There’s this epic cloud parting—Julie Andrews frolicking through the meadows, “The Hills Are Alive with the Sound of Music” swelling in the background—that’s what I see in my mind as I envision the berm with a raised bed I want to create in the front lawn.
If you knew how the water drains here—straight to the right like a sideways slingshot—you’d understand. It becomes a mini river on that slope, rushing up and over the driveway. I’d like to stop it before it gets there. The dirt and sand that wash away when the rains come, I’d like to preserve. To keep the nutrients in the yard, if I can.
It’s an extra-large putting-green-like area, I imagine. It’ll hold all kinds of native grasses, maybe a tree, and whatever fun bird- or nature-pleasing feature I can find.
Remember Evelyn’s bad feeling she gets—the one we named “Skunk”? Well, today it came back. After searching for a certain type of spider to add to our terrarium and not finding it, but wanting so badly to find it, the feeling came on.
My hypothesis is that it was the over-attention. Her body’s bad feeling was a way of telling her to exit the freeway. But she didn’t—or couldn’t. I told her to stop, to go inside and practice the piano for five minutes, to ask her brain to change tracks. That was my solution.
Hers was to jump on her scooter and then go inside and draw a picnic scene that she later gave Dave and me as a present.
And the whole thing got me thinking. Specifically about the length of time we allow a bad feeling to stay.
Perhaps we let it linger too long. Perhaps I have this unconscious perception that sitting with it for a bit is a good thing. But what if it’s not? What if feeling shitty for any amount of time isn’t okay? What if feeling connected and content, knowing everything is okay, is a state of being that fighting to consistently be in is not only okay, but is my right?
The rights of Jaclynn.
Not just the pursuit of happiness, but happiness. The right to it always.
My north star. My compass’s north.
The hummingbirds aren’t back yet. For days, I’ve had two feeders rocking and rolling, ready with a quarter cup of the three-parts-water, one-part-sugar mix to greet them on their way back from winter migration.
But nope.
Keeping me company instead are the eastern blue jays, a group of cute, chickadee-like birds, and the frogs.
I miss that box turtle. I wonder if it hibernates and will be back this year. And snakes—having seen only one last year makes me feel like I got away with murder on my first full summer living in Georgia. I don’t want to jinx myself, but I’d bet a ten-dollar bill I’ll see at least three this year.
I had a moment today.
Leaning back sideways in the hammock chair, mostly just my back pressing into it, looking up at the trees. I had a cosmopolitan in hand after a heavy yard-work day and my best two-mile run time yet.
I felt the cells of my body settle.
And where I needed to be was right there. In that chair. Smelling the air, breathing it in deep, listening to the sounds.
The calm, slowed beat of my heart. The softness in my eyes and limbs.
I knew my power, and it swelled in my chest.
Dang, I’m talkative. I almost called myself Chatty Cathy out of instinct, but thought better of it. I feel like the number of times Cathys hear that gets old, and I decided to do all the Cathys out there the service of keeping it to myself.
Alright, that’s all for now. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 