May 3, 2021 – Monday (raining = mist/drizzling)
If, indeed, April showers bring May flowers – then they are here.
I’ve been inside all day with four dogs and the remnants of a lingering headache. (Reaction to vax #2? Or the flowers I have all around the house? My guess is the flowers. I’m allergic. Enough said.)
I needed to get out and walk – regardless of the weather. It “rains” here in the NW all the time (well, not in the summer and not as much this spring, either) … but it’s not rain-rain. It’s not REAL rain … which I LOVE. This is saturating light misty drizzle that I call mizzle. It’s a lovely thing if you are home cuddled up, by a fire, reading or listening to some jazz … but annoying enough if you have to do something outside. Anything except walking. It is the perfect walking rain. You’re not going to get wet – ever – just moistly damp – all over. If you don’t take an umbrella you’ll be saturated soon enough. If you use an umbrella and are “seen” by another NWerner … you are considered an idiot. It is their claim to fame, apparently. An umbrella? Who needs an umbrella?
Apparently … me! Like my American Express card – I never leave home without it.
I was mulling over some things and walking helps me sort those thoughts out. I didn’t end world hunger or the thing I was thinking about but I did rescue some slugs and enjoyed the walk through this green nature preserve that I live in. Tonight there was an added bonus – fog! Not the creepy – Creature from the Black Lagoon – fog that we sometimes get – that envelopes the house and makes me wonder if I’m breathing! This was the light, swirling cozy kind … reminiscent of fall evenings. I live in perpetual October.
As I walked towards the end of the cliff road, I marveled in the flowers. Such an abundance now. The horsetails that I was so happy to see weeks ago are now all fluffed out in their Seussian splendor – some are over 15″ high. The azaleas and rhodies are riotous; they are natives here and grow everywhere (except in my yard). I pass bushes covered in magenta blooms. The next bush shows off light pink sprays. The next one is carmine. Tulip petals are closed for the day but are everywhere, too. The daffs are gone but the tulips peek out under trees and bushes and in clusters around the homes. The lilacs are early this year – some bushes are in full bloom while others are just starting.
As I walk down towards the end of the road there is a small farm. The sheep that used to live there is long gone. I miss him/her. It was always so sweet to walk by and see a sheep out in the pasture. It reminded me of a childhood game we used to play … Sheep, Sheep Come Home. It was a sidewalk version of tag where everyone was a sheep – except the tagger who was the wolf. Mama sheep would stand down the ways and call out “Sheep, sheep, come home … but beware of the wolf!” and we’d run towards her hoping that the wolf (hiding behind a bush) wouldn’t tag us – squealing (with delight and fear) all the way to safety! Funny what sparks memories.
There are three ancient apple trees along the roadside … remnants of the area-wide apple orchard that used to be. That, too, is long gone – except for a few trees here and there along the roads and in yards. These gnarled and old trees remind me of the apple trees in The Wizard of Oz … but they don’t talk (that I know of). The blossoms on these trees are enormous and so fragrant. I can smell them from two houses away. I wonder how old they are?
There is the small empty lot where the new owner has put in a bench overlooking the water. I think that area is shifting so I won’t step foot on that land or sit on the bench. I’ll admire the view from the road – hugging the far side. I don’t need to be tumbling down the cliff. Tonight I can barely make out the outline of the island across the water – it looks like a large gray tadpole in the mist. The mainland is lost in the fog. It swirls out along the water and reminds me of those stories about ghost ships appearing out of the fog after 100 years … fiction/nonfiction/too much rum or whiskey drunk by sailors? Who is to know! It’s creepy all the same and my pace hastens a bit.
The pink blossomed trees (cherry? crab apples?) hold their buds – tight and fat – still not ready to bloom yet. Almost. In another few days their pink blossoms will burst open. More lilacs and azaleas. I pass the cedars whose trunks are surrounded by candy tuft … it reminds me of hippos getting pedicures. The bases of the gray-brown trunks reach out resembling toes (why do they grow this way?) … and the white flowers looks like cotton. Squint and you can see it!
I watch my step as I go along … my favorite umbrella (tan with a smooth/worn wooden handle; it’s big and was Tim’s) in my right hand … my left hand reaching for slugs on the road. I’m always debating whether to move them or not … what if they don’t want to go where I put them? Some are blue-black/gorgeous big ones … others are brown or gray/clear/tan … varying sizes … varying slime. But all gooey. I move them nonetheless.
My mind goes to what a friend emailed me yesterday. She is teaching a class on racial awareness. It has made me think. In three weeks I will be a 64 year old, white female and never once in my entire life has the color of my skin ever been an issue for me. Never once has it been a concern or worry. Never once has it been a problem (or someone else’s problem). Never once did I ever have to question my safety while walking any neighborhood – including my own. Not for one minute. NOT EVER.
It makes my heart sick and sad to know that I am so naive to all of this. Until lately. I am disheartened that in this day and age, skin color is STILL an issue. Why was it ever? Shame on everyone. It’s disgusting and sickening and so ridiculous. No one is born biased or racist … it is a learned thing. And it’s awful. Stop teaching your children and grandchildren to hate. Stop allowing your neighbors and friends. Stop doing it yourself. By not realizing this is an issue we are all part of the problem – not the solution.
I also wonder why people of color are called Blacks or African Americans or Black Americans. Why am I not categorized (all the time) as White or European American or (because I’m not exactly white) a Pinky-Ecru American? Somewhere along my family tree my ancestors came over to America from Denmark, Poland, Bohemia and England. I am an American … but I don’t really consider myself a “native”. And lucky me I was born with a skin tone that doesn’t get me racially profiled. Never once have I ever felt unsafe because of it. My friend is married to a “man of color”. His life experiences have been vastly different than mine … just because of his skin tone. That is something she is trying to share with others – some awareness of what that is like … how impacted their lives are … how it shouldn’t be a thing.
I mull all that over and I wish her luck. I can’t even imagine having to live in fear because of my skin color or for one instant have that even be an issue. I want to say that people will stop hating. That all these stupid beliefs that turn into huge issues will fall away. That there are so many more important things to concern ourselves with. But, I am pessimistic. We go forward – one small step at a time; but it is too small of a step … and lately, I feel like we are leaping backwards. It’s all very upsetting and humbling. And it makes me profoundly grateful and a bit guilty that I was born with this pinky-ecru shell.
And that’s all our bodies are … just shells of what is inside. I think of those slugs … all the same … different colors … but they are all the same. No shells for them. Just gooey-ness … and aren’t we all just a bit gooey inside? We all want the same things – love, safety, security, family, health, happiness, friendships, love and a lifestyle of acceptance and value that allows us to attain all of it … regardless of the color of our shells.
I pass under the silver poplar tree – its leaves now almost silver dollar in size. Everything is almost in full leaf … the maples have popped this week. The mountain laurel leaves are so green (deep pine) and shiny. There are so many flowers and trees and bushes I don’t know names of … all sweet and smelling wonderfully springy. If I sniff too much my headache will be back!
I drop the pilfered lilacs at home – crushing their stems with a hammer (thanks, Sam) so they drink up more water (fyi – that works w/all woody plants) – and drop them in a vase. I go back out and walk to the end of the street in the other direction. I pass the orchard of dogwoods – now fully in bloom – not quite white/not quite yellow but somewhere in-between. I see a very wet cat by a driveway. I tell him to go home – there are coyotes nearby. He sits and looks at me and then slinks off.
As I near the ravine and all the tangles of raspberry bushes (so many berries to come!) … I hear … music! It’s not the birds twittering in the rain or the slight pitter patter I hear (every once in a while) but something like … marimba! At the end of the street is a lovely old building … brown, square, brick with some architectural adornments here and there … the old high school (circa 1940). It’s a beautiful building that now houses a dance studio. Next to it was the middle school (same brick) … but is now a community center. And tonight there is a xylophone class practicing. Quite random – but it is lovely! As I walk towards the end of the street the music gets louder and my steps get peppier. I feel like Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. Too bad I can’t move like him! Anyway – it’s fabulous. I stand and watch them for a while and listen as the music wafts out of the open windows. My own private concert!
I walk home taking in the cul de sac … still mulling over the race issue and keeping an eye out for slugs and that coyote. I pass by a friend’s house – it is so charming … so storybookish. Boxwoods line her driveway and are clipped into perfect spheres … making it seem like giant peas are rolling towards the roadway. Across the street is a home with a tumbled rock chimney and wall – all smooth and rounded, in blues and muted reds and pinks and grays. It looks like the Three Bears should live in that cottage. On a night like this, I’d like them to invite me in for a bowl of porridge. It just looks so cozy. Woodsmoke tickles my nose. Perfect!
Almost home and I see the deer … they are looking a bit bedraggled tonight. Like how I feel. I’m dry but not really. The dampness creeps in and the air, being so saturated, eventually gets whatever you’re wearing heavy with moisture. I never wear socks as they always are the first things to get wet. The toes of my shoes are wet … my leggings and sweatshirt damp. I don’t dare touch the umbrella fabric.
And, just like that, I’m home again … I’ve seen flowers and animals and rescued some slugs and heard some music. I’ve enjoyed 6000 steps and while I haven’t solved any world problems, I realized I have deep respect for people whose skin tones are different than mine and at the same time – feel so at a loss that this is still such a horrible reality. My life is so easy. I hope to come up with some ideas to help my friend … help explain that people like me are not always consciously idiots. We just are ignorant. No excuse … but a place to start with education. It’s time to open our minds and hearts and share what we learn.
We’re to have a dry week … but I’m hoping I’ll have some more clarity and am already looking forward to my next mizzly evening.