I've had a day of peculiarly strange emotions. I've run the gamut of sadness and of anxiety and especially anxiety, to be truthful. When I took my walk, instead of gaining a measure of peace from being in the woods or from the simple motion of purposeful movement or of sky or of trees, I felt a keen apprehension and the garbage which has been dumped and scattered along part of my path affected me more profoundly than usual, my tattered self making of it a metaphor for everything going on these days.
My nest, as it were, felt especially soiled by those who do not care, who do not value the things I value. Every day that I pass this trash I am reminded once again that there are people I share the planet with who are absolutely thoughtless on a level which I simply cannot understand.
Mr. Moon had gotten up very early to go to Apalachicola and get the paperwork approved for tree removal and to hopefully get water hooked up to the property. He did both of those things and got home just in time to take a shower while I fixed him some egg sandwiches which he took with him to the FSU basketball game he is going to this evening with a friend.
The friend, who came here to meet him so that they could drive to town together, announced as he came in that he had seen something this morning he's never seen before which was two owls mating. He got up just as it was becoming light and as he made his coffee, he heard the pant-hoot call of the female and saw her in a tree and then heard the male's response from another tree and then, suddenly, the male swooped in and landed directly on her and in five seconds, the act was completed and the male flew away.
Although I have often heard the calling of the males and females to each other, I have certainly never seen them mating and I am thinking of that, dispassionately, thinking of all of the things going on around me which I do not see whether because it is hidden in the darkness of night or because I simply do not notice. All of the teeming life of both flora and fauna, and all of it with its own rules and customs and directions and impulses and desires and triggers and meanings and outcomes and repercussions. All of this happening every moment of every day and every night as I blindly go my human way, noting with such human pride the tiny opening leaves and buds of the spirea, the green, swelling tips of the native azalea, the ash magnolia, the multitude of robins and redwing blackbirds, the sprouting of peas, the sacred dance of the bumblebee in the azalea blossoms, not even having the least idea of the micro miracles and pragmatic goings-on of which I have, if anything, only the vaguest idea of.
Well, I suppose that if I was so mindful of everything that I missed nothing (which is an impossibility anyway), I would get as little accomplished as a woman spending endless hours on her knees, her fingers on her rosary, eyes closed in order to feel closer to a god who whom she no doubt believes has given her those very eyes to see the exact things I regret not noticing.
The older I get the more I absolutely believe and understand that I don't know shit.
Which in a way is liberating as hell but does not (I am sad to say) dispel anxiety or sadness or worry or fear and this is the way it is for me today, a woman of sixty-two years who lives under the oak trees beside the swamp where mysteries abound, both sacred and profane and I freely admit I have no answers.
No answers at all.