Hello, friends. You may (or may not) have noticed changes to my blog. When I downgraded to the Premium plan, my WP theme reverted to its original theme, and so I’ve been searching for a new one. There are so many! I’m keen on the “Responsive Layout” which means it should look good whether you’re reading on your phone, a tablet or desktop computer.
This theme is called Notebook. Initially I didn’t like all the white space, and I wanted to showcase my photos more. For a few days I sported Cerauno, but today, after mucking about with the social media widgets which never quite want to work for me, I decided to switch again. For the moment, I’m enamored with this side image that Notebook offers and the ability to change it whenever I want. By the way, the side image is one of my photos.
Photo by Marie A Bailey
I took this photo a couple of weeks ago when my husband and I were visiting the storm water facility in our neighborhood, where trash and birds and wildflowers and all kinds of insects are in abundance. I was playing with a macro lens my husband had loaned me for the excursion. The original photo was at 4x magnification. This is the original blown up and cropped. I was so excited to capture such a nice photo of this little guy on a little flower.
Made. My. Day.
So for now (all of 60 minutes), I’m happy with this theme. I can showcase my photos as I wish, but still have a nice, uncluttered site. I’ve removed the social media widgets for now. I know WP would help me, but I’ve no energy to spare today.
Let’s see … I wrote a blog post a couple of months ago about my current state of employment. The title was Work, Work, Work #MondayBlogs #WFH #writing. Well, it’s still work, work, work. We hit the ground running on Monday and keep running straight through to Friday evening. I know some people joke that Fridays for state employees are more like Saturdays, lazy days where sometimes you take off early to go fishing. Ha. Ha. Ha. I want to live in that world.
No, for me, late Friday afternoons are when we usually get the data requests that need to be done “today,” as in before you leave (or log off your computer, in my case). Of course, I and my staff never mind working another hour or two on a Friday evening to justify someone’s last minute decision for data that they probably won’t do anything with for a few days [sarcasm].
We comply. We always do. Of course, I do it with a fair amount of cursing and cussing. One of the benefits of working from home is that I no longer have to keep my words to myself. I at least have the freedom to complain out loud because no one but my cats and my husband can hear me. Such was yesterday and, of course, I worked longer than my staff because it is my responsibility. At the least, I need to be available for them while they work their magic.
After two-and-a-half months in this position, I’m already burnt out. I haven’t been reading blogs because when I have time to myself, I tend to close my eyes rather than read. It might not stay like this. I’m in the process of hiring to fill my old position and, the gods willing, I’ll have another position to fill as well. Perhaps I’ll be able to manage my time better after that. Perhaps.
Meanwhile, COVID-19 and Hurricane Isaias. My heart goes out to everyone who has to manage this double-whammy.
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 …
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
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.
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
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.
I’ve debated whether to post, given the 24/7 cycle of COVID-19 news that makes me want to curl up under a fleecy blanket with Wendy.
Here she is getting ready to nod off, while draped across my legs.
After my entertaining (at times) and insightful (always) experience in the COVID-19 call center (click here and here if you haven’t yet read those stories), I feel rather full up with all things corona. It’s enough that I check my state’s stats twice a day, increasingly alarmed at the rise in positive cases and the obviously ineffective mitigation of community spread. Watching COVID-19 take over Florida is like watching a slow-motion train wreck as it picks up speed.
As an introvert, I’ve come to embrace social distancing. Finally, I can claim my personal space and people cannot judge me for it. It’s been sanctioned by the governor’s Executive Order, no less. I am also working from home now. I was very resistant at first, knowing that the boundary between work and home would become blurred, my and my husband’s privacy invaded by conference calls and Skype meetings.
But aren’t I lucky to be able to work from home? To still have a job? Yes, I am, I am. Will I complain about it? Yes, I will. It’s what I do.
Still, I am grateful for a lot of things right now. I’m deeply grateful for being able to connect with friends and family in multiple ways, to stay in touch and check on each other, to try and shore each other up. I’m also grateful for having a cat who likes to snuggle against my toes while I work.
Still … I plan to do some death-cleaning of my social media accounts. Nothing like a global crisis to make me realize that some of these accounts have gotten a bit out of hand. [Not to worry: If you’re reading this, you’re safe.] Whenever in a crisis, I always want to pare down, live a simpler life, stop trying to be some kind of social (media) butterfly. It’s how I cope. Remember, I’m an introvert.
I’d rather take walks and remind myself that there’s still Nature, although some might say, it is Nature that is doling out this latest public health crisis. Well, Nature has bits of the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Fortunately my walks in my neighborhood are graced with plenty of the Good.
On my latest walk around one of our larger stormwater facilities, irises (or Blue Flags as my husbands calls them) were in full display. I considered them a reward since I was picking up trash, and the icing was a lovely white blossom I do not know the name of. A neighbor had the kindness to plant gorgeous Amaryllis next to a sidewalk, making a perfect photo opportunity on my way back to my house. More Amaryllis plants were bordering driveways or houses, too far away for good photos, too close to private property not to be considered trespassing.
As for my writing life, I have the pleasure of announcing a recent publication. You can read about it here, on Merril Smith’s blog, Yesterday and today. Last year Merril sent out a request for essays on sexual harassment so I wrote one and now it’s been published in Sexual Harassment: A Reference Handbook. Dear Reader, I’m even in the Index. Just goes to show that when you are inspired, you must act on it. If I had paused for a second, I wouldn’t be crowing now.
Of course, for any publication to happen again, I need to be writing, and I haven’t really been doing much of that lately. Working at home has only given me an extra hour a day to play with since my commute is now from my bed to my computer in the corner. Still, it’s only been a week and a-half, and I’m just starting to acclimate to my new routine. I will say, though, our cats are getting so spoiled with both me and my husband to pester all day long. And pester they do!
Wendy and I (and Junior and Maxine) hope you all are staying safe and healthy. We will get through this because we must. I send virtual hugs and real love to each and every one of you.
My reprieve from the COVID-19 call center was only for a few days. (You can read about my stomach-churning anticipation here and actual experience here.) By Thursday, my division was being asked to ante up again. At one point, my boss wanted me to literally drop everything and high-tail it back to the call center.
Fortunately for me, I was working on an assignment for her so she relented. I could go Friday instead … and Saturday. I was furious (and I blame my quick temper to a lack of estrogen although I’ve had a quick temper all my life). But I got through my day, went to a yoga class, and by evening was shrugging it off … except for the idea that I might miss visiting my mother who is currently staying with my sister in southwest Florida. We had been told our vacations could be rescinded, and the plan was to go the following weekend.
After talking it out with my husband, I canceled the trip. My mom is 96 but I have to believe that there’s still time for us to see each other again. I called her, told her I might have to work, and that workplace plans were being changed day-by-day. She understood but she sounded a bit disappointed. Better safe than sorry, I thought, as I rung off. Even though I wouldn’t say it to her–she would only “pooh, pooh” the idea–I didn’t feel that visiting her right now would be the responsible thing to do.
As it turned out, I only had to work four hours in the call center, but it was a harrowing four hours. The phones–all twenty of them–rang nonstop. I took 53 calls that morning, roughly the same number I took in a full day the week before. I would have taken more but for one bathroom break, and I switched off my phone a couple of times just to catch my breath. The calls were on average five minutes long and, as soon as I replaced the handset, the phone would ring again.
Some callers were calm, just wanting information, sometimes confirmation that they were doing all the right things. A few callers were angry. One was angry because she witnessed healthcare workers in a respiratory ICU not wearing face masks and gloves. Another caller complained that her child’s school was letting sick children attend classes. Another woman–a caller I won’t soon forget–was desperate for a test. She had no doctor, no health insurance, was new at her job and surrounded by people who regularly traveled. She wasn’t feeling well, and she was an older woman.
As I gave her the usual spiel about needing a doctor’s order for the test, she became angrier and angrier. Finally she hung up on me. I didn’t take it personally. I would have been angry too. She needed a target and I was willing to oblige.
Although I already harbored suspicions that my state government was not well-organized in its approach to COVID-19, that morning in the call center turned those suspicions into certainties. After two weeks of addressing COVID-19 we still were getting calls from healthcare providers who didn’t know what to do with patients who might need to be tested. People we had referred to their local county health department called back saying their local county health department was referring them to us. Most callers still thought we were a hotline or that we could arrange testing when all we could do was provide general information.
I took too many calls from people who said their primary physician refused to see them.
And, worse, I was given “updated” information regarding testing protocols that conflicted with what I had been told the week before. Information that was not available on the state’s website or in any of the documentation I had originally received from the call center. The woman working next to me hadn’t received the so-called updated information and was, frankly, horrified when I told her what I had been told. Near the end of the morning, I was giving callers more information than they probably needed because I no longer knew what was true and what wasn’t.
I wasn’t feeling the preparedness in all this.
After lunch, I returned only to be sent back to my office for the afternoon and foreseeable future. The line for the call center had been moved to a real call center. Far as I know, I won’t be taking any calls from the public, or healthcare providers, or snowbirds whose wings have been clipped.
The silver lining in all this for me is the rediscovery of Lafayette Park last week. I went there after work on Friday and again on Saturday. It’s a rough but beautiful trail. Here’s a few photos I took over the past two visits.
The park abounds with large old trees and beautiful flowering bushes.
One tree I just adore. Its branches are so gnarly and arthritic-looking, we figure it must be in the 400-500 year-old range (don’t quote me). I appreciate that the park elected to tether one of its extensive, low-hanging branches to the trunk rather than lop it off. These next photos are different perspectives of the same tree.
Friend of the blog, John Howell, recently noted how important it is that we think of our blessings during difficult times. You can read about it here. I’m doing my best, John. Nature is full of blessings for me, as are these critters.
From a few months ago, when it was chilly. Wendy, Junior, and Max enjoying the sun’s warmth.
The good news is I didn’t spend a straight 44 hours in the call center; just five and a half consecutive eight-hour days. So, despite my previous pity party, it all worked out well … eventually.
[For those of you new to my blog, I work in the public health sector and was recently commandeered to take calls at a center for general information about the coronavirus. Lest you think that is an easy-peasy assignment, I’m a highly sensitive introvert who avoids loud noises and crowded environments … so, yeah, a call center is kind of my worst nightmare.]
My first day I took only five calls, and some might argue that was a win. So few calls should mean that my time at the call center would be cut short. Eh, we were just getting started, folks, and we were getting plenty of calls. The problem was all the phones (twenty in total) would ring at once but only one person could take that call. It felt like a competition–who can pick up the handset the fastest–and I found myself at times actually cradling the handset in my palm just so I could get at least one more call. Somewhat ironic since I loathe talking on the phone, but then something happened during that first day.
About thirty years ago, I volunteered for a battered women’s shelter and one of my duties was to work the hotline. I received extensive training for this because, you know, violence and suicide were usually big topics in these calls. As a young teenager, I had availed myself of hotlines, trying to work through dark periods of angst and fatalism that I couldn’t share with my family. I understood how the disembodied voice of a stranger could be a lifeline. During my first day at the center, my old hotline skills started to kick in.
Also, I hate feeling useless, more than I loathe talking on the phone. When I came back to the call center the following day, I was resolved to figure out a way to take more calls and maybe actually help someone. We got into a rhythm of sorts. Five staff were reassigned to answer emails which made it easier to pick up more calls. Plus, we were getting more calls. Tuesday and Wednesday I logged about 25 and 37 calls, respectively. Thursday and Friday I logged in the high 50s.
By late Thursday, they set up an “agent routing” system for all the phones. Only one phone would ring at a time, and the incoming calls would be distributed so if my phone rang, it was for me and me only. I probably took the same number of calls, but it was definitely less stressful since I no longer needed to have quick reflexes.
I listened to all kinds of stories and I share some of them in this essay on Medium: Life Stories from a COVID-19 Call Center. As the confirmed cases of coronavirus rose in Florida, the calls became more predictable: either healthcare workers wanting to know the protocol should any of their patients need to be tested, or people reciting their symptoms to us as if we were a “Call a Doc” service. Toward the end of the week, it was obvious that Florida wasn’t doing a good job of communicating, particularly to healthcare providers.
The state also failed in providing translation services. I lost a few calls because I could not speak Spanish and the caller could not speak English. The only Spanish speakers in our group were usually already taking calls, and we had no guidance on how to handle non-English speakers. The Florida population is over 25% Hispanic and we also have large Haitian communities as well so we could expect French and Creole speakers. No excuse, Florida, for dropping that ball. It wasn’t until late Thursday that a language translation line was established.
In my Medium essay, I note that one call in particular haunts me: A young woman who could barely stop coughing long enough to tell me her symptoms, who had recently traveled to Italy, and who had no doctor or health insurance. I didn’t waste time with small talk and quickly gave her the number of her local county health department’s epidemiologist. I was left to wonder if she called them, if she had been able to call and get help. In hindsight, I wish I had taken her phone number and followed up myself with the county health department.
Hindsight is amazing, isn’t it? I have a whole list of things that should have been done before the call center was even open. I don’t fault the emergency team that worked with us. Their orders were being given on a day-by-day, sometimes an hour-by-hour basis, by leaders with little to no experience in responding to an infectious disease outbreak. The team did the best they could. By the morning of the second day the call center was staying open to 8 pm; by that afternoon, it was changed to midnight. By Thursday, we were told the call center would be open 24/7. I don’t know who took those shifts past 5 pm. I just know it wasn’t me.
Nature is always my balm during stressful times. After a week at the call center, I decided to visit a park for a quick trail walk on my way home. My husband and I had regularly walked at this park years ago, but I eventually changed my commute home and rarely drove by it any more.
I was happy to see the park is being well-maintained with so many grand old trees. Aside from the iris (?), all was varying shades of green and brown with a splash of gold from the setting sun. I worked an afternoon shift on Saturday and went to the park again, getting the same lift in my spirits.
When in Nature, I do a lot of reflecting. Besides that young woman whose painful coughs still ring in my ears, I think about the loneliness I also sensed. Some people called not because they were sick or had recently traveled to Asia or Europe or even knew someone who might be at risk. Some people called just because they wanted to talk and they wanted someone to listen. Some callers had a cure for the virus, some were armchair infectious disease specialists and had insights they wanted me to pass along, and some were simply scared. One woman cried as she said, “I’m in my golden years and I feel like my life is falling apart.”
Unlike the flu which is fairly predictable in who it affects and how and for how long, the coronavirus is so far unpredictable. It is more contagious than the flu (a person with the flu will infect 1.2 people whereas someone with the coronavirus can infect 2.2 people), but we understand little else about it. What we do know is that it is deadly for the elderly and people with underlying health conditions. While I’m not worried about what the virus might do to me if I became infected, I would worry about infecting others and for that alone, I’m trying to take as many precautions as I can.
I hope you all will do the same.
Thank you for reading this far. As your reward, here’s a photo of Maxine. She’s our oldest kitty (16 years old), but I think she looks like a kitten here. She’s not a happy girl as she never likes visiting the vet. We were happy, though, because her UTI appears to have cleared up … for now.
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.
Some time ago I finished reading Pam Houston’s Deep Creek, a collection of essays about her ranch among other things. A review will be forthcoming, but for now I’m thinking about how Houston “retethered” herself to the earth when she bought a 120-acre ranch in the early 1990s. She describes the ranch as opening her heart “like a tin can.” She is surrounded by wild things there as well as some domesticated. It is her home, the place she returns to after every cross-country or worldwide trip.
I feel like I’m still looking for a place to tether myself. Perhaps it would be a retethering in that I once I had a place that tugged at my heart. It was my neighbor’s house in my hometown, a place I spent the better part of my childhood. The house had been built around 1905 by my neighbor’s father. Ted was born in the house I was told; at least, it had always been his home until he moved in with a friend and signed the deed over to my mom who eventually signed it over to my brother who quickly “renovated” the old house until it was unrecognizable. Then there was a flood and both my childhood home (which my mother also had renovated so only the upstairs rooms could spark memories) and Ted’s home were destroyed, condemned, and then razed.
I had left home years before, lived in San Francisco and other cities in the Bay Area, then Tallahassee, Florida, where I still reside. I had untethered myself when I left but, deep down, I always wanted to believe I had something to go back to. I’m still struggling with that even after living nearly 30 years in one city, 29 years in one house. I don’t feel tethered to the city I live in.
I like our house. It has a very nice floor plan, and my husband has turned our backyard into an oasis. The walls don’t hold echoes of children, but they retain the plaintive cries of hungry or bored cats, or the human lamentations after one cat is stilled. It’s a comfortable home with furniture mistaken for scratching posts and litter scattered everything.
We live on a side street (30 mph) at the bottom of a hill that drivers like to race down. We have friendly neighbors. We used to be involved with the neighborhood association but stopped going to meetings a long time ago. We keep to ourselves which is our preference.
And maybe that’s why I don’t feel tethered to this place. Except for those moments when we’re out at St. Marks Refuge or exploring a nature trail, there seems to be no “there there.” I don’t know what I want. I can’t return to the past, even if Ted’s house was still standing, its original architecture intact. This city–Tallahassee–nor the state itself has opened my heart like a tin can.
So I’m searching … mostly through Zillow and off-hand comments from my husband about what might make sense for an aging couple on a (soon to be) fixed income.
But I’m listening too. In his preamble to the Winter 2019 issue of Orion magazine, H. Emerson Blake wrote about a birding trip he took to Florida a couple of years ago. He and his friend found what they think is the spot where the now-extinct Carolina parakeet was last seen in the wild. He wrote:
Standing there, I found myself listening hard for what the land had to say and for any suggestion the land itself grieved for the parakeets. […] Many people today, if they were told that they should try to listen to land, would find that idea odd, if not flat-out weird.
I like to think I listen. Even when I walk with my earbuds tuned to music or an audio book, another part of me is listening and looking. And so one day, while taking my usual constitutional on a nature trail near my work place, I saw this …
I stopped dead in my tracks, really expecting the hawk to fly off. After a few seconds, I decided to risk a few photos, as long as I took time in between to enjoy the sight with my own eyes.
Seriously, he’s not moving. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m getting closer to him.
Well, now he can’t say he didn’t see me. We look into each other’s eyes. I can tell he’s not impressed.
Now I’m worried that he’s sick or injured. Why else would he let me get this close? Except I can see his talons quite clearly now. They look very pointy.
I had to stop at this point. Seriously, another few steps and I would have been standing directly underneath him.
I worry when wild things get too used to humans and don’t run or fly off when they’re approached. I think this handsome guy knew what he was doing, though. His talons and beak could have done serious damage to me if I had threatened him and he probably knew that.
I backed away after a few more seconds of drinking in his beauty and watched him from the other side of the trail until he decided to decamp.
It’s moments like these when I feel tethered to something.
And I definitely feel tethered to the very domesticated creatures below.
Sleeping in on New Year’s Day.
What gives you a sense of place, or a sense of being tethered, like you belong where you are? Asking for a friend :)
As many of you know, I’ve been writing on Medium. It’s an interesting experience given that I actually earn some dinero from my efforts. Un poco dinero. Muy poco dinero. Not to discourage anyone from trying, but given the work I put into my writing, the payout is disappointing. But such is life, right? Writers are flocking to Medium now because everyone wants that chance to make thousands of dollars a month. I’d be happy with tens of dollars a month.
Still, I keep writing because I’ve become addicted to “publishing.” There’s a number of publications on Medium, some developed by Medium editors, some by individuals carving out a niche. I’ve found that my odds of gaining new readers increase if my story is published by one of these publications, rather than if I self-publish. Interesting. Who knew that would make a difference?
Medium recently changed their earnings algorithm, weighing read time more heavily than other forms of engagement like clapping (which is akin to WordPress’s Like button). So now I have to worry about whether anyone is actually reading my stories … lol.
Medium also wants to gain more readers. To that end, we writers are being encouraged to share our stories using the “Friend Link” so that non-Medium readers can read our stories without it counting against their limited access. Medium is hoping these non-members will become so enthralled with the great writing on Medium, that they’ll pony up the $5 per month to read more and more.
In other words, we Medium writers are becoming marketers, which is totally in keeping with my personality. Not.
But to show what a good sport I am, I will share two of my Medium stories, using the Friend Link so any of you non-members can enjoy my stellar prose for free. But, seriously, I feel honored whenever anyone reads my work right down to the last word.
My mom turned 96 in October and, while she still sounds healthy and even vigorous, I worry. Some in my family are joking that she’s likely to see 100. She might, but she might not, and I’m realizing that I won’t be ready … ever.
But, wait! Let’s not end this post on a sad note. Here … let Wendy put a smile on your face.
