Micro Slice of a Simple Life in
Paradise
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When one
lives in a tiny community, little things can tend to balloon into huge
importance.
When I say
“small community”, I don’t mean a place numbered in four digits, where you
might recognize a couple thousand through ordinary daily contact: that young man
with the pony tail works at the glass repair shop, the woman with red hair and
big glasses clerks at the IGA and that over-dressed couple walks around the
park every day with their dog, Riley. A place where you might know two hundred
people fairly well and count fifty as friends.
Nope. I’m
talking a community with a warm-body count averaging twenty or fewer on a daily
basis. Oh, yes, one gets to know every person, quite well.
Flip side, my
neighbors also get to know me! I try to keep this in mind.
The natural
progression to this “getting-to-know” business goes like this. Oh, what
wonderful nice neighbors. Except him. And she’s a total witch, know what I
mean? One by one, warts and horns sprout.
My method of
dealing with “getting to know you, getting to know all about you”, is to (yuck)
ask myself, what is it within me that I react so strongly? When I put the focus
on my own flaws, yours don’t seem so glaring. Mostly.
Eventually,
tolerance, acceptance, respect and affection take over and I even forgive
myself (sort of) for my critical, judgmental nature. Horns and warts are still
there, but so are scars and wounds and nowadays, I find you kind of cute. I think this is normal small-town neighborly
stuff.
What worries
me to distraction is that I have seemingly detected, nay, suffered “a
sea-change into something rich and strange”* in my attitude toward critter
life, especially those two banes of my existence, squirrels and iguanas.
After harvesting my miniature corn field, I
immediately replanted my last yellow kernels for a second crop. Three days
later two-inch green spikes poked above the dirt. On the fourth day, the green
spikes disappeared, leaving holes dug and paw prints.
I shrugged. A
rather mild reaction.
In the
afternoon, I spotted this same squirrel, her jaws locked onto an avocado,
dragging the green globe across the patio to a “secure” area where she no doubt
feasted. “Aw, isn’t she cute.”
This is the
squirrel at whom I’ve cursed, pitched objects (missed), and chased with a
broom.
Same story
with iguanas although I cannot call them cute. I watch them gulp hibiscus
flowers with aplomb and barely disguised affection. They need to eat too. Iguanas
are my neighbors. Or maybe, it is that they let me be their neighbor.
I’m worried.
I’m afraid this shift in my perspective is not normal.
Let me
explain that I think a little critical judgment is necessary in everyday life.
As is a bit of anger, wrath, and every other emotion, in moderation, mind you,
in moderation. I might be accused of rationalization, but I think a full range
of emotions keeps me healthier.
I worry when
I suddenly display gushing affection for my former enemies. Iguanas and
squirrels, I’m talking about. It is not healthy. Squirrel, who natters at me
and teases me with impunity, I understand. She is cute. Definitely a rodent,
but cute. Iguanas? Not so much.
See the big
one atop the brick wall by my patio? Cute? I don’t think so. I have serious
talks with him.
He never bats an eyelid. If he spoke to me, and why not, he
might say, “Who was here first, Gringa? Who owns
the garden? Who owns the hibiscus?
Who owns the tree? Who owns the corn?
Oh, yes. I
knew that. I had forgotten. Even the animals know my faults and flaunt them in
my face. And, even in my garden of Paradise, iguanas eat hibiscus flowers.
*”The
Tempest”, William Shakespeare
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
October 10,
2019
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