Bun-Bun Under the Pines

The townhouse community where I live has a good crop of wild rabbits. Every spring they dot the landscape, especially at dawn. Dogs are not allowed to roam unleashed and I only rarely see an outdoor cat, so the rabbits not only flourish but pull cute-pet-on-the-lawn duty. They aren't pets, of course, but they are much more desirable to have around than, say, rattlesnakes curled up in sweet bundles. My vote goes to Bun-Bun every time.

The babies, of course, are adorable, but the big ones (let's call them "mature") are dramatically beautiful, too. Different shades of brown ranging from light tan to a dark richness perfectly arranged in symetrical patterns--all on the same rabbit!

I suppose many people think them a nuisance, ruining potted flowers and prized swathes of grass, but I don't.

I hear again and again that too many ya books have been and are being published, and that a mighty collapse is coming. Could be true. But getting a book published is like having a wild rabbit sitting outside your window under the pine trees, munching breakfast, nose twitching. In other words, it's a delight.

So if the Big Ax of Publishing comes down hard, it will cause enormous sadness for many people, including myself. While I wait, I think I will concentrate on rabbits.

Plop Plop

I saw two turtles sitting on a log poking out of the shallows of Ragtag Lake, sunbathing. "Don't get too close," I admonished myself. Water turtles (snappers, I presume) are wily and dive in as soon as they see you or sense movement, or, for all I know, smell you. "I am not too close," I asserted, to myself. "I am a good fifty feet away." Maybe forty. Or thirty. I am not good at judging distances. "Okay, but be careful," I cautioned back, moving just a tiny bit closer. Sure enough, eagle-eyed little beasts that they are, they both immediately took a dive--plop, plop--and disappeared.

Loneliness settled over my shoulders like a curse. Fortunately, though, I then saw, further out, two more turtles parked on a thick branch sticking up out of the water. No way to creep close. No dives. Communion restored.

Today, feeling some haircut regret after a visit to the local budget hair salon, I thought that one of the great things about being a turtle is never having to worry about your hair. Even my cat, eighteen and a half years old and shedding heavily as spring advances, has bits and bunches of hair that stick out at odd angles in her ruff. Just a couple of small chunks that will eventually fall out, like last year. I believe this is a consequence of old age, for it never happened when she was younger. Frankly, it makes her look quite silly. Today, back from the salon, I felt much the same, though at this point I am somewhat reconciled.

I realize, that like the turtle without hair, I am a writer without buzz or vibe or coolness of any kind, with a very small audience. I am invisible, really, but feeling more comfortable with it than I used to. If you have no hair, you have no hair, so why worry? I envy those with a head full, it is true--especially if it's smartly styled (and it always is.) But a turtle climbing onto a log with a head of wet hair would look woefully ridiculous once it had dried, with weird little whirls and dips and sticky-out parts all over the place. So, you see, there are blessings to be had everywhere.

Blue Lagoon

I have twice seen a blue heron in Ragtag Lake--the bit of wildness I visit on my lunchtime walks. Parts of the lake at that end are very shallow, allowing Mr. Heron to walk about in the water looking for lunch. I feel rather sorry for him, thinking he should be in a more lush environment, like the Eastern Shore of Maryland or Virginia, areas which have lots of tourists but also enormous beauty. I do not know, though, if he is as concerned with the gorgeousness of his setting as is the human who watches him.

I think a fear for any writer is the loss of lushness--that spring and muscle and beauty of language that comes when one is writing at full power and strength. Energy, after all, ebbs and flows. Life-events happen, as does aging, which is ongoing even when you are young. So when the right words are right there, leaping onto the page or screen, the thrill has no comparison. But when the words are nothing but dry sticks you can't even rub together--that is excruciatingly painful.

Maybe the thing is to always be, like Mr. Heron, on the lookout for for a fresh pond or lake or river or ocean or bay or creek in which to stick your feet. A dip in the water--daring to dip--is exciting and dangerous. Afterall, who knows what you will step on? But it is so very necessary for survival.

Boo!

When I started this blog I worried I wouldn't be able to post regularly, given my deeply entrenched tendency to drift (not always the good kind of drifting, as in the previous post.) My fear has justified itself, at least for the past couple of months. I have been round and about, but paying attention to other things--at least, I think I have. Who knows where the mind goes when you're not looking?

Thursday morning I went with my husband into downtown Washington, D.C. to see the cherry blossoms that line the Tidal Basin by the Jefferson Memorial. It was raining lightly, intermittently, the sky a soft, lovely gray, the water in the Tidal Basin the same oyster color, a few shades darker. Against that, the blossoms, just out, glowed a warm, pale pink. Because of the rain, the crowds had not yet descended, so only a small number of people were there and we had some privacy.

We also visited the new WWII memorial, plunked down in the middle of the Mall, which I had never seen before. It is ginormous and somewhat imperial, as the criticism has stated. But, to my surprise, I found it enormously satisfying. I'm not sure why. There were a good number of people about, but I was still able to feel alone--the good kind of alone--and think about the soldiers who were gone. A sad but peaceful moment.

I like all the memorials that I've seen in D.C. over the years, though I favor some over others. All are commemorations to the dead, famous and not. I often wonder if these same dead, now only spirit, lurk nearby. If they do, do they envy the living or feel sorry for them? I can't help but suspect envy. D.C., all dressed up in its spring finery, is gorgeous. I'd want to come back for that, too.

Lights! Camera!

Scre-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h!

That's the sound of me scre-e-e-e-e-e-ching back into my blog, having discovered that Cynthia Leitich Smith mentioned it in her world-famous ya and children's literature blog, cynsations . (Yay, Cyn! Thanks!) So wait a minute as I throw on some makeup (slap, smack, puff) put on something decent to wear (tug, swish, oof) comb my hair (snapple gapple pop) and stretch my lips into a giant pink grin. :-)

Okay, whew, I'm ready!

Been gone awhile. Been adrift. Not the bad, lost-on-the-stormy-sea-on-a-dark-night kind of drifting, but more of a gliding-slowly-across-a-motionless-lake-on-a-still-day kind. I've started writing a new book. It might prove to be a total stinker, suitable only for tossing into the trashcan, but for now I'm having fun with it. Moreover, finding words again after a long time of lost belief feels wonderful.

I attribute my reawakening, in no small part, to the tippy-end of the lake I mentioned in an earlier post. I walk there almost every day at lunch, on the days I work my paycheck job, and it refreshes me. It is not a beautiful lake--it is small and scrubby and littered at the edges--and yet, it is a beautiful lake! The water changes color with the sky and with the wind, but it also changes its intention. One day it is tame, even dull--just another ruined piece of suburbia--another day it is a dangerous current, a swirl tugging you down, a harsh wilderness. There are almost always a few Canadian geese floating around--small boats in the distance--and sometimes a couple of mallards, which are my favorite. Swimmers and bobbers, they seem impervious to being tugged down. Or, they go down but pop right back up, a trick I've never quite mastered.

Blub Blub Blub

I walked past the tippy-end of a lake a few days ago. The lake is located in a nearby state park, the tippy-end nestling beside (rather, to the side and just below) a non-park road and neighborhood. It is a man-made lake and so has that not-quite-legitimate feel to it, and appears ragged and torn, littered at the edges by too many people using the small patch of nature left to them by the developers, yet I was nonetheless glad to pass by and see still-bare trees lost in deep reflection of themselves.

It was a quick walk (on my lunch break at work) and I didn't have time to do more than pause before turning back, but I was reminded of how much I miss water. Moving water, like creeks and rivers, but also still ponds and lakes, their stillness reflecting back so nicely what surrounds them. I used to seek such environments out, but have become rather stuck of late in a barren suburbia.

It is a kind of narcissism, I suppose, to stare at reflections in water, as I used to do so intently. Not at my own reflection so much (it is hard to stand tall enough or lean out far enough over water to see yourself, especially if you are somewhat short) but the reflection of nature--of the natural world we live in. This is what we are, a reflection seems to say: deep and beautiful, full of secrets and meaning.

I have been pushing depth away for a while now. It is there, lurking, but I have been distracted by shallow surfaces, the way they shine and beguile. I have, however, begun to feel things tugging at me again. A good sign, I think, though one that signals struggles to come. Diving deep is hard work, plus there is the fear you might drown. And you might.

Cool Breeze

My mother's death has thrown me off course more than I thought it would. Alzheimer's has been described as a long goodbye--which it is, only worse. Experienced as I had become with that long goodbye, I assumed the final goodbye would be something of a breeze. Yes, I felt deep sorrow during her dying and afterward, through the funeral, but then I whizzed into a period of really not feeling very much of anything at all about her. Very breezy indeed.

Now, though, the weight of her loss has followed me home. It tugs at me, rather like a dark shadow always hovering anxiously at my back--when I turn to see it, I can't, but I feel it; I know it is there. I spent most of my life in the dark shadow known as depression. This is different, somehow. Not a generalized despair but a specific sadness. As if it is not just I who am grieving, but also my mother. As if she is as surprised at her death as I am.

I was similarly astounded when my father died, some years ago. It is a big shock, to find that death has inserted itself between you and your parent. Not fair! we usually say--those of us, at any rate, who had good (if complicated) parents. But I know that soon enough death will also insert itself between me and life. A common enough realization, but rarely a comforting one. I suspect a cool breeze will soon spring up to distract me from that truth, too.