I’ve always been a risk-adverse kind of person, some might say fearful. Afraid of making a mistake, of being wrong. Afraid of falling. Afraid of the dark, of getting lost, of being left behind. Some of that changed when I experimented with drugs in the late 70s, early 80s. I found my inner extrovert and risk-taker, and, frankly, she almost killed me.
For over three decades now I live with someone is who somewhat risk-adverse. He was enough of a risk-taker when he was young(er) to join the Navy and fly on planes searching for Russian submarines, to join the Peace Corps and work with an Amazonian people that had once been known as headhunters. But when it came to work, housing, and finances, he always chose the long, slow steady path of reasonable choices. Frankly, he saved my life.
For his birthday last week, we went on a hike. A slow, ambling kind of hike where he would pause to sweep for insects that he would later photograph, and I would pause to get on my knees and take photographs.
It was a chilly, green day. Lots and lots of green with few red and yellow leaves here and there.
My reward for this long ambling walk (besides the simple joy of being on a long ambling walk) was several fully bloomed yellow lupine just waiting for me to come along.
Same stalk, just a different angle.
One part of our walk took us to an open windy field. Looking up at the sky, I remarked to my husband that if I didn’t know I was in Florida, I would have thought I was in the central part of New York state.
It was one of those walks that you really enjoy while you’re walking but enjoy even more once you’re home, warm and cozy with your four-legged furry friends. Especially this little guy.
It’s not the best picture of him. Actually it’s a still from a video I took of him playing. Raji is in training for the Kitty Olympics. He’s a leaper and he loves running into things.
At this time, Raji and our indoor fickle felines have not formally met. A couple of times I kept the door to the garage open long enough for a few furtive glances, but nothing more than that. Baby steps. We don’t expect any of them to become fast friends. Tolerance and safe passage from one room to another is all we ask.
Perhaps if we try to integrate them on a warm, sunny day, Junior will be too blissed out to care.
Thank you for reading! Stay safe and well and please enjoy this petite green bouquet.
First, let me talk about flowers. As some of you know, I’ve developed an interest in photography, an interest I hope to indulge a lot more in about 11 weeks. Macro-photography fascinates me, and a few weeks ago I bought flowering plants to challenge my photographic skills. Following are photos of an Purple Aster, bought before it started to bloom. These photos were taken over four days.
It’s fun watching flowers bloom on your own back deck, trying to find the right light and the right moment. During the work week, that isn’t as easy as I’d like, even though I do work from home. Blame it on meetings.
And now, a Raji update:
For those of you who missed the excitement of my last post, you can read it here. In the week since I wrote that post, we managed to get Raji confined to our garage. Poor little guy had hurt his right front leg jumping down from the roof of our shed. We didn’t want him gallivanting around, making it worse so we coaxed him in with food (of course!) one evening and shut the cat door.
Oh, was he pissed about that! I had never heard a cat complain so much. He has quite the repertoire as well. Not just the usual meows for Raji, but howls, trills, pips and peeps. And he kept us busy playing hide-and-seek, except he was the one always hiding. One of his favorite hiding places is our canoe which hangs against a wall. Watching him climb boxes and books and then slip into the gap is much like watching a kid climbing the stairs to his room, loudly complaining the whole way.
We had arranged to take him to our vet, but the appointment was a few days off. We were worried about his leg, the fact that we were expecting heavy rain, and the lack of sunshine and fresh air in the garage. So more or less spontaneously, we took him up to a spay/neuter clinic and got his pom-poms snipped. He also got his rabies and distemper shots, tested for HIV and feline leukemia (both negative), and his claws clipped. His leg wasn’t swollen and the clinic vet said the pain meds would probably help with that. After we brought him home, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with us.
Then our worries changed to whether he would eat (and through eating, take his pain medication), whether he would use the litter box, or whether he would just curl up in the canoe and die.
Happily, within 24 hours, his appetite was back and he had peed in the litter box. I’m sure you can imagine my delight when, another day later, I found an impressive pile of poop in the box too. And so we go. He has a great appetite, and the more I study him, the younger I think he is, perhaps not yet a year old. He still does not like us to touch him, but he tolerates our furtive pets and strokes while he eats. Although he insists on social distancing, he’s become comfortable enough with us to groom and play while we watch like doting parents.
We want to keep him confined at least until he sees our favorite vet at the end of this month. Because of his apparent youth, however, I’m loath to release him to the wilds of our neighborhood … ever. To make his current confinement tolerable (at least to our conscience), we bought him a playpen and fastened it to the side entrance into our garage.
We have this luxurious penthouse set up so when the side door is opened, he can go in and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine while still being held prisoner. No surprise that he has a lot of complaints about this.
Raji has inspected every possible flaw in this setup, searching for any gap big enough to squeeze through, and giving us a piece of his mind while he does it. We’ve bolted, strapped, and twist-tied the pen in place, and secured wood panels where a kitty’s head might stick through. We were not only afraid of Raji getting away, but of him getting stuck. So this is a daytime playpen, to be used only when we are up and about and available to check on him frequently.
I guess you could say the adventure has begun in earnest now. The slow, thoughtful and patient process of getting Raji used to us, comfortable with us, and then (fingers crossed) integrated into the household.
For now our three indoor kids are in denial. They do hear Raji chattering away in the garage, but pretend not to. Their ears, however, give them away. In the meantime, Junior still claims my sandals.
Thank you for reading! If the news is getting you down, find a good distraction, like adopting a semi-feral stray cat. Believe me, it helps :)
I love the number thirteen. That and the fact that I got an extra hour’s sleep this weekend made me feel quite chippy on Sunday. Monday (today) starts week #13 in my countdown, so for once I actually looked forward to Monday.
To a point anyway. This will no doubt be a stressful week because of the election. I am going to do my best to avoid reading the news until Wednesday … if I can. I’ve always been a bit of news junkie so it’s an effort, but I’ll have plenty of distractions (as in, meetings, meetings, and more meetings!).
Meanwhile. We went for a walk on Sunday, a gorgeous day with sunshine and coolish temperatures.
Here are a few scenes.
Talk about hanging in there! This tree doesn’t want to let go and I don’t blame it. It’s a lovely environment, full of dappled sunlight and rich vegetation. Worst case scenario: it’ll become a home and food for critters and birds so life will continue.
How’s this for a still life? I did not stage the fern, sticks and fungi. The composition caught my eye, and I took photos from several angles, but this is my favorite.
Aren’t these so pretty? I see patterns like this and I immediately think of knitting, of all things, imagining myself knitting up sweaters or shawls in these colors and lines.
And some more. They also make me think of full skirts that swirl when you dance.
Now this is something I wouldn’t want to blindly grab. Greg says it’s a “devil’s walking stick.” It can be quite beautiful when it’s in flower, but it’s November so no blooms.
Ah, that’s it for today. In just over three months, I’ll have more time to regale you with my photos and chatter. For now, I’m just counting down and enjoying the start of some real fall weather.
Even our cats are starting to assume their winter behavior.
You only see Maxine tolerating Junior’s butt in her face when the temperatures start to drop and she’ll take any body heat she can find. Junior was soaking up the sun, silly boy. If you look really close, you can see that Maxine actually has a paw draped over Junior’s feet. Like children, they are so adorable when they are sleeping.
Thanks for visiting! Hope you are all well and safe and happy. My friends in the U.S.: Remember to vote on November 3 if you haven’t already voted, and hang on to your sanity. I think it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
About a month ago, my husband and I went on a bike ride through the Aucilla Wildlife Management Area. In hindsight, I guess it was a kind of prep for the ride we’d take at St. Marks Refuge (15 Weeks and Counting #wfh #newchapter #nature). A prep that would make biking at St. Marks feel like we were riding on clouds.
We had a few obstacles at the Aucilla trail, such as:
A rather large tree that we wound up carrying our bikes over rather than under. The silver lining to this impediment was that no big noisy vehicles could get to the other side.
And plenty of potholes.
This was by far the largest, and the one before which I fell off my bike (I took the photo from the other side.) I’m not always graceful when I fall although I try. All’s the better if I know I’m going to fall, which I did in this case. I kept my head up while loudly proclaiming that I should have worn my helmet because, “Honey, you know I always fall!.”
But the worst part is getting up. I avoid putting weight on my left knee because I don’t like pain. Instead, I have to get on all fours, put weight into my palms, lift my knee or knees, push with my hands, and then rise. Here’s where I say a little prayer of gratitude for the many years I’ve been practicing yoga.
A couple of days later I found two large bruises, one on the inside of my left ankle and the other on the inside of my left thigh. Oh, the joy of aging. Not only is my bruising delayed, but so is my memory. Took me awhile to realize the bruising was from the fall … at least I think it was.
But I digress. The other joy of aging is that I feel more like a kid and enjoy getting dirty. I proudly sported a thin layer of crusty gray dirt on my right side for the rest of our trip.
And it was worth it.
On our way back, we stopped at this beautiful spot, so green and lush. The soft sound of the breeze through the trees could have lulled me to sleep.
I enjoyed the clouds above …
and the clouds below.
Again, the kid in me was mesmerized by the reflections in the water. Okay, so I don’t have to be a kid or feel like a kid to be mesmerized by nature, but these experiences always remind me of when I was a child and would fixate on leaves reflected in a puddle or …
or the delicate world of insects.
I hope you enjoyed coming along with me. Stay safe and well, strive for happiness, and VOTE!
In fifteen weeks, I’ll be able to spend more of my time doing what I did on Sunday: biking at the St. Marks Refuge (SMR).
My husband and I used to walk the 12-mile loop, although for me anyway the last two miles were more hobbling than walking. These days neither of us can manage walking the 6-mile loop. Bad knees, bad back, less tolerance for heat and humidity. But we have bikes.
Here’s a few scenes from our Sunday excursion. We were blessed by the sight of a bald eagle. I really think the bald eagles at SMR are naturals for photo-ops. We were surrounded by natural beauty. SMR is a special place for us, and spending time there always lifts our spirits.
The wildflowers were abundant.
A resting spot.
One of the many waterways at SMR.
My trusty hybrid.
A bald eagle posing as if he had been waiting for us.
The bayou filled with water.
Soft pastels gracing the trail.
It was a beautiful day, even if it got a bit warm (85 degrees). The horseflies were out and about, but thanks to our bikes, we could outrun them … sort of. I had been wanting to bike SMR for a long time. We biked it once, a long time ago, and I always wanted to do it again. Now that I know I couldn’t complete a 6-mile loop much less a 12-mile loop with my arthritic knees, biking is the way to go.
I hope you enjoyed the trip. And I hope you are all well and safe and holding onto hope.
Bliss, according to Merriam-Webster, means “complete happiness.” Complete might be an exaggeration, unless I can add the word “fleeting” to the definition: fleeting complete happiness. Our world’s current situation makes any experience of complete happiness elusive for me, as well as it does for many others. My personal situation is not dire, and every day I am grateful for that.
During my work day, I’ll stand up away from my desk every so often and gaze out my window. My small view is of our back deck and the trees and bird feeders beyond. When I practice yoga in this room, I often gaze upward to see a blue or gray sky framed by tall pines. That connection with the natural world, even when I’m on the wrong side of the window, gives me these fleeting feelings of bliss.
My bubble is pretty much my house, sometimes extended to my neighborhood if temps are comfortable enough for walking. When we do go out, we go and come back quickly. No lingering in the gift shop at the native plant nursery. No contemplating at the produce aisle at Trader Joe’s. It’s grab and go.
But on my birthday, we expanded our bubble a bit and went to Mashes Sands Beach. I’ve written about this beach before. This visit was a bit different from the one we had four years ago. For one thing, a couple of hurricanes have come through since then. We suspect Hurricane Michael was responsible for the damage done to the otherwise impressive boardwalk and pier.
We had planned to walk the boardwalk to the beach. When we saw it was closed, we followed a path along the boardwalk that took us through some mucky territory. I almost lost a sandal when my right foot sank in muck up to my ankle, and one leg was almost flayed by thorny vines. But, hey, it was my birthday and I was outdoors!
Before Hurricane Michael:
After Hurricane Michael:
In Nature, there is death and life.
Death.
This guy met an untimely end. My theory is he was washed up on the shore during one of our recent storms. My husband’s theory is that he was caught by a fisher who didn’t bother to toss him back in the water. I like my theory better.
Life.
Not the best of pictures, but it was fun to sit near the seagulls and other wading birds as they fed.
Did I tell you I’m taking up photography … sort of? I haven’t felt like writing creatively since I’ve been working at home. The place where I do most of my creative writing is now my day job work space. I’m also writing a lot at work, although it’s not creative. So that part of me has fizzled for the time being.
I was starting to feel depressed about that until my husband encouraged me to try using our 9-year-old Canon Rebel T3i. I do take a lot of photos with my iPhone and the quality of those photos can be impressive. It has its limits, though, and I don’t feel I have as much control over how I take photos with my iPhone as I do with the T3i. Although I am on a steep learning curve with the T3i, that’s part of the appeal.
Later this month, my WP plan will revert to Premium from Business. I just can’t won’t justify the cost of a Business plan when I have no business. So, some features might change. Perhaps, with my new interest in photography, I’ll switch to a template that is less wordy and more visual.
Meanwhile …
Some of my novel writing friends have been busy!
Carrie Rubin has TWO new novels, one available now and the other soon to come in August. The first is The Cruise Ship Lost of My Daughter, a cozy mystery written on a pseudonym, and the other is the second in her Benjamin Oris series titled The Bone Hunger.
Katie Sullivan has completed her final novel in her Changelings trilogy, The Myth of Memory. Although Katie’s novels are considered Young Adult, I thoroughly enjoy them as an Old Adult. Her novels blend Ireland’s political history with its myth and magic.
Finally, or at least as much as I’m aware given how little I’ve been on the blogosphere lately, Kevin Brennan has been releasing some of his novels in paperback form. The latest to be released is Eternity Began Tomorrow. If you’re in need of a novel that will give you some hope for the future, while taking you on a crazy ride through cults, climate change, and romance, look no further than EBT.
My father was born on July 5, the day of this post’s publication. If he had lived, he would be 101. Well, Happy Birthday to you, Lenny, wherever you are.
Thanks for visiting. I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy!
Junior perching his big head on a magazine, settling in for an afternoon nap.
I missed going forest bathing this weekend. Stuff happens. Mostly stuff that involves laundry and blogging. My work week is as busy as ever, if not busier. My husband noted the other day that I’m probably working more since I’ve been working at home.
Since my commute is only from my living room couch to my bedroom office, I definitely start work earlier. Back when I had to drive to my office, work wouldn’t start until:
I drove 25-30 minutes to my building,
parked the car and walked half a block,
got into the building,
walked up the stairs and down the hall,
turned on my computer,
gone to the ladies’ room,
filled my water bottle and my kettle,
put the kettle on for tea,
logged into my computer,
pulled out my peanut-butter-on-toast breakfast,
steeped the before-mentioned tea,
and opened Outlook.
Thanks to my current commute, most of those steps are omitted. So work starts earlier and now ends later too with documentation to complete at the end of each day. Plus, I often find myself thinking, “Oh, I’ll just respond to this one last email before I close out.” or “Oops, I need to put a reminder on that task.” or “While I’m still logged in, let me do just one more thing.” When I worked in a building that was nine miles away, I rarely had a problem leaving on time. I need to work on that.
Last weekend, we did engage in some forest bathing. Actually it was a double win since the forest includes a swamp.
Beginning of our hike.
Green!
Trees!
Roots! Watch your step!
Trees and light.
If there were water …
A river might run through it.
Although my husband and I have been to this particular park numerous times over the last 30 years, new entrances and trails have been added.
A couple of days before, a fierce storm including a tornado came through this area.
Oops … a downed tree.
Double oops … a very big downed tree.
Other side of very big downed tree.
1–This is one tree, in sequence.
2
3
4
Trail crews had been out after the storm, taping off areas that were dangerous. For the most part, the trees were left where they fell and we easily navigated around them. Still, it gave me a thrill to imagine a storm so intense it could bring down these impressive trees.
But didn’t I promise you a swamp?
Yes, indeed, you can’t have Florida forest bathing without a swamp. The afternoon light was perfect, giving this swamp an ethereal feel. I half expected fairies to peek out from the trees. My husband said the only thing missing was a water moccasin but that was fine with me.
As much as I love the varied hues of green, I always look for and often find a bit of color.
I’m so glad you came along with me on this virtual revisiting of a favorite hike.
On our way out.
I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did! Here’s your reward:
Wendy says, “Talk to the paw!”
Postscript: The next couple of weeks might be a bit intense for me (understatement). My supervisor is retiring after 30+ years with the department, and she has nine work days left. Nine work days left for me and the rest of the staff to mind-meld with her … I wish (where is Mr. Spock when you need him). The day after her last day, I’m supposed to be appointed to her position and start acting like I know things. (Keep in mind, I work for a bureaucracy so anything or nothing can happen.)
On the surface this will appear to be a promotion but it’s really just a necessary restructuring of our little section. No, I’m not being falsely modest. The plan is to maintain continuity while we “grow” our section and provide more opportunities for our (relatively) younger, brighter and more ambitious staff.
My point in saying writing all this is just to let you know what’s up with me.
The remote life is not so bad. Not as long as you have plenty of food, you’re not sick, none of your family are sick, your cats are healthy, and you’re able to work at home and maintain your income (alternatively, you could be retired like my husband in which case the remote life is a bit better than not-so-bad). It helps to be a homebody who doesn’t really care for traveling, to be someone who, for a long time, just wanted to stay home.
But I sense everyone else’s restlessness, the growing irritation with the shops all being closed, no restaurants or bars to hang out at, police breaking up parties, infringements on one’s individual right to move freely and congregate. What perplexes me is that, on the rare times when I do leave my neighborhood, I see a fair amount of free movement and congregating. It’s the congregating that scares me.
Some Florida beaches opened this weekend and two things happened: the beaches quickly became crowded with few if any face masks in sight, and a new hashtag was born. #FloridaMorons. My governor takes his orders from the president so Florida no doubt will go through much more heartache before (if) this is done.
I haven’t done much writing lately. I haven’t really felt like it. Who knew that spending eight hours a day on a computer working for my employer would effectively kill any desire to stay on the computer after hours and write? Honestly, I didn’t know until it happened.
People are writing, though, and if you’re one of them and you’re writing about the pandemic, then think about submitting to The Disappointed Housewife, a special place for offbeat literature. Call for submissions is here: https://thedisappointedhousewife.com/2020/04/17/call-for-pandemic-submissions/. Tell them Marie sent you.
The upside of not writing is I’ve been walking.
I see trees! They’re everywhere …
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A couple of weeks ago we went walking at one of the few nature trails opened to the public. We were initially dismayed by the number of cars parked at the entrance but, to our relief, no congregating was going on. I saw no more than three people together at one time, and we all gave each other ample space to pass, even on the narrow trails. People smiled and said hello. Imagine that.
I hadn’t been to this trail in a long while so I got a little camera-happy.
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It was exciting to see such variety of color. I love all the shades of green that a good nature trail provides, but some yellow, blue, and red is always welcome.
Although I still have a spider phobia (somewhat mitigated after thirty years in Florida), I am fascinated by the very tiny spiders that make these delicate hammock-like webs. My husband referred to this group of webs as the spider condominium.
Best of all for me was the dragonfly that graciously rested long enough for me to get this photo.
Nature can be accommodating when she wants to be. Especially when I’m willing to be patient.
I hope you enjoyed this walk through one of our favorite trails. I hope you are staying safe and well.
On Saturday I mentioned to my 96-year-old mom that I have a new hobby: picking up trash. Usually I have no “news” for her since my life is pretty much the same day in, day out. The cats are getting older even though Junior still acts like a hellion. Nothing new with my husband’s back (it still plagues him although he manages to work around it). And, yes, he is still enjoying retirement. I don’t tell her any more about my aches and pains because why should I? She who never has such complaints takes it pretty hard when she sees or hears her children struggling. So I tell her about my new hobby instead, and she chuckles.
Picking up trash is becoming a bit of an obsession for me, although not quite in the league of David Sedaris who might spend 3 to 5 hours a day picking up trash. But I can no longer go on a walk without my grabber and a couple of bags (13-gallon kitchen trash bags which actually are not the best choice because they tear easily). The one time I tried, I wound up taking a dog poop bag from a dispenser in the park and used that to pick up bits and pieces of plastic.
I’ve added purple heavy-duty household cleaning gloves to my tools. They’re a bit awkward but, since so much trash I find is along ponds, they keep my hands protected as well as dry. Today, my husband gave me a small case that I can clip on to my belt and use as a kit to hold my gloves and trash bags.
He’s also had the patience to go with me and recline on the grass while I make my way around the perimeter of a stormwater pond … or two. I don’t ask him to help because of his back, but I like having his company.
Here’s two views of one particular pond called “Lake Le Marc.” Seriously. It’s a stormwater pond facility (my husband, the engineer, says) but if Tallahassee wants to call it a lake, who am I to argue? You’d have to zoom into the photos to see all the plastic bottles floating on the surface. If you can’t zoom, just trust me. They are there.
This was some of my haul from Saturday’s walk and pick-up.
I pretty much filled the 13-gallon bag, had it all nicely tied when I found a broken plastic hanger. Yes, I did, with some patience, untie the bag and fit it in. But then that was it, and, believe me, it was really hard to walk back home and not pick up any more trash.
Picking up trash is not just a new hobby. It’s a new obsession.
This photo is from last weekend. Me trying to stand like a hunter with my trusty rifle grabber, my buck bag at my feet.
Thanks for reading. As a reward for looking at photos of trash, here’s one of Wendy, or her bum anyway.
When temps get below 70 degrees, these Southern kitties seek out warmth. The fleecy blanket is the one I brought her home in, 6 and 1/2 years ago. It’s her “blankie.”
I have a favorite pond near where I work. It’s small, roughly a half mile in diameter and shaped like a stretched-out kidney. It often plays host to dozens of pond sliders (turtles), minnow-like fish, and large birds such as blue herons and egrets. The pond sits across the intersection, diagonal to my office building. When my knee was in better working condition and I could go for daily long walks, I’d always start off at the pond, taking the asphalt nature trail (there’s something oxymoronic about an asphalt nature trail, isn’t there?) past the overly expensive McMansions and along the larger pond which they call a lake and then back down to my office.
When my knee was better, I walked with a fairly fast stride. These days, not so much. As my stride slowed, my awareness of litter increased. That awareness was also peaked by two writers I follow, one through WordPress and one through Medium. Jan Priddy describes picking up trash amongst little pretty things like sea glass on the beach near her home: https://janpriddyoregon.wordpress.com/2020/01/03/gathering/ Tammy Hader muses about what she can and can’t control, noting “All I can do is pick up the trash and keep on walking”: https://medium.com/journal-of-journeys/one-person-at-a-time-starts-with-me-6058bece64b0
Inspired by these two writers, I set about to grab a grabber and a trash bag and see what kind of difference (if any) I can make to the pond. My first time out resulted in this interesting haul.
My first haul picking up trash around the pond.
It was a windy day so I had to use pine cones to keep the bag from flapping around while I took the photo. My hands were also bare and, since so much of the trash was mucky, I chose not to play around with the contents. But you can see the rather large lager can, prominent among the muck, my prize, if you will.
At the time, the water level in the pond was low, making it a perfect opportunity to get to trash that would otherwise be under water. While I was dismayed to see the beer can, my heart was truly broken by all the bits of plastic I found. I’m sure most of those bits were blown in by the dumpster from a large apartment complex that sits on the other side of the pond.
My heart was broken but my spirit was strong in its resolve to continue the practice, especially since I filled almost two-thirds of the 13-gallon trash bag. I brought that bag home and put it in our own bin, not trusting the bins around my workplace to be secure enough.
I imagine I was an odd sight, shuffling along the water’s edge, grabbing bits and pieces of trash. A coworker on a walk stopped to see what I was up to. I mentioned the turtles and fish and my fear that all this trash was harmful. He smiled and said it was a nice thing I was doing. I think he was sincere as one time, when he and I were literally crossing paths, we stood together for a few moments to admire a hawk in a tree.
An elderly man also stopped. I recognized him from previous encounters when he’d be walking one of his dogs and he would talk to me about looking out for poisonous snakes. He’d make a point of killing a snake if it were poisonous because people, especially children, might get hurt. He came over to tell me to watch out for snakes. I assured him that I was and he moved on and let me get back to sweeping the tall grass with my grabber.
I suppose the best part of this experience was finding and removing all the junk I found. There was something else, though, something deeply felt but not seen. Walking the edge of the pond, carefully placing one foot in front of the other as my eyes focused on the water and the muck and the grasses, looking for anything that might bounce light from the sun, I lost sense of time. I felt myself recede from the world I have to inhabit most of my waking hours and emerge into another one, a world of tiny objects like cigarette butts but also of insects, of algae, of water that’s green and brown. My world slowed down along with my breath. I only knew the time, and the fact of when I needed to return to the other world, because I wore a watch. Without the watch, I wouldn’t have known if I had been out there for ten minutes or a full hour.
I’ve become somewhat addictive to this process now. A few days later I went out to the pond again, this time with smaller, grocery store bags. I went around the pond’s perimeter and was disappointed to find myself filling those bags. I did scan some bushes on the other side of the trail and found a couple of beer bottles, but most of what I found was along the pond’s edge. Including a rubber ducky.
My second haul from the pond. Yes, that is a rubber ducky in the middle.
I don’t know if the turtles appreciate my efforts, but it does my heart good to see them around the pond with a little less danger of getting trapped in a plastic bag.
So it seems I have a new mission in life. The third time I went out, my knee was feeling better so I took a regular walk, picking up trash as I went. Most of it was paper but it still filled my grocery bag. It was still worth picking up and hauling away.
I’ve since treated myself to a new grabber, this one with a longer reach.
My new weapon for my #makeAmericabeautifulagain campaign.
It’s 40 inches, six more than my original grabber which I’ve gifted to my husband. Given that I’ve risked falling into the pond twice, a longer grabber is necessary.
I know I can’t control what other people do, but I can control what I do. If I can’t stop people from littering, I can pick up the litter and dispose of it properly. What do you do to give yourself a sense of control over a problem when you know you can’t control the problem itself?
Wendy wishes she could control my camera and shut it off.
Marie at 1 Write Way 