More Wisteria, Bees, Lizards, A Missing Chicken, And The Sacred Image Of The Female

What a weekend and it is over. There are boiled eggs in my refrigerator, dyed and painted, testimony to the fact that yes, it did all happen, along with K's boots which he left in the guestroom, facing the door as if they were on their way out on their own when the door got shut impeding their progress, and a mirror in the bathroom B left. And oh- a hambone with barely a scrap of meat on it. We did eat that ham. Yes we did. Those of us who eat ham.

I am missing a chicken. Miss Shalayla, to be exact. I have no idea where she is. I suppose something could have gotten her when they were out yesterday, scratching happily in the yard but I heard no ruckus, and we were outside most of the day. Makes me sad but if you're going to let your chickens roam, I suppose this can be the result. She may have just run away. I guess that's possible too. She has been the favorite of Elvis her entire adult life and his grip-of-copulation has left her back bare of feathers. Could she have just decided that enough is enough? I went over and checked the flock next door belonging to our neighbors and I do not see her over there. A conscious decision? A hawk? A coyote? A fox? An owl?
Sigh.
Well, unless I find a pile of red feathers, I am going to imagine her hiking down the railroad track, her hobo-bag over her shoulder.
I hope she did not have to cross any roads.

It is truly getting warm here. The thermometer on the kitchen porch read ninety-six degrees yesterday afternoon. It was not really that hot, but I believe that spring has chased winter's chill away during the daytime at least. Truthfully, I am not looking forward to the heat this year. I can stand it and I do but can I be honest? I am so sick of the hotflashes and if it is already ninety-something degrees and I am already hot, the heat that overtakes me so many times a day and night make me feel as if I have been suddenly thrust onto the surface of the sun. It's not funny anymore. It is NOT funny anymore. At all. I can't even begin to make a joke of it.

But it is what it is. And the heat brings us many things, including the beautiful flowers I cannot stop taking pictures of. The bees are in a frenzy and even if the wisteria is twenty feet up in the air,




you can hear them buzzing as they nuzzle in and out of each tiny flowerette on the hanging clusters.

Do you know how hard it was for me to take the picture? The patience? Bees are harder to photograph than babies and chickens because they move so fast. I am proud of it.

The lizards are out in force, too, and I caught this one as he was puffing out his manly throat. I didn't get him in full-display, but you can get a sense of the color.

I think he was flirting with this girl who was a few feet away:


I have taken down the picture of Billy I put up last night. I cannot take any controversy today. I just can't. I am having a day of anxiety and I am second-guessing my decision to get off the antidepressant. This is the first time I have felt this feeling in a long time and I do not like it. I am going to not panic and I am going to see how this day goes and then what tomorrow brings. If it brings more anxiety, I will reverse-wean myself. I know what my limits are.

And I suppose that's it. My mind is a bit foggy and strange. I do not quite feel like myself. I am going to town to the library and to buy some more damn Rescue Remedy. I am going to use it liberally. And this afternoon, I am going to work on a short story I started a long time ago and I am going to try and lose myself in it. I heard an interview with Lee Smith on NPR last night as I finished cleaning up and watering my plants and I heard something in her voice that made me think that yes, a southern woman can tell stories and that they can be published and that there is joy in that which I am denying myself out of fear, out of something.
This blog alone has brought me more joy than I ever could have imagined. It has opened up my own tiny world to my own heart and eyes. It has done me more good than fifty-years of Lexapro. I went to the post office this morning and found a package from Ireland there for me.

Jo. Oh Jo.

I opened it right there in the post office. Ms. Joanne, our postmistress, was curious too, to see what had come to me from Ireland. Jo sent a wonderful stuffed anteater, all made of natural and organic materials for Owen and when he takes possession I will get pictures. I know he will stick that anteater's snout in his own mouth and it's going to be so funny and he won't even know how that creature got to him, via some sort of magic based on words sent through 1's and 0's across the world and which resulted in the return of such a darling physical manifestation of care. And she also sent me a pair of gorgeous stripey tights in purples and blacks and grays which I will wear with such joy when it gets cool again.

I don't know. I don't know how or why these things happen anymore than I understand the workings of my own brain or the concept of dark matter in the universe or how it is that the flower of the wisteria blossom looks like the sacred image of the female.

I am just here, riding this wave of my life, and writing it down and as Lee Smith said that someone else said (and I would remember but I can't)- if you are a writer, you get to live everything twice.
Perhaps if you are a writer you MUST live everything twice.

I don't know.

But I do know that joy which brings more joy cannot be ignored and I am more than grateful for it all.