Transformations and New Beginnings
A not-so-random dream, a misunderstanding with my daughter about productivity, an owl rescue, and an afternoon rant
September 29, 2022
Thursday, 1:06 PM
The garden
I slept like crap last night due to an unrelenting and exhausting dream loop of packing, unpacking, sorting, repacking, unpacking, and hauling people’s stuff. Interesting how the energy of a dream can hang like a cloud over you the next day, even if you can’t really get at the hazy details. The main specificity was this loop with the boxes. No wonder, considering how many boxes I’ve been hauling around lately. Boxes for my clients’ big move, boxes of my own, boxes to Riley’s new place. Lots and lots of boxes.
Because one of the ways I’m trying to save the planet is by diverting things from the landfill or incinerator, I spend time sorting and curating all the stuff into piles (and then boxes) for recycling, consigning, and donating. I often do this in my driveway, standing at the back of my car. Sometimes I wonder what my neighbors think.
Sunday was Riley’s last night here. While she hasn’t lived with us the entire time— first there was college and then a variety of soccer pursuits and endeavors that had her living away from home the last few years— it is the first time in her almost 30 years that most of her belongings have not been beneath our roof. The absence feels different this time. And I’m not sure whether to cry at the vacuum she leaves behind or be thankful for the space that has opened up. Though she does resist taking that big basket of shoes off of the front porch which was one of the things I was actually looking forward to being gone! I’m not sure if she is doing it to get under my skin or because she knows that I will probably miss it. No doubt both as both are true.
Earlier in the evening, after returning from a lovely weekend at the river, she and I both captured a screech owl that she had spotted limping across the ground in front of Lincoln School while on an evening run. After getting some advice, Riley captured him/her, and together we got them into a box — more moving things in boxes — and left them in her bedroom until she could take them to Wildlife Images the next morning.
Some traditions say owls represent death, others say they represent change, transformations, and new beginnings. I prefer to focus on the latter.
That evening, when I was trying to apologize for a comment I made earlier that day and felt she had misinterpreted, we fell into an argument about concepts of productivity.
Sitting beside the river that day, soaking up what would likely be our last time there this summer, I was reading through Yes! magazine and shared an editorial quote I liked.
Capitalism teaches us that we are worthy only when we’re productive. In our culture, we’re pushed to “rise and grind,” to monetize our lives as much as humanly possible. But we all deserve better. We deserve to rest, complete in the knowledge that we are worthy simply for being alive. We deserve to have our basic needs met without sacrificing our health, bodies, minds, or joy simply to keep ourselves fed, clothed, and housed.
The previous week, Riley shared that she sometimes feels others don’t respect her beliefs on productivity which includes time for fitting in all the things besides income production that are important to her. Running, biking, playing soccer, reading, sitting around thinking and daydreaming, etc. I had said then that I was happy to hear her describe those things as also being productive because I had sometimes secretly worried (mostly because I regret when I feel I did it in my youth) that she might be squandering her time. I thought I was admitting to being wrong about productivity but it turns out she felt I was just like others who question her approach.
When I read the above quote to her, she laughed at me for my hypocrisy and walked away to sit alone on a nearby rock high above the clear waters of the Smith River flowing below. She sat there for some time before she stood and jumped in. I eventually walked down and decided to brave a similar jump from a rock just slightly lower than hers but with better clearance for my comfort zone. It was the highest I’d jumped in a few years and it was exhilarating. We laughed, jumped again, and eventually made our way back to the beach.
That night, attempting to apologize for the misunderstanding, we ended up lashing out at each other instead. In the process, I said something that was perhaps insensitive and more momesty (mom honesty) than she could handle that particular moment and she curled up into a small and silent ball on the couch and we haven’t spoken about it since.
Basically, I said I appreciated and agreed with her take on productivity, but that I wish she had been more generous with her help around the house the last few years. Yeah, no wonder she curled up into a ball. And I felt bad about that being the tone of our last night with all of her under my roof.
Over the years, before leaving for a trip or extended pursuit, Riley has often spent the night before her departure in my bed. This night she said she was sleeping with me because she was worried about bird flu in her bedroom.
I took her at her word that night, accepting she was sleeping with me only because the owl was in her room. In retrospect, writing about it all now, I know there was more to all of it than we both admitted or were even aware of in the moment, not the least of which is that in this story I’m the momma bird and she’s the baby bird leaving the nest and it is normal for both of us to experience different distinct emotions as we navigate this natural but sometimes scary separation and transition.
While we’ve yet to readdress that night, I am beyond thankful that we have always been able to quickly bridge minor rifts along the way. Or at least to jump from them into the clarity below and still keep laughing.
Looking up from my writing here I notice all the things in this part of the garden that I need to get to. Part of me wants to abort writing and get up and work on the clutter that has accumulated. Another part of me knows that I will never fully pursue my passion to write if I’m constantly letting issues with this house and home get the best of me. Quite literally.
I’ve always felt more productive away from my own home. Time to head elsewhere for a bit.
Sammich
3:29 PM
The view doesn’t rankle as much here, imploring, “you should probably take care of this crap of yours” like the one I left at home. The airflow is okay Covid-wise, my cord reaches the outlet, there’s WiFi and, oh, decent pours on tap.
Didn’t I just write a couple weeks ago about first-world problems?
Between my writing up in the garden and coming here, there was lunch and a bit of uncharacteristic time spent trying to collect myself behind the closed door of my bedroom.
Feeling overwhelmed by my ever-populated to-do list, feeling tired from organizing in my sleep, feeling embarrassed that my neighbor perhaps is always hearing me cuss when I’m near the back door (this time at Riley’s new mountain bike leaning next to my desk), and just generally feeling sad, overwhelmed, and angry, I threw myself onto my bed. I wanted to nap but the incessant call to both feel and be productive rang like so much (more) tinnitus in my head. And then a cacophony of thoughts momentarily drowned out both the real and imagined tinnitus.
- I’m heartbroken for the survivors of Hurricane Ian in Florida who will have to rebuild their lives.
- I’m grieving for the planet due to all the attendant waste and toxins that will be shoved into landfills beneath the folds of her skin after this most recent “natural” disaster.
- I’m praying that building back will go differently and that people will realize that it’s in part due to their choices that the storms are worse and worse, and that this is a good time to rethink priorities. Yet, I doubt my prayer, and I’m also angry that so many who are losing their homes and possessions due to the effects of the climate crisis will likely continue trying, just like the rest of us, to fill holes within with things from without all the while all of the holes just grow deeper.
- I’m dismayed at our short attention spans and seeming inability to see the bigger picture. Many communities hit hard or wiped out by a “natural” disaster the last few years are still struggling to fully recover. And, sadly, only more communities are going to be joining their ranks.
- I’m exasperated that the religion of economics in the United States adds fuel to the climate catastrophe with its focus on the GDP to determine the nation’s economic health. As if its economic health is all that matters. “Consumers must buy more or the economy will tank!” is one of their favorite scriptures.
- I’m frightened at the openly fascist turn in our country. The few dividers appear to be conquering the masses with their disinformation campaigns that hinder us all regardless of which side we identify with.
- I’m incensed that we allow the corporate cabal to control our media, our politics and politicians, our wallets, our general welfare, and our community discourse.
With a tiny bit of added language, my mind is channeling Howard Beale in Network: I’m as mad as hell and I’m not fucking taking this anymore.
These thoughts and feelings that surged through my mind while curled up on my bed, with one scant tear slowly draining down the right side of my face, were seeds for a write I’d like to do about being fully present with my rage and fears. A rant-filled write, this time for public consumption, where I’m heartbroken, confused, angry, frustrated, and fucking scared.
For some reason, which I’ve yet to determine or understand, I am an optimist when it comes to humanity. In most of my writing that’s ever been published— even if trying to share what I felt to be scathing data— I’ve always tried to end on a hopeful, positive, and optimistic note. But these are scary times in my book. And if I aim to write as honestly about this time in history as I can, then perhaps I should give the anger, frustration, and concern more room on the page.