This photo doesn’t even begin to show you what these guys are like. It looks innocent enough here.
I figured why we have no squirrels this year when in the past we’ve had them climbing the bird feeder all day. It’s the Red Jimmies! The little squirrels, no bigger than chipmunks. “Six ounces of pure nastiness,” I read. They’re known for being aggressive, territorial, and unsociable. And noisy. I watched one yell at a “regular” squirrel to get the hell out of here. They’ve moved into the territory and will not share. They’re cute, except for their nasty dispositions. Yesterday while we were eating lunch on the deck, we watched one race from pillar to post, finding something in the leaves to bring back to a hole under the cedar. It moved so fast it was almost flying, back and forth, back and forth, the very picture of exuberance, or desperation, or devotion.
The ducks come up the bank and under the feeder to pick what’s left on the ground. I walked out too quickly and they all flew up in a flurry, headed for the water. I am besotted with the creatures. Our ants we named Ralph and Loren that diligently crawled across the railing have gone where creatures go. We made up stories about them. It may be too late for ants now. The bat who was living on the upstairs screened-in porch of the old cottage has left. I think the hummingbirds are gone. The feeder water level hasn’t changed in a few days.
How desperately lonely life would be without our creatures. This is what I think every day. It has been a different sort of summer, but every summer is different. Our neighbors on either side have been gone much of the time. When our family isn’t here, it’s just us and the red jimmies, pesky little buggers. I could get used to this. I say that, but I’ll be glad to go home at the end of this month.
When I say I could get used to this—I’ve settled into the meditation of stillness. My own thoughts bounce back at me. I watch their beginning and ending, and I feel when they’re racing like the squirrels. My so-called poems have settled into little exercises in simplicity.
The front of the famous Bachmann’s Store. “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it” in Central Lake.
I don’t want this to be about anything other than observation, that sharpens with use, deepens with use. It’s one thing to say you went to the Grand Canyon and took pictures and were awed. It’s another to stand on the edge for a long time and sink your spirit into the depths. To pick up a handful of the sandy rock and see its slight shimmer in the sun. Experience is not a photo or a story. It is the whole thing, and nothing will ever remove it from your body and your mind. You can’t lose it.
Sometimes being alive is so awful I can hardly stand it. I’m sure you know what I mean. We’re a mass of nerve endings that are always firing. To watch the birds on the feeder is lovely. We’ve learned the birds, in a way. But the same nerve endings that are appreciating are the ones that suffer terribly. The word “awe” is appropriate. Full of awe. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always full of awe. The only way to stop that awe is to stop feeling.
Another thing I’ve appreciated about this summer is the permission I’ve given myself to write anything, every day, without struggling with it. It feels like pure writing. I do it because I want to, with no particular agenda. To wit: I suddenly realized I have a blog post due tomorrow, so I banged this out. I respect your attention enough to want it to be worth reading, but I don’t want to wave my arms in front of your face to get your attention.
I do have to say that having two books coming out next year gives me a space to float in, a kind of waiting. But it’s not that. It’s just clicking along, because I want to.
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I want to mention again that I’ll be reading at the Bos Winery in Elk Rapids, MI, from 6-7:30 on October 23,. Not just a reading! The next day I’ll be leading a workshop from 1-3 at Grass River Natural Area Education Center in Bellaire, MI. The enrollment is limited, I think. I’ll have the full information next time.