Naturally: A Battle of Wills

Competition isn't in my nature. I don't know why. I just wasn't made that way. Still, I can appreciate a battle of wills or wits like the one I had today. I am opinionated, and I'm intensely passionate about certain things—like the welfare of my children, good food, and writing. I'm a country girl, and one thing I don't sit still and quiet about is the fact that I do NOT like living in town.

 I don't dislike town, I just don't like living within its boundaries (especially because it means I'm double taxed twice a year.) I don't like having neighbors, and I don't like that my road becomes a superhighway every time there's a ball game. I don't care if that makes anyone else mad—they don't live here to experience it. I'm reminded of the chicken trucks that roared like banshees through the night around the curve, past my childhood home, down the hill, over my favorite cats and dog….Now, multitasking, overworked parents with a cell phone in one hand and the wheel in the other—sometimes, pass by our house like fighter pilots. You'd be terrified too If you'd seen what I have. Last summer my children watched as a rabbit was obliterated by a truck that never even slowed down. My husband scooped bits of fur, bone, and entrails from the steaming asphalt as we stood on the front porch and cried. Twenty-five sounds like a reasonable speed limit, but that's only for those who choose to observe it. Kind of like children, who are supposed to observe the NOT PAST THE TREES boundary, until they forget, or choose not to….so there's the danger, but there's more.

I grew up on a wooded acre surrounded by more woods, surrounded on all four sides by the fields of our family farm. The road runs about a hundred feet or so (I'm not so good with measuring distances either…) in front of the house. The sun is mostly mottled by leaves: live oak, dogwood, cherry, maple, pine needles way up at the top…spiny fingers stroking the sun. I'd lie on my back in the grass, in the leaves, in the hammock, in the pool, and breathe. I'd walk barefoot through gravel and wooded paths, and cornfields, and cowpies, rejecting shoes until the cold demanded that I put them back on. I'd retrieve the mail in my pajamas, my bathing suit, my underwear, and no one had to know. No one ever knew. Just me, the trees, the birds, the cats. 

My family scoffs at the idea that I like the outdoors. I do, but they don't believe that I do. I appreciate nature. I need nature. I live for the smell of rain and frost and molded leaves in fall….I dig in dirt and wipe it through sweat on my forehead. My feet are hardened in summer months and green-stained by day's end. I save frogs and toads and butterflies and moths. Daddy Longlegs play across my arms like acrobats, and I study ants…as long as they respect the boundaries of my home. But snakes, I do not like snakes. I hate HATE HATE! snakes. I consider this hatred my singular, literal interpretation of the Bible. God, forgive me; I know that they are Your creatures too. So, yes, if I see a snake--regardless of size or variety—I lose self-control. It's not as much of a panic attack as it is an eruption of disgust, no, revulsion. My body contorts, ironically, kind of like a snake (ugh!) and the shrieks scar my throat. In my life, I've experienced nothing like it….the closest experience—heights. I can't exactly lose self-control on an air plane though, now can I? I can however make use of those Lamaze classes….I don't even mind camping; I just prefer a posh hotel. Duh. I don't even mean that to sound flippant. Seriously: 500 count crisp white cotton sheets and towels that someone else will have to wash, unlimited hot water, and ICE or an air mattress, sweaty walls, mosquitoes, and a roll of toilet paper? Whatever. I can ride on the back of a rusted out pickup down a dirt road and inhale gravel dust, pollen, manure, and diesel. I'm just not interested in doing so when I'm fixed and ready (i.e. dressed for going out).

I DO like the outdoors though. I love the outdoors. I even like my yard, mostly...but it isn't in the country, and it isn't the yard of my childhood. I should insert here that few yards are like the yard of my childhood. My parents deserve all the credit for that. They are passionate, compulsive, in their pursuit of a beautiful yard, and they reap the bounty year after year. It's surreal. Hundreds of azaleas sit on haunches their hands on their knees, reclining into shaded shadows. Rhododendrons stand in casual repose, boasting regal corsages in late spring. Oh, I could go on…but it's as magical at night as in is during the day. There are gnats during the day and mosquitoes at night, but there are also shooting stars and fireflies, bright and luminous—authentic against the blackness of true night. Such things are cheapened by sighing streetlights, mourning for themselves in puddles of regret. 

Oh, but back to the battle of wills. She always does this doesn't she? Transitions to third person? No, starts with one idea, goes in an entirely different direction….she also uses fragments and run on sentences quite frequently (eye rolls). Yes, yes, she's quite aware. All calculated choices she assures you. So, back to the 'story.' In a minute….

I enjoy manual labor. The subsequent pain is its own reward. The sting of overexposure, muscles weakened and tightened, hands unsteady, barely controllable after a day's repetitive motion. I like the taste of salt on my lip, the challenge of digging dirt from beneath my fingernails, the haze of exhaustion….I'm just not crazy about having an audience, or even the POSSIBILITY of an audience in the process. The thing that I enjoy most about working with my hands, working my body (in lieu of traditional exercise), is the mindlessness I achieve. I'm cognizant, but free. I am present, but my mind is on holiday. I work, but I don't have to think. When one spends most of her time thinking, even the hours reserved for recreation and sleep, a mental break is vital….at some point. I enjoy thinking, pondering, questioning, exploring, but with those come side effects: worry, anxiety, remorse, frustration, anxiety, anxiety, anx….There are times when I nearly have a panic attack, but I can't pinpoint what I'm even worrying about. A feeling of dread and regret seizes my heart, my stomach heavies, my pulse races, and my throat sours….for no reason. I can become physically ill from merely thinking about someone else's pain. There's mental and spiritual overload, and I am way too hyper to meditate, so I work.

The road encroaches too far for my comfort…for the assured safety of my children, my pets. I need a boundary. When the trees were no longer enough, I planted grasses, enormous variegated blade--Zebra grasses. When those felt insufficient (okay—when I felt insufficient about those (which doesn’t sound nearly as nice)) I planted roses. Knock Out roses, the kind that bloom all summer, the kind that explode and linger like my favorite golden fireworks. And when my husband's favorite tree, the hollowed out maple which provided glorious shade on the hottest evenings, when that tree fell in a storm, I planted more roses, and a butterfly bush, above the decaying roots.

The most violent storm of the summer stole another of our trees away, a Bradford Pear we planted soon after we married. It simply lifted from its foundation, pirouetted, and fell dying, feet from my bedroom window. I don't know yet what I will plant there. The next morning we broke the protective seal which sheltered us. Leaves sopped at standing water; steam rose from pavement and rooftops; petals lay scattered as if a wedding processional had preceded the storm. And there, amid the chaos and stillness and bent blades of soggy grass, sat a little ruffled bird. It nearly scared me to death. Started by its unexpectedness, I laughed. I called my children to come, see, look! Awe. Would he live? Had he fallen with the tree or fallen from his nest? Were there more? Should I lift him? Intuition to usher him to safety? Intuition to leave someone else's baby alone….by afternoon, he'd disappeared.

Zebra grass grows and plumes and creates blind spots. I love it. My husband says it's a hazard. It must be cut. It must be tamed. What shame. There's a sadness that comes when something so beautiful in its natural state must conform, must comply…and yet my mind was more ready for the solace than I realized. My shoulders burned early, even with sunscreen. Bottled water replaced the pristine stream from the garden hoses of childhood (I still think it would be okay though….). The Zebra grass surrendered and fell; I raked it into compliant piles and hauled it away. The roses drooped under their own weight and the butterfly bush sagged with dampness and wear. Sadness gave way to inspiration, my mind and body healing under the sunlight. I'd nearly finished trimming the roses and butterfly bush when I heard it. Then, I saw it. A screech from a buttercup beak. The baby bird. He'd found a new home. He'd taken up residence in the most beautiful and fragrant plot of yard. Never mind that I was tidying his home. He didn't care that I'd planted those bushes. And his mother—a mama cat bird no less—didn't care that I didn't mean him any harm.

She drew in a breath before screaming, breast pushed out, beak and eyes set squarely on me. I exhaled and turned. "I'm almost finished. Not much more," I told her...which, in hindsight, I realize was a waste of words. If she had teeth they would have been gritted against me. She set her wings resolutely, like hands on hips, and I swear she rolled her neck. The baby hopped from its perch, and into the mulch, newly uncovered, and down into the pile of fresh cut brush. Have you ever seen a cat bird go after an actual cat? It's hilarious, assuming that no one actually gets hurt. Mama cat bird leapt from her branch screaming profanity, flapping, and aiming right for the top of my head. I ducked and covered, cursed the stupidity of it all, and shrieked a little myself. I moved to the brush pile. I'd just leave her alone a bit. I'd take the brush away, exposing the baby, and then maybe she'd help it along, back into its safe home. Then she'd be happy. I grabbed a branch; a thorn plugged into my thumb. I screamed, "DAMNIT!" She screamed something worse, dove at me, circled and swooped again. I squeezed my thumb above my head, hiding between my elbows. She called in backup. What I supposed to be the daddy cat bird glided onto the power line across the street. He threw hateful stares at me and radioed in, "Mama Cat Bird. Are you there, Mama Cat Bird. This is Cat Bird Daddy. Are you there? Copy?" She didn't take time to reply. She set her feet ready to yank the hair from my head and I ran—which is something I insist on doing ONLY when my life is in danger. This felt like appropriate timing. Barefoot, I hurdled the brush, somehow avoided the pitchfork, and streaked across the gravel driveway.

I retreated to my own front porch, now that the yard itself had been claimed by hostile forces. I needed a break anyway. And a drink of water. Psh. Stupid bird. Ugh. My mind began to focus as the adrenaline dissipated through my twitching fingertips. I am enormous, by comparison. Her child had survived the most violent storm of my lifetime, her lifetime, its lifetime. She was parenting from next door, a tree over, in a yard with a cat, two dogs, two children, beside a road with countless cars. This was her baby.

I stood, walked over to the bushes, and pulled the remaining brush into the driveway. The baby bird was not there. She glared at me. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to scare you. I'm not going to hurt your baby. I'm a mom too, you know?" Why was I talking to this bird who wanted to kill me? I circled the bushes. My eyes focused through the foliage. There he sat, back on his perch. "See; he's fine. I didn't hurt him." I picked up the bypass loppers…just a few more cuts….Wings and feathers and feet bent into claws....Bypass loppers dropped straight into the soft ground, handles raised in a V….a V for surrender. 

Copyright © 2012. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.