Thursday, April 3, 2014

The Colors Are So Bright

I saved a bee yesterday on the porch with my patented jar-removal method. Slip jar over insect, slip lid over jar, open door, release insect. In this case, bee.
I worry so much about the bees.
Forget everything else that threatens our existence which we have caused by our own hand- if we lose the bees, we're dead. That is it. No going back.

While I was saving the bee, Owen was on the phone with his mother. She had called to say that Jason was on his way and since the phone was right by Owen when it rang, he asked if he could answer it. I told him he could and he did and instead of hello, he said, "Who is it?" and was delighted that it was his mother and he gave her the run-down as I rescued the bee and chatted with her nicely. I can't believe he's this grown up. I cannot believe it.

When I woke up this morning and came out to the porch to feed the dogs, the wisteria looked so very purple, the light shone so very brightly. It put me in mind of doing hallucinogens, it reminded me of when I started the Celexa originally- same thing happened. I wonder if ladies who used to dose themselves with Belladonna to make their pupils open so beautifully had the same sort of vision. They must have. How their eyes must have shone in the candlelight!

Obviously, my brain is not quite itself this morning but I will tell you that it is not off in that wildest, cruelest place of panic. I will take this. Oh god yes. I will take this.

I am doing laundry. I have to pack. It is the time of year when the days are very warm but the nights, the early mornings, are still chilly. What to bring and oh god...bras.

I should take a walk but I feel as if I did anything too physical right now, I might crack in two. Does that make sense? Of course not. When the anxiety is upon me and I am jittery and as tense as that high wire, I have to keep moving, as I said last night and its sudden cessation leaves me limp. I have to be gentle in order not to crack the shell, release the demon. Tomorrow I will feel like walking and maybe I will walk all over Apalachicola, walk to the old graveyard, up and down the shady streets, maybe go to the beach and walk there.
I must pack a bathing suit.
I must pull myself together, lift up this limp mess of myself and force it to move.
And yet, how happy I would be just to sit here and watch the wisteria as it opens and the purples deepen

and the bees buzz it and the Tung opens

 and the magnolias swell with blossom and the baby chicks flutter about the coop (they are all named now) and the light changes minute by minute but...

I know that drive to the coast and it always makes me happy.

There will be pictures. Probably words as well.

If I don't crack in two.

And the bees will have to save themselves so they need to remember not to come onto the porch but to stay where they belong in the sweet bosoms of their blossoms.


  1. I don't know but sometimes it is the faintest kind of blessing that at least you understand that it comes upon you without volition, without your bad heart making it so.

    I don't want to cheer you up but to simply let you know that I am with you, that I am thinking of you in your deep pain and even if you can't feel it now I know you are one of the great good ones without a doubt you shower this world with a great and limitless love.

  2. Beautifully said, Tearful Dishwasher.
    I'm so glad you were able to recognize what was happening and call and up your dosage. That sounds like relief.
    Looking forward to witnessing your trip.
    Safe travels!

  3. The bees. Oh the bees. I worry too.

    I used to live in a place where there was a wisteria festival every year celebrating a massive wisteria that devoured a house. I always thought of it as wisteria hysteria--a particular brand of spring fever.

  4. glad things are better. the bees, can't live without them and yet the powers that be will not do what needs to be done to save them. and butterflies. I saw so few butterflies last year.

  5. We bought Mason bee houses in our yard. I especially love them because they don't sting.

    A small reprieve. Good.

  6. Your description of the need to move during the anxiety and the delicateness after is just right.

    Did you watch that documentary about bees called More Than Honey? I thought it ended on a hopeful note... should I give away the ending?

    The coast seems like the perfect place to be.

  7. be gentle with yourself dear mary. be gentle with my friend.

  8. Watchfulness over the sweet and fragile self and the sweet and fragile bees and the growing, sweet boy. I sometimes find myself wishing this blog was a big book that I could just open every night, a large book about 12" x 12" that I could open on my lap, and turning the pages I'd find more and more of you all in that flowering place. Your heart is so tender, Mary. Your love of your world and the bigger world so strong.

  9. I'm glad you are feeling better, Mary. By the water and with family and love. We are all here behind you.
    I worry about the bees too. We need to be good to them.
    Be good to yourself as well. xoxo

  10. i felt like i was tripping balls with the celexa.

    here's a thought. what if every time we save a bee, a turtle, a frog, we are in fact reclaiming a part of ourselves?


  11. It's starting to be spring here. And I like the chilly nights.


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