Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

it's one of those weeks. Nothing works. I sit around and struggle inside instead of doing Anything. I'll take Lamott's advice and take the voices in my head and drop them into jars like mice, close the tops of those jars. Here's the first mouse/voice:

Perfect to Semi-Perfect Housekeeper
Is she that? No, she’s far more malicious then that. She’s the woman who does everything, keeps everything clean and orderly, everywhere and makes everything and never loses energy. She sleeps only at night and only for six hours and then leaps up again for the next day. She knits, embroiders, quilts, sews clothes, sews curtains, shopping never fatigues her, she plans out three square meals a day and always knows how to have a good time. She does regular deep room cleaning and never thinks she won’t. She gardens, visits the Arboretum weekly and keeps up on the latest tv shows. She reads male and female authors, takes notes on everything she’s read and answers emails promptly. She never forgets what she’s said or what she’s promised. She’s frugal, shops sales, buys all her furniture on sale. She knows when to get rid of clothes and when to keep them. She works out every other day. She has no problem with space and always knows how to relax. She’s cheerful, thinks out deep questions without terrible inward strife and goes to the midwife without hatred in her heart for the medical profession’s treatment of women. She is diplomatic, can handle anyone and never gets tired from droners, bores or selfish people. She is immune to fatigue and depression and has never thought of ridding the world of her person. She has a church, a community and researches the Bible on her own, each day.
She also writes at least one poem each day and works on her novel and at least an essay for part of the day. She bakes cookies and visits her neighbors, crooning over their small children. She always gets a good haircut and takes regular walks by the river, being sure sometimes, to bring the camera along.
She visits Chicago from time to time and keeps up on museum exhibits, symphony schedules and other interesting art-community events. She knows enough people to keep her friends meeting other friends of hers and she’s a great matchmaker and everyone loves that. She’s eaten at all the good restaurants around and can afford to do that because she’s frugal in other areas. She goes on vacation at least once a year and once again, she does this because she knows when and how to save. She watches her investments, she has investments, she earns money off of money.
She knows exactly where her dream home will be and saves towards that too. She knows what German appliances that are safe for the enviroment she needs for her home to be and when the time comes, will get them on sale or on deep discount. She knows how to take care of all sorts of animals and she knows how to harvest and dry vegetables and herbs. She also knows how to can. She also knows the best places for fresh produce and fresh meat. Her pantry is incredible in its organization and common sense. She could live in the wild if forced to. She knows natural resources and what can be eaten and what can’t. She recognizes trees, wild flowers, bushes, birds, she knows always which way is north, south, east and west.

And so, I now know that I like Virginia Woolf, have an Angel in the House. How I hate her. How she hates me. I can never be that woman, try as I might. Because I have tried and am trying. Oh, how we hate one another. We’re locked in this endless battle, one trying to strangle the other…or brain sabotage the other. Tricks, sneering, slapping, mind games, manipulation, and just plain stomping on the other. Nothing works.

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Tides of Snow and Ice

This winter has been a continuous series of freezes and thaws: it’s the warmest winter on record, the tenth one in a row. A more usual winter starts with a deep freeze and then stays cold for months. Instead, snow falls, piles up and vanishes; rises up again and retreats, now falling as rain, swelling rivers and creeks. Rain and snow mingle together until everything runs with water; hillsides and flat-sides are coated in a deep, dark mud.

I stopped on my walk today, halted by a sudden flash of gold. The sunset rays were falling into a tiny puddle spanning the space between the root and trunk of a maple. The puddle reflected gold and silver on top and below was dark mud, black and brown, full of microorganisms and other tiny creatures unseen by the human eye. I briefly considered putting my hand to the shining surface. It beckoned, winking like a diamond, but pull of my walk was irresistible and I continued forward. 

Mud is for March and April, mud so thick and heavy that it can pull shoes off and make them disappear like a magic trick beneath the solemn and still brown. Mud in February is a strange slight, an awakening that shouldn’t be occurring yet. It’s all the more cruel because even though the temperatures rise, they inevitably dip into the single digits and everything freezes solid. Many times I’ve spotted squirrels and tiny birds on the creek’s ice, searching for openings to drink from.

During this particular thaw, the creek casts off ice, it’s center opening like a dark cut. The water sings as it cascades over the rocks, proclaiming it’s momentarily relief from the grip of winter. In Scandinavian folklore, there is a belief that given the proper offerings, a creek could teach a human how to play the most bewitching music. I crouch down near the creek, record a video of it singing on my phone and replay its music in the evening while lying on the couch. I should give something in return for the pleasure of its song and I consider. Perhaps some lavender buds I have stored away for a certain recipe, or a small pinecone I keep on a shelf to admire, or birch bark I retrieved from a favorite tree cut down years ago. 

The next day I return, and after waiting for a few dogs and their owners to pass by, I crouch next the side of the creek and sprinkle lavender buds into the small, clear stream. The buds vanish as soon as I drop them into the water– as if they never existed. I drop some more in and the same occurs; they’re gone before I can blink. The current flows by, washing over stones, fleeting by banks of mud, until it vanishes around the bend where the pine trees tower overhead.

As I gaze at the water, first downstream and then upstream, my own self quiets, stills, and momentarily dissolves into the landscape. The relief, though short, is palpable. Alone becomes together and perhaps that is what’s this practice of thanking the creek has been about all along.

Winter in the Time of Climate Change

There is a stream near my home and I walk along it nearly every day; I know its moods and seasons nearly as well as I know my own. We are family and our connections are pure: we’re both made of water.

Every day brings more distressing news about the environment. Big changes need to happen but whatever change that does happen is so slow. Global warming is now being felt by everyone, some more than others. I go out and walk along the stream when the news and all the unfortunate future unknowns press in too hard. Right now, it is running fast. This winter has been a series of freezes and thaws. November hit hard with a heavy, deep freeze and I expected this to lead to a  white Christmas but instead, it’s been a muddy, wet winter, full of more temperate days than frosty ones. The thermometer rides up and down, every day propelled by a bouncing ball rather than a steady progression of tiny fluctuations.

The stream locks and then unlocks. It accepts each freeze and thaw with inestimable grace. After reading the news, it is hard to know what is near or far, here and up in the sky, in the mind or in the present moment. But the stream is always present, it knows no other moment. It lives in eternity; as David Hockney said, “It’s always now. It’s now that’s eternal.”

The creek is still here, I think to myself whenever I see it, it is still living. It runs forward through this strange January, sometimes under the ice and sometimes not. Patches of green moss dot the banks nearby, beyond that the nearby plants are broken, brown, and dried. They are asleep, listening to things I cannot hear, dreaming of things I barely know of.