Life in the
slow lane
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Life is such
a mixed bag of tricks, isn’t it? In the morning we slide out of bed, make
coffee, check the obits to see if we made headlines, put our two hands (some of
us are greedy) in the bag and pull out the tricks of the day. Such a mix.
Michelle
from Oconahua up the road wrote, “Ana’s Mom was hilarious. Always cracking
people up in town. She was quite the outspoken young person, the youngest and
last of eighteen. She was the favorite of her father. He was a strict and
honest man. He had the first store in town and we have stories that we will
share about him one day.
“Monica is
now laid to rest with her husband. Many people came to the funeral and people
sent the loveliest flower arrangements.
“It’s always
a bit upsetting to see a dead person in their casket. But I prefer to remember
her funny (and blue) joking along with her sitting in the garden with
hummingbirds buzzing around.”
I heard my
cowbell jangling out at my gate, poked my head out the door. A masked man in an
unmarked delivery van held a box. Grabbed my own mask and went out to sign the
invoice slip and take possession of a package from my daughter that arrived in
slightly over two weeks, a whole week before estimated time of arrival, a possible
world record from Montana, perhaps a miracle.
These days even
time seems to mosey along. Some of us, we like it. Others fuss and fume.
Next thing, Leo
arrived with my grocery order and two pieces of mail from my local PO box,
posted from Montana on the 17th and 20th of April. Go
figure. Two months.
Everyday
mundane stuff, isn’t it. Nothing earth shattering, just life as we live it.
It’s the mundane stuff that keeps me sane. For me, it’s where I need to keep my
focus.
There is
beauty in the sadness of death, wonder in a box with my new keyboard and lap
blanket and jigsaw puzzles, delight in snail mail, more so for the time it
took.
That vulture
gliding overhead against the backdrop of cumulus clouds atop the mountains is
every bit as beautiful as an eagle in flight. Is an eagle beautiful because of
the grandeur we invest in it? If one really looks, the eagle is ugly as a
vulture.
As is the
iguana on top of my brick wall, ugly, that is. I’ve made my peace with iguanas,
come to terms of tolerance. There is no other option. Iguanas will eat my best
flowers and most tender sprouts of lettuce. They aren’t dumb. They ignore the
oleander, deadly poison.
Iguana
possibly looks at me with disdain and thinks, “Human. Ugly. Not edible.”
My cousin
Nancie, whom I dearly love, wrote that she cancelled her three week trip next
month. I wrote back with genuine relief, “I’m so glad you are not coming. It’s
too dangerous. You’d have to self-quarantine two weeks. I’d go nowhere with
you. We could only visit with distance on the patio after your quarantine. This
situation is not forever.” And I hope she understands.
Now that
rains are here for the season, every afternoon the sky talks up a storm. Last
night was a seven-towel storm. When wind drives rain horizontal, I lay towels
to sop up water which seeps through the bottom of window panes and beneath the
doorway. Booms so loud, with such impact, I had to scrape myself off the
ceiling twice. I love it.
Speaking of
love, and I am speaking of love, aren’t I? Another friend wrote that she is fed
up with reckless prognostications, outrageous opinions and useless
speculations. Me too. I understand.
I walk
outside, touch my corn, silking out in flower pots, my mango tree, caress
living plants, smile at my hibiscus, to keep me grounded.
I know,
truly know, very little. But this one thing I do know. It is easier to love
than to hate. And if you don’t believe me, come talk with my iguanas.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
June 25,
2020
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