No Swimming Today, the Pool is Closed for Cleaning

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On Wednesday morning, I awoke with a fever and an aching body. Chas sat up beside me, with gloriously knotted bed hair, and began to pat my head with thundering blows. Ford, still asleep, snuggled closer, raking his razor sharp toenails along the back of my leg. I remember searching for a focal point, questioning whether I felt more like puking or finding a hole to crawl in.

It was another bout of mastitis, and I spent the rest of the day in bed, rolled up in layers of flannel and fleece. I am lucky to have a husband who can occasionally work from home, and a good friend who can watch my children while I sleep.

The following day, I recovered enough to make the weekly trip to Costco, babysit and help the neighbors move in. It amazes me, the body’s will to recover when the mind is still feeble. It bounces back with surprising memory, catching us off guard as we try and coordinate our muscles to the impulsive drive to do more.

Yet, despite the quick recovery, the wellspring of creativity has slowed to a trickle; I find myself cleaning toilets and attempting to tighten ship, as if I were ready to set sail. Actually, we are driving to Dallas tomorrow morning, and I need to finish packing our bags. Maybe once the dust settles in the car, on the way to Dallas, I will find the focus I need. I’ll bring a skein of yarn in a lollipop colorway, and coast on autopilot while my brain sorts things out. Knitting is good therapy, like cross training for the brain. I know this much: cleaning the toilets hasn’t really helped much. And Lysol toilet bowl cleaner smells HORRIBLE!!!! I’m getting my money back. yuck. There has to be a greener way to clean toilets.

The Brutal Curiosity of Youth

The lake today breathed a joyful sigh of peace before spring break arrives, next week, to slosh her with boat fuel, beer and music. Polly and I stood thigh-deep in the cold water, prattling about this and that, while Atticus and Ford rollicked on and off the diving platform. Chas and Tabitha teetered chest-high in the wakes from the occasional ski boats, the water slapped playfully against the banks and the youngsters, who didn’t seem the least appalled. What I thought was a minnow and then maybe a tadpole turned out to be a mayfly larva, swimming like a snake an inch below the surface. As I lifted it out of the water atop my palm, it walked along walked along my hand with surprisingly deft strength against the water’s surface tension. In order to take a closer look, Ford did something I cannot do anymore: he lifted the insect between his fingers and carried it away.

Most children enjoy letting slugs wander across their arms, caterpillars creep over fingers. Dad brought a jar of grasshoppers for the kids to play with last summer. Chas sat and picked them, one by one, out of the jar, letting them crawl all over himself. When I was Ford’s age, I remember picking up insects in this matter-of-fact way. I had Stag beetles, tarantulas, and pet grasshoppers, large, shiny red-on-black grasshoppers that I kept in mason jars. And then one day, I picked up an earthworm. It was cool, pinkish-brown and very long. I wondered at it’s sleekness, imagining that it could stretch to great lengths if it wanted to. So I pulled it gently between my fingers until it cracked in two places, exposing its tragic red insides to me. I remember dropping it, as I have seen Ford abandon his kill, only I felt sick. I still feel sick. I wonder what Ford feels, when his fingers erase another small life. Lifting him over the bank, as we were leaving, I noticed a very small gossamer wing on his arm.
(Sigh.) The mayfly?

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It is midnight in early March, and I’m hearing what I can’t bring myself to believe: a mockingbird serenading outside on the telephone pole.

Primitive

They are often called primitive for want of a better name.

They are the most sincere and most unself-conscious art that ever was and ever will be. They are what remains of the childhood of humanity. They are plunges into the depths of the unconscious. However great the artist of today or tomorrow, he will never be as innocent as the primitive artist—strangely involved and detached at the same time.
 

What could never have been written is there, all the dreams and anguishes of man. The hunger for food and sex and security, the terrors of night and death, the thirst for life and the hope for survival.”               
      

Dominique de Menil, 1962 Â