I’m counting, that’s who. The remainder of my current employment. The number of weeks until I commence my new employment where I’ll be working for … me. Just me, myself, and I.
It’s interesting that the only “work” people seem to understand is that which you do for a company or a government. That if you say you work for yourself, people assume you don’t work at all. It makes me wonder how work is defined.
I think of my mother who held a minimum-wage job for decades (that is considered work) and who managed to keep a house and raise four children mostly on her own (isn’t that work?).
I work everyday. On average, I spend 40 hours a week tethered to an employer who pays me by EFT. The rest of the time I work to keep my house relatively clean, my clothes relatively clean, my cats relatively clean. We run errands (quickly) to make sure we have enough food, cleaning supplies and wine.
I work at staying healthy and fit. I exercise, take walks, work out in our garage, practice yoga.
The work that I want to do but haven’t been doing is writing and reading. Well, that will change in about 16 weeks. I’m counting down. The first thing I plan to do after I resign is sleep.
I’ll keep going for my early morning walks. I’ll still sit at the computer after my walk, but instead of “logging on” to my employer’s network, I’ll log on to my life as a writer.
In the meantime, I’ll take my bliss where and when I can get it.
The surprise of finding a paper wasp in one of our hurricane lilies.
Or the glory of a colorful morning.
Sometimes I get lucky with the sunrises. Sometimes I’m enchanted by a different vision.
While I hate driving in fog, this vision delighted me. I was walking, of course.
I have a bit of fun with my iPhone camera and an app (Insta Toon).
Don’t I look like someone who needs sleep? At least I no longer need a haircut. Temps around here went up to the mid-80s, with itchy humidity to boot. Impatient with trying to get a hair appointment, not to mention to pick out a hair style I can live with, I grabbed my husband’s beard trimmer.
Guide #4. Roughly a 1/2-inch all around. Greg, dear husband that he is, did the finishing touches. Then I had to trim off his hair. We’re twinses now :)
Wendy doesn’t think much of our antics. Here she is, sticking out her tongue in distaste.
I hope all of you are staying healthy and safe. I hope you all are finding some bliss–even if in snatches–during these strange times.
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.
When I decided to accept a new position at my workplace (first mentioned here), I didn’t take into account the time I’d give up, the work I’d gained. Kind of like when I decided to share meals with the love of my life, not taking into account the clothes I’d give up because of the weight I gained. Choices.
The extra weight I carry is worth the 30+ years I’ve been with my husband, and I believe the work I’m now doing will be worthwhile, although not on a par with my marriage. Nothing bests my marriage.
I’m sure I’ll have plenty of times when I’ll slap my forehead and wonder out loud, “What was I thinking?!”. Oh, well. As I tell anyone who will listen, I’m grateful to have a job. We could take care of ourselves just fine if my new status in the office doesn’t work out. My bosses need me more than I need them, but that is what I respond most sincerely to: when someone needs me.
The time I’m giving up in order to catch up means I’ll have to make choices as to how I spend my even more precious free time. This past week I haven’t read any blogs, but I would like to change that. I’ll just be a more intermittent reader. I’ll definitely be less of a writer … for now.
Before this upheaval, I interviewed Megan Russo, author of A Daughter for Mr. Spider, a mixed media chapbook published by Nightingale and Sparrow. Here’s a link to the interview: http://nightingaleandsparrow.com/interview-with-megan-russo-author-of-a-daughter-for-mr-spider/ I had a lot of fun interviewing Megan. Even though it was done through email, I found Megan to be a wonderfully open and thoughtful writer. Her memoir is a lovely mix of flash narrative, poetry, photos, and collage. In roughly 50 pages, she gracefully tells a story of three generations of her family. I highly recommend A Daughter for Mr. Spider. Details for purchasing can be found here: http://nightingaleandsparrow.com/a-daughter-for-mr-spider-by-megan-russo/
For something not completely different because it’s still about writing: The book in which I have an essay arrived at my house recently. What’s not to love about seeing your name in print, to see your essay listed in the Table of Contents and … (drum roll) to even be cited in the index! I had written about this publication here: https://1writeway.wordpress.com/stay-at-home-and-stay-away-personalspace-socialdistancing/
Sexual Harassment is a powerful and timely reference book edited by poet and historian Merril D. Smith. Many of you already know Merril and enjoy the poetry, photos, and musings she shares on her blog at https://merrildsmith.wordpress.com/. This was the first time I had ever received compensation for my writing so I did what any writer would do and bought a copy of the book. As a contributor, I did receive a very nice discount, but I would have bought a copy anyway. I like seeing my name in print.
So I have been writing, but will likely write less. You will see less of my writing here on my blog, but I hope to visit you all more.
My challenge now is to use my time more carefully, more mindfully. Yoga, forest bathing, knitting, and brushing my cats are activities I need to do to counter the effects of being on the computer even more now. Are any of you experiencing “technology fatigue”? That’s what I’m calling a kind of fatigue that overtakes me sometimes, often during the work day. My Skype Business meetings are often beset with inadequate audio and visuals. That is draining enough. Then, while in a meeting, someone else might instant message me while another sends an email and still another calls on my cell phone. I do have moments when I want to scream (and since I’m currently working from home, I do scream). We have technology that is inadequate for our needs but we behave as if we must use all of it all the time.
That is what makes it so hard to shift over to my blog, to open my WordPress Reader or Twitter feed or Instagram. I (again) deleted my LinkedIn account and I avoid Facebook (except my youngest nephew and his wife recently had a baby so … yep, gotta check Facebook). So I’m not pushing myself. I tamp down the FOMO anxiety and remind myself this (job) isn’t forever. I’ve got a whole other life waiting for me when the time is right.
By the way, my boss gave me permission to use this photo as my work profile picture.
Cool cats wear face masks.
We’ll see how long I can get away with it. Some higher-ups might argue it’s not “professional.”
Now that summer is nigh in Florida, we going to try and make a habit of walking in the morning on Sundays and feast on pancakes for brunch. Here are a few scenes from Sunday’s morning walk.
Hawk!
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I do love seeing hawks in our neighborhood. Lake Marc (sigh) is actually a storm water facility that is not well-maintained: Lots of trash floating around and a tree is growing in the concrete inlet. I managed to pick up some trash but not as much as I could have if I had a boat. But birds and insects abound, marking the area as having ample biodiversity. We saw the hawk again (assuming it was the same hawk), red-winged blackbirds, a merganser duck, bees and butterflies, dragonflies. The air shivered with buzzes and hums.
Summer is nigh (did I already say that?) and the cats are in their stupor, showing their bellies.
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.
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’ve been adrift lately, casting about on some infinite ocean in a small dingy … without oars. A sense that my life is not my own, at least between 8 and 5, Monday through Friday. The child in me rants and rages, risks rocking the boat and drowning. The adult in me stares down at the water, searching for mermaids. The child cries and bangs her head against the seat. The adult peers at the horizon, embracing the earth’s curvature despite the deep-seated fear of falling off the edge of the world. The child pouts and fantasizes about abrupt departures should this boat ever get to land. The adult lies down on her back and gazes up at the clouds, marveling at their cottony and colorful expressions.
When the going gets tough, the adult grabs the child’s hand and turns to nature.
But first.
Earlier this week, I took a walk over to one of the larger ponds (or lakes as the developers prefer them to be known). As usual, I was looking for trash, which I found. But I also found this … a wonderland of sorts. What looks like a river is merely a stream only a few inches wide. I felt like Gulliver standing next to it. As I walked around, I kept my eyes focused on the ground so I wouldn’t step on any Lilliputians.
My inner child’s imagination took root (pun intended) and I imagined myself a boatman on this mighty river, or an explorer slashing her way through a tropical jungle. In my imagination, I saw before me a humongous body of water (not), and I had to be mindful not to fall into the deep crevasses that scarred the earth.
The adult in me wished I knew more of botany and could explain this lush vegetation that would not be seen except for the drought. And I wondered at how Nature–with her cyclical bountifulness and barrenness–has a purpose in everything she does.
Then it rained steadily for two days. I went out again.
You might have to squint, but yes those are the bathing beauties (aka turtles) that I look forward to seeing on my walks around the smaller ponds. They always slip into the water when I’m on the same side of the pond as they. The third photo is of a depression that only had grassy vegetation for several weeks, until this recent rain. Now water fills Nature’s bowl. A group of wood storks enjoyed the sun on the other side of this new pond, too far away for me to get a decent photo.
And then there was Friday. I almost didn’t go to work as I had been low energy all week, dragging myself from one meeting-filled day to the next. But I expected it to be a mellow day, with a chance to visit the ponds and the turtles and the birds.
The child raged when she was told that she would have to spend all of the coming week, 8 hours each day, sitting in a call center, manning phones, reading off a script that might or might not satisfy the caller. After almost a month of looking the other way, Florida has deigned to acknowledge the threat of coronavirus, that maybe–just maybe–providing some (hopefully accurate) information is better than no information. COVID-19 (as the coronavirus is also known) is in the U.S. and the public will want information.
I am not a health care worker. I am not an epidemiologist. I am not a scientist. All I know about COVID-19 is what anyone who reads the New York Times or the Washington Post or Reuters or The Guardian knows. That said, I just might know more than the White House administration.
Still. My inner child raged within me while my outer adult sat stoically as my duties were explained to me. Then I said, “I hate telephones.” Granted, I had “volunteered” myself to be assigned to a call center in case of a natural disaster, but I did that only because I was told to sign up for something.
It’s not that I don’t want to help people. I do like helping people, and you can read about one recent experience I had: When a Stranger Asks You for Help. I just have some trepidation when it comes to being “voluntold,” treated as if I were untrained personnel in the military and am now being called up for active duty. In the past when I’ve had to take calls from the public on behalf of my workplace, I’ve often felt pathetic, armed with only enough information to frustrate both me and the caller.
Enough of my self-pitying. After the child had exhausted her tantrum, thankfully deep within me while I stood at my window gazing at the blue sky, I decided it was time to go out. I had only walked up the street when I was given a gift. A sure-fire way to lift my spirits and bring balance back into my world is a sighting such as this:
I am grateful to this bluebird for positioning himself so close to the sliver of moon and then holding his pose long enough for me to get a good photo. (This photo is a cropped enhancement courtesy of my husband.)
Sights like this make me feel like crying, but in a good way.
Don’t weep for me, dear Reader. Eh, if the volume of calls is less than expected, I’ll be sent back to my office and will (no doubt) complain about that.
Just ask Maxine. “Talk to the paw,” she says!
You can help, dear Reader, by taking necessary precautions as outlined by the CDC (click here). At the very least, don’t be like one of my coworkers and sneeze into your hand during a meeting and then use that hand to pass items around the table. Just sayin’.
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 