working and what wasn’t.  The people were given a chance to re-prioritize.

 

Some chose to embrace the slowness, the lack of over-scheduled activity, and the opportunity to connect with kids or the ones they found themselves living with during this stay-home phase.  They came to appreciate the deliberate, soul-filled approach to life.

Some chose to cling to a return to “normal.”  Those people would not rest easy until they got back all the ways of living that they thought had served them well, before the arrival of this “damn virus.”

Some will most likely come out of this pandemic taking steps to part ways, file for divorce, change their last name and argue over who gets the dog on which weekend.  Some will undoubtedly decide they’ve had enough of living alone with a cat, potted plants, an extensive collection of herbal teas and Netflix, and sign up for a dating site.

 

There are lessons in all the approaches.  There is no right way or wrong way, because lessons are taught in all the ways.

 

You might shout, “But, wait!  The only sane way is the way that helps the environment and keeps the people safe!”

And another would roll their eyes and say, “But that’s ridiculous!  The only way is the way that saves the economy!”

Could the people find some truth in both of those ways?

If choosing life and environment costs us a thriving economy, can we learn how to pull together to survive a challenged economy?  If lives and the environment are the costs of a thriving economy, are there not lessons in that approach, as well.

Could the people learn to care for each other as well as themselves?

 

And so the people learned.

 

Junk Drawer as Metaphor

I bet we’ve all got one – a junk drawer.  I have two – side by side.  Maybe I have more junk than most?  I dunno, but it makes sense to me.

During this pandemic (wow, never thought I’d write those three words together in a sentence) I’ve been doing a version of Marie Kondo that has me wiping things down and pitching things as I go.  (I haven’t searched Goodwill, but I suspect they don’t want any of our stuff for obvious reasons, so it will sit in the garage until it’s safe to pass on.)

As I methodically wipe/pitch/sort, I over-think.  Surprise!

 

I hope you are coping well with the way life is these days.  For the six or so people who still read this blog, I’ve most likely checked in with you.  But I would suggest that none of us truly knows how we are doing.  We mention that our pantries are stocked, or that the car will have to be taken out for a spin, or that we dusted off some old board games, or that we’ve found a new crush on Netflix.

But how are you really?

 

You might know me well enough, by now, to know that I am at peace with where the world is today.  I firmly believe that this pandemic will provide us with a much-needed reset.  I also know that you most likely don’t agree with me.  🙂

 

As I was getting ready to organize one of my junk drawers, I couldn’t help but notice the obvious metaphor.

If my junk drawer represents my life, this is what I would describe:

A toddler (Coronavirus) just came into my kitchen and pulled open the junk drawer to look for his Hot Wheel. (Seriously, there is no significance with my referring to the virus as a he.  I think.)  He pulled the drawer open too far, and because I wasn’t there to catch it, the drawer landed on the floor with a deafening crash.  All the contents of the drawer flew in every direction.  Some things ended up under the range, some under the fridge.  Some bounced and landed in the sink full of a solution of bleach water.  I heard a couple items roll into the living room.

The toddler (that fricking virus) laughed and ran into his bedroom to look for his little car, because it was not in the junk drawer.

 

What could I do?

 

I did the only thing that made sense.  I cleared a spot on the floor and sat down to survey the damage.  I grabbed the dividers and the organizing containers and I started sorting.  I worked slowly, remembering to breathe.  Instead of yelling at the rascal who created this disaster, I focused on the task at hand.

 

Wow, I have a lot of binder clips.  Why?  What am I trying to control?  What is my need to contain?  How much of it can I have any influence on?

And pencils?  Why do I keep the stubby ones?  Am I worried I will never be able to afford more pencils?

I have batteries for gadgets I no longer own.  I save batteries that I’m sure lost their juice back when Will played with remote-controlled cars.  Am I hanging on to those just in case they’ll revive, even though I know they won’t?

I’m sure Post-Its are replicating in that drawer, or I have some misguided fear of running out, so I buy them even if I don’t need them.  Could be buying pencils instead?

I don’t even know what flew under the range or the fridge or rolled into the living room.  I’m not sure I care.

 

I made a 4th cup of coffee, even tho’ my limit is 3/day.  Desperate times (pandemic or spilled junk drawer) allow for desperate measures, and aren’t we limited enough already?!  I even poured whipping cream in for additional comfort, and sat down amidst all the contents of my “junk drawer” to methodically decide what to keep and what to pitch.

 

QUIT trying to control, I said to myself, loudly enough to make the cat jump.

You’ve survived this far on a restricted budget.  You’ve mastered life with a tightened belt.  Buy the damn pencils.

Friendships that have long since lost their juice will not revive without a great deal of effort.  Choose wisely.

It’s okay to stock-pile Post-Its.  I’m allowed my ideosyncrasies and all the other things that make me me.  I am keeping the second junk drawer!

All the stuff under the fridge or range or wherever it landed –  I’ll deal with that when it arises.  Or not.

 

How will you organize your “junk drawer?”

 

More importantly, stay safe!

You Look Familiar

“Jesse!  Where’ve you been?”  Hank walked to my side of the bar for a hug.  “I see you stopped writing about narcissism.  Does that mean you survived?”  Hank grinned and walked to his side of the bar.

“Funny, Hank.  I’ve missed you, too.”  I draped my jacket over my knees as I sat on a bar stool.

“But, seriously.  Did you run out of things to say on that subject?”  Hank grabbed for a glass and, before pouring the usual, looked to see if I might ask for something else.  I smiled and he let the amber flow into the glass.

“Ha!  Like that’s even possible.  You, of all people, would know the answer to that question.”

 

Hank walked to the end of the bar to take an order.  Just then a woman walked over to stand next to me.  As she waited to place her order, she looked up at the television screen.  She winced, turned to me and said, “Can you believe ….   Hey, you look familiar.  Do I know you?”

I smiled.  “I’m not sure.  Maybe.  I have that kind of face – that ‘everyone’ and ‘no one’ face.  People tend to think they recognize me from somewhere.”

Hank returned.  “Yeah, she gets that a lot.”

He greeted the new customer and said, “This is Jesse.  She has this thing about her.  Lots of folks think they know her from somewhere.”

She reached out to shake hands.  “Do you work at the bank?”

“Nope.”  I smiled and took a drink.

She ordered a chardonnay.  “I know… it’s that coffee shop on the corner of 9th and Main.”

I looked and Hank and laughed.  “Nope.”

She took her wine and turned to walk over to a table where girlfriends waited.  She looked at me and said, “I’ll think of it.  Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”  I looked at Hank and shrugged my shoulders.

 

“So, Hank, why do I get that a lot?  What is it about my face that people I’ve never met seem to think they know me from somewhere?”

It’s not your face, Jesse, it’s the way folks feel when they are with you.  You see them.  That feeling is familiar.  They may not have felt that way in a real long time, but they know it.  They crave that feeling.  They remember how it feels to be seen, and they think that must mean they know you from somewhere.  It’s not your face, Jesse, it’s who you are.”

 

 

You Can’t Save Him

I’d left the kids with him at the house.  I wasn’t going to be long.  I’d forgotten something and had to run and get it.  When I returned with the thing (whatever it was) that I’d forgotten, my hands were full.  I was carrying my jacket, a large bag, and the item in one hand, and struggled to open the door with my free hand.  I was fumbling with the doorknob.  Finally, I’d gotten the door to open, but I was concerned about it opening too far. 

I hurried to enter, worried I’d taken too long.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a ginormous spider had come in when the door was ajar.  They didn’t see the spider as it scurried along the floor at the base of the wall.  Its two sets of legs were freakishly hairy.  Three large hairy legs ran down each side of its body, and its underside had a cluster of six smaller hairy legs.  It was large enough to make noise as it scampered, yet he didn’t seem to hear it at all.

I yelled to warn them. “You guys!!  RUN!  A spider got in!  It’s huge!  Run!!”  I saw my kids jump.  They didn’t turn to see the spider.  They took my word for it and ran.

 

(Later, when retelling the dream, I described the spider as the size of one of those plastic Melitta coffee filters.  It was “Twilight Zone” disgusting.)

 

Maybe he hadn’t heard me?  Maybe he didn’t believe me?  I yelled again as I ran toward him.  “Really!! That spider is HUGE.  You gotta run!”

As I came up beside him he got on the floor.  He did the crab walk like we used to do in 4th grade gym class.  He deliberately, without any regard for the spider, crab-walked across the room, IN THE DIRECTION OF THE SPIDER.   I couldn’t believe my eyes.  After my warnings and yelling and all the commotion, he actually got down on the spider’s level and moved toward it!

I could see that he was within a foot of the spider now!  He could SEE the spider.  What was he doing?  I turned to run and join the kids.  As I left the house, I looked over my shoulder and saw him pick up the spider, with both hands!

 

The next morning, as I poured a second cup, I told Jen of my wicked dream.  When I described my astonishment at his picking up the spider, she interrupted me to say, “But, mom, you can’t save him.”

 

 

 

Out in the Open

Hello!

Thanks for being here.

I’ve had a bunch of new posts churning around in my mind for several months – new posts for this new blog.  I’d given thought to starting out by writing something shiny and motivating and positive.  As much as I’d like to focus on that side of me, it’s just not where I am every day.

At least I’m honest.

I tend to gravitate to the intense or the darkly funny.  (I avoid scary at all costs, if I can.)  Sometimes I get on Pinterest and pin to manifest a new life by the beach with a stack of books and a beverage.  When I read, it’s most often about how to sort out the human drama and make sense of why things happen the way they do.

Recently, Jen and I were discussing the fact that humans are riddled with contradictions.  I’m no different.

I do like motivational quotes, but we’ve been force-fed those for so long that we become desensitized to them.  Maybe that’s just me?  Take a rock, a babbling brook, add a quote from some guru and magically your life will change.  I don’t think so.

I do know, that every day brings an opportunity to learn something that helps us along our way.  Maybe it’ll be something positive.  If we’re lucky, it’s an exchange with another who might be working to make progress along his or her own path.

Sometimes we’ll be presented with something funny.  Yesterday, I used the restroom at the ski hill.  A mom was helping her four-year-old use the potty and wash her hands.  Her daughter was resisting the process.  Each time her mom urged, the daughter replied by meowing.  The mom was clearly frustrated, and the daughter replied to her mom’s frustration by saying, “Meow, meow,” which clearly made the mom more frustrated.  As they turned to walk out of the restroom, the girl looked at me and meowed.  I meowed back.

 

It occurs to me that I could use that approach with more things in life.

 

This morning I read this line from J K Rowling’s, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix:

“He only knew that he did not want to see their looks of horror; that would make the whole thing seem worse and therefore more difficult to face.”

Immediately, I thought of children.

I thought of all the things kids might experience, and the hard decisions they make when figuring out which of those experiences they might discuss. Whether they choose to discuss with friends or family or their teacher, doesn’t matter.  If only they’d bring that stuff out in the open, they might get the support they need, or they’d learn that others are frightened by the same thing, and that they aren’t weird for being afraid.

And I thought of adults, who are really just kids with responsibilities.  I thought of the things adults refuse to discuss because they are afraid that if the light shines on what they have to deal with, they won’t have the strength to continue dealing.  How many are buried under the weight of stuff they think they can’t handle? Of course there is risk in bringing their stuff to light, but if they don’t, how can they ever be met with understanding, or an offer of help?

Maybe we need to be the vulnerable girl in the restroom who doesn’t care what anyone thinks.  We need to risk meowing to see if anyone meows back.

And, perhaps more importantly, when we hear a meow, we need to look up from our phone, put down the latte, and acknowledge the person brave enough to meow.

On that note, I’m going to meow at this messy house, and go back to reading Harry Potter.