Going Squirrelly

I've been spending most days by myself.  JDB is an essential employee who works for a hospital, so he's either there or at the lab during the week.  I generally spend my days working in front of the large bay windows in the living room.  Sometimes, there are cats sleeping in various places around me and sometime in the late morning, I turn on the TV just for the noise (and the heat the TV produces, but this chilly house is a story for another time).

I have two bird feeders and a suet feeder outside these windows and I can pretty much watch the comings and goings of many feathered
friends.  The most common visitors are downy and red-bellied
woodpeckers, tufted titmice (titmouses?), chickadees, finches, cardinals, juncos, house wrens, and the occasional blue jay.

It is marvelous; I find birds to be immensely fascinating.

Not everyone who comes up on the porch is feathered, however, and the other visitors are fascinating, too, though not for the same reasons. 

I want to talk about squirrels.

Much of the time, they seemed okay with just eating what had fallen onto the mat under the feeder; but, increasingly, they kept trying to get onto the one birdfeeder and so we hung a large windchime in between the porch upright and the feeder.  Not to be dissuaded, they would jump on top of it and then look around panicked when it began to make SO MUCH NOISE and spin around on them.  Occasionally, they would still manage to get over to the feeder, and I kind of had to give it to them at that point, honestly.

But I did get them some of their own food in the hopes of keeping them from feeling quite so captivated by the feeder.  So, far it seems to be working, and has provided it's own sort of entertainment, to boot.  To watch them try to sit on the corn and eat from it without it spinning them off is...well, I don't know.  But it is fun.  And the thing that is best about them?

No matter how silly they look or how many times they are defeated, they keep trying.

The Little Things

I went for a walk today.

The sun was out, the weather was fairly warm and the sky was blue.  I couldn't NOT go and get some fresh air.

It was a very brown sort of day - last year's leaves still covered everything in the woods, there were no leaves yet and there were large swaths of mud in places due to recent rains and the heavy traffic of deer running their paths.  But it is also so clearly spring.  Daffodils are blooming.  The pussy willows blow fuzzily in the breeze.  The air was full of birdsong.  As I walked, stepping over deadfall and trying to avoid thorns of berry bushes, I turned my head constantly to follow sound or look for the source of movement out of the corner of my eye.

Between two trees, a pair of wings landed and basked in the sun.  Squirrels ran willy-nilly over and under branches, chirping if I somehow got too close.  A woodpecker lazily tapped its way down a tree trunk, exploring what mysteries might be resting within.  It was a good walk and it felt amazing to be outside in the fresh air.

I was sitting inside later, somewhat mindlessly watching a squirrel forging around under the birdfeeder when I heard a thump and, with my heart in my throat, I peeked out and there was a tiny bird beneath the window, wings a little splayed out.  I sighed and watched as the startled squirrel snuck up on it and smelled it, as if trying to figure out if it was something that would eat him or could be eaten.  Determining it was neither, it went back to foraging.  I did nothing for a few minutes more, just watching and waiting to see what might happen.  Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and went out there, the squirrel bustling off and leaving me with what was clearly a house wren.  I sat down next to it and could see it was still breathing.  I reached out and gently brushed its feather on its chest and tried to see if it looked hurt.  I don't know what I would have done if it did look hurt, but I couldn't help trying to figure it out.  I decided it shouldn't be on the porch, so I went to try and gently pick it up when it flew up and landed on a rafter, perched sort of upside down.  It has since flown away.

Sometimes, the little things aren't so little, you know?

Silver Linings

In times of great strife and unrest, there are always silver linings that can remind us that we are not really alone.  And that we can handle what life throws at us.

Because I'm not traveling to Texas for work tomorrow (because of the virus), I actually have some time in my teaching schedule that I can use to make up the week we gave up to prepare our classes for the move to online (because of the virus).

Because my husband can sometimes work from home, he's been able to support and help me with some of my issues with teaching online - both from a technology perspective as well as a philosophical one.  He's always been a sounding board, but now he can help me in real time.  We are both able to support one another as we figure out this uncharted territory.  It makes the days that I'm alone a little easier.

Because this struck in early spring, there has been so much wildlife activity outside my window.  My
home office is right in front of our big living room windows that look out on the yard and woods beyond.  Yesterday I saw a red-tailed hawk, a fox, numerous deer, countless birds at the feeders, our porch squirrels, and a flock of turkeys.

Because we are home more often, we are getting to see some of Ellie's antics.  She is the cat we rescued over a year ago who still flinches when we go to pet her and will not rest easy if we are in the same room as her.  But these days she seems to be coming out more into the rooms where we are.  Just today we got to see her

wrestling a little with Mattie, the fearless furball princess.

Because we are all worried about each other, we are more apt to express words of love and support.  Reaching out, checking in.  Sharing stories and sending virtual hugs.  These are all things that mean this is really about physical distancing, not social.  We need more social than ever before.

Because this is truly a singular event in our lifetimes, I have started a journaling project with Honors students at FLCC.  This Living History project will give students an outlet to explore their lives in the context of these moments and, as a result, we will have many voices of the pandemic in the FLCC archives.  History is truly alive when it is told in the voices of those who were there.

Because so many of us are home so much more than we have been in the past, we are spending more time with our immediate families.  Dinners being eaten together, school work being figured out together, time spent in one another's company.  We are baking bread and trying new recipes.  I don't have children, but I see so many posts on social media of these moments and they are truly heartwarming.  We are also spending more time with our pets - even if its while they are interrupting our meetings and sticking their faces in our cameras.  There is more laughter.

Amidst the fear and the worry and the sadness and the changes.  It will not all be laughter as the days grow into weeks.  It will not be easy or happy.  But it will have silver linings.

Flashes of Normal

Today, I sat on the front stoop of my parents' house as they stood inside.  We had a conversation about how strange all of this was and about what various public figures were saying about it.  It was the closest I felt comfortable being to them.  I had brought over some needed supplies for them so they would not have to go out.  In return, I picked up a number of things - perhaps the most important being homemade chocolate chip cookies.  Not for any real reason other than there is little that can top my mother's homemade baked goods.

Between his heart, the diabetes, and his age, my father has a trifecta of risk factors and we are taking no chances.

This is compounded by the fact that my husband works in health care...which means he is an essential employee by government standards and is reporting to work several days a week.  We have no way of knowing if he has been exposed.  Or if I have in the errands I have run or the chiropractor appointment I went to today.

None of us know.

My worries and fears are no different than yours, really.  We are all wondering if we've been exposed, if (or when) we will get sick, how badly we will get it, and the answer to the same questions for all of those we love.

So many little things are different.  Door guards in the form of health care workers who took my name, phone number, and temperature at the hospital.  From behind masks, their muffled voices asked me a series of questions before I was allowed to go  to my appointment.  There were only three chairs in the waiting room, set equidistant apart.  My chiropractor wore gloves and we had to forego the heating pad that loosened my bones before he did his adjustment.  As I sit here typing this blog, I'm in a different kind of pain than normal.  Sore.  Feeling the effects of difference.

But some things were the same.  He and I gave each other a hard time about things, as we always do.  The secretary was her normal smiling self as she greeted me by name.  So many of us are doing the best we can to make the best of it.  I will not discount the importance of sitting on the stoop in the sun and talking to my parents.  I have that much, and so much more, to be happy about.

Like chocolate chip cookies.

Practice Humanity

I have not written a blog in four years.

Many things have happened in that time.  We moved.  We rescued pets and let other ones go.  I've said hello and then goodbye to many students.  I've had a lot of challenges and a lot of celebrations.  I could have written about any of them...and may, still.

But it was none of those things that got me to come back, as it were.  It is a combination of three things.

The first is a student-turned-friend who has their own blog.  Yesterday, they said to me, "Never stop writing!" and it struck a chord.

The second is an invitation I am shortly going to be sending out to all the students who have chosen Honors Studies or who are in an Honors class this semester - an invitation to journal their experiences during the third reason.  It seems odd to invite others to do something that I am not doing myself...so I am going to do a version of it.

The third reason, as you might imagine, is the pandemic.

There are so many things I could talk about and probably will as the more-uncertain-than-ever future unfolds.  We don't know how long we will be asked to shelter in place.  We don't know how many will grow sick, how many we will lose.  We took too long to mobilize, but now that we finally are, things are moving so quickly.  I'm grieving, it is true, but that's not what I want to talk about here.  I'm angry and sad and uplifted all at once.  I'm anxious and scared.  But what I would rather talk about is something that the governor of New York said today.  This is not about politics or how I see him now or in the past.  But he said something that is really important that we all remember in times like these.

Except who am I kidding - there have not been times like these in my lifetime, in the lifetime of my parents.  This is uncharted territory...but his words ring true nonetheless.  In the face of the hoarding and the con artists, the ones spreading false information and the ones trying to capitalize off the lack of others - in the face of all of that, his words ring true.

Practice humanity, he said.

Practice kindness, practice compassion, practice gentility, practice patience.

We may not be able to greet others with a handshake or a hug.  We may have to resort to greetings via technology or through a window... but we have the chance to make this easier on us all.  We have the power to make things harder for our fellow humans or to make it easier.

Practice humanity.

We can't return to normal after this, because 'normal' is what got us here in the first place.  But maybe, we can learn something from everything we are going through.  The only way to get better is to practice.

Practice makes perfect.

Practice humanity.

Uniting, Not Silencing...

It was a gay club.

It was an American club.

It was a human club.

These are not competing statements; or, rather, they should not be.  They are each true and they each carry weight that needs to be acknowledged and respected.

First, and perhaps foremost, the events in Orlando hold special significance to an often persecuted group – a community that often struggles with acceptance from the world around them, including their families and friends.  It was a direct attack on a group of people who – despite recent legal advancements and social acceptance – struggle every single day to feel safe and accepted.  A group that cannot show affection for a loved one in public for fear of becoming a target.  A group that loses so many of its members to violence and to suicide.  Victims of bullies and hate-mongers, conservatives and busy-bodies, people who use their God as a reason to judge and degrade.  This group has a claim on the violence that erupted in Orlando and they have a right to cry out in anguish and fear and anger.  In a sacred place where they should have been safe to be themselves, safe and comfortable and secure in their own skin, free to love and be loved, they were gunned down.  So yes, they will raise their fists and plant their rainbow flags and demand answers.  That is their right, because it is THEIR club.

But that same event in Orlando holds special significance to Americans.  It is the worst mass shooting to take place on American soil.  I do not say that lightly, because although I acknowledge the atrocity of Wounded Knee (which I have seen connected to Orlando as a correction), that moment in history was a whole other ugly and violent beast.  It did not technically happen on United States soil and it was not a lone shooter.   It was something else – something equally horrifying and something that deserves acknowledgement as a chapter in our history of which we should be ashamed and aware.  But this shooting – this moment in Orlando – belongs in a different category.  The category of events where one single American decided that others must die for reasons that are beyond the understanding of good-hearted people.  Those who died were Americans.  They were doing what Americans do – celebrating time away from work, listening to music, dancing, and fellowshipping with others.  They were enjoying a night out on the town, letting go of obligations and responsibilities.  They were spending hard earned money, laughing and dancing and being alive.  And they were gunned down.  Torn from life, torn from those who loved them, robbed of what is promised every American – life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.   And so, yes, I will cry and raise the stars and stripes and plant it next to their rainbow flag.  I will demand answers.  That is my right, because as an American, it is OUR club.

And that same event in Orlando holds special significance to humans around the world in our global community.  The same people who wept for the bombings in Paris will now weep for the shooting in Orlando.  They will shine the lights on their buildings, hold their signs, and pray that we, as a race of beings, can find a way to stop killing each other, stop hating each other, stop blaming everyone else for whatever ails us. 

That same event in Orlando holds significance for Muslims, American and foreign.  It holds significance for the Latino community because of the special event at Pulse that night.  It holds special significance for the first responders and investigators who tried to do their work while blocking out the desperate, unrelenting sounds of cell phones that would never be answered. It holds special significance for those who are still – and always will be – reeling from Sandy Hook, from Virginia Tech, from the theater in Colorado, from the church in South Carolina.  It holds significance for those who will never hear the voices of their loved ones or erase the images of violence and destruction from their minds.  It holds significance for the people of Orlando, who now join the ranks of cities and communities that have seen the blood and tears run in their streets and feel helpless to respond, react, or recover.  It matters to all of us, for a thousand reasons, some of which we cannot voice.

We do not need to take away from one another’s claims to plant our flags with theirs.  We do not need to erase one community when we declare membership in another.  By saying, it’s an AMERICAN club, we should not say it is NOT a gay club.  It is both.  The intent is admirable – to claim the LGBQT+ community as part of US….but we cannot do so in a way that silences the unique struggle that this particular community goes through every single day in a thousand ways, each more painful than the last.  They are our brothers and sisters, but their struggle is one that we can only imagine and while we can unite, we cannot silence even as we try to combat.

It is a significant event for all of these people, for all of these communities, for all of these reasons.  Not one should silence the others.  Not one needs to be or should be forgotten.  They all wish for the same thing – an end to the violence, an end to the hatred, an end to the suffering.  Let our flags fly together and let our voices unite.  Protect the LGBTQ+ community, protect Americans, protect humans.  Protect us all, and let us all be who we are.  Let voices be heard.  Tolerance is not enough - we must listen, respect, accept, and love.  Love.

Trailhead This Way

On Friday, January 22^nd, I went to my parents’ house to have lunch with them and help work on a rather annoying jigsaw puzzle that I had picked out for them to do when they finished the last one.  After lunch and some time at the puzzle, dad asked if I wanted to go on walkabout.  I love walking in their woods even in the winter, so I said sure.  I borrowed some boots and a warmer coat from my mom, adjusted my hat and scarf and off we went into the wilderness. 

We were almost back at the house sometime later when my dad, who was surveying the brambles down in a gully asked me if I ever thought about that time we got lost at Limekiln Lake.   My mind immediately went back to that afternoon in 2014…

…it was a gloomy, wet sort of day even though it was July.  I was up camping in the Adirondacks with my parents and my aunt and uncle.  Dad and I decided we were going to go on a hike.  We had a map, walking sticks, some granola bars, and we dressed in layers so we could adjust to any changes in temperature.  We had on good shoes and yet for some reason, we did not bring any water.  Nor did we have a compass or even my cell phone (since there was no signal up there anyway).  It was a good hike – there was lots of cool things to see.  I took lots of pictures as I trudged behind my dad.   It’s one of my favorite things to do, really – camp with my parents and hike with my dad while there.  The trail seemed a little sketchy in places, but we kept relocating the markers and so were more or less doing alright.  I didn’t think too much of one of the bridges being under six inches of water and was more fascinated at the amount of tannin in the water that was making it turn a fascinating shade of orange which made my feet look funny.  I had taken my sneakers off to cross and rolled up my pant legs in an effort to keep them dry.   This would become more significant later.

“Yep,” I said.  He started walking back towards the house again and I took up my usual spot behind him.  He was quiet for a moment and then said, “That was scary.  I have dreams about it sometimes still.”  We trudged through the snow up the rest of the embankment towards the lawn and the house beyond with its burning fire and cozy jigsaw puzzle.

Every once and a while we would stop to figure out where we were on the map and everything seemed to be going well.  Except that we eventually would come to realize that the map and the trails marked on it did not seem to match the trail that we were actually walking.  It was becoming harder and harder to find the trail markers – though we never completely lost them for long.  What should have been a forty five minute walked turned into an hour, and then two, and then three.  We shared a granola bar and the talk that had sporadically drifted in and out of our hike stopped almost completely.  We unconsciously took turns going first, trudging through heavy flora that was thick with rain and mud.  Sneakers and pants could not be kept dry and were drenched up past the knees.  I stopped taking pictures.  We kept checking the map.  We heard dogs in the distance, but they never seemed to get any closer and we dared not stray off the path we seemed to be on.  It felt like dusk was coming.

I didn’t really reply that I can recall, or if I did it was some sort of offhand comment about how it had certainly been memorable.  But his comment started line of thinking that I’ve been mulling over since.  At the time we were hiking, I knew that this was not how the hike was supposed to go and I knew that the map and the trail were not aligning in a way that made any sense.  I had heard stories of people becoming lost in the Adirondack Wilderness, so it wasn’t as if the enormity of the situation was lost on me then.  I knew that our growing silence meant that we were focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and getting to more familiar ground.  But there was something else going on as well…

When we finally came out of the vast wilderness that is Adirondack State Park in a completely different part of the campground from where we had gone in, the normalcy of camping seemed to come rushing back.  It was almost culture shock.  We were filthy, soaked, exhausted, and an evening chill was starting to set in.  My legs ached from pushing through ferns and branches and ankle deep mud.  I kept alternating between warmth from exertion and cool from the sweat drying and the cool breeze kicking up.  We walked slowly back to our own campground to find my mother, my uncle, and my aunt all somewhat frantic.  They had already been to the ranger and were trying to figure out what to do.  My dad’s brother had driven around the campground a few times hoping to see us on some path or coming out of the woods somewhere.  We had been gone a long time.

I know my dad well enough that his comment about dreams and actually saying that the hike was scary was no small thing.  This is a man who had been a soldier.  It took a lot for him to admit fear because it was always easier to keep it inside and do what needed to be done.  What I don’t think dad realizes is that while I respect the enormity of what we experienced, there was only one thing that caused me fear that entire afternoon.  The only thing that kept crossing my mind had nothing to do with not finding our way out or that we wouldn’t reach civilization again.  My only concern was that we would not make it back out before dad became sick.  He’s diabetic, see, and that much physical exertion with little more than a couple of granola bars was the only thing that I felt was out of our control.

Correction.  It was the only thing that I ever felt out was out of dad’s control.  I trudged on step after step and only two things ran through my head beyond how tired I was and how much my back was upset with me…. 

My legs hurt.  My back hurts.  I’m tired.  Watch your step.  Don’t be a klutz, this is not the place for an injury. I’m tired.  Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here.  My legs hurt.  My feet are wet and cold.  I’m tired.  Don’t be a klutz. Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here. Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here. Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here. Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here.  Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

You see, I knew we would get back to the campground.  I knew it would be okay.  I never had a single doubt that it was just a matter of time.  I didn’t have to worry or be afraid.  I was with my dad.

I was with my dad.