Abscission Era

One of the themes from early day blogging was an openness about sharing mental health struggles. Like many in my generation, I was raised to choose happiness. It was one of the few pro-choice options ever discussed at the dinner table.

I'm kidding! We never ate dinner together, jeez, I wasn't born in the 50s.

Not sure what happened this year, but goddamn it hit me like a chancla. 

I have everything in the world to make me happy. After returning from Montana, I flew with two good friends to spend a week in Alaska. We were sailing the deep blue sea every day, surrounded by puffins and otters and sea lions. The whales were exuberant in their displays. There were so many orcas, more than we had ever seen. I flew home in first class.

What's wrong?

I don't know.

Maybe you should see someone.

I choose happiness.

Choose medication, you dumbass.

It's a product of my age, maybe.

Buy a convertible.

I just sold my convertible.

You're doing it wrong lol.

I had been invited to co-present at a conference in Detroit. Outside, there was hardly any traffic. Across the river, I could see the Canadian flag on the Windsor side of the tunnel, which we had once taken when I was 10 years old. It was all incredibly sad to me.

I wandered from the hotel to the John K. King bookstore and it made me even sadder.

This was the most difficult puzzle I've ever completed. It was a 3,000 piece image of Venice at dusk. Once I solved the puzzle, I took it apart and put it back in the box.

I miss happiness.

Our yard is full of the most amazing creatures. We've named most of them. We've watched a wee rabbit who we call Sugar Bun nibble at our grass (and poppies, which we most certainly did not encourage). She lets us get so close, that I've almost stepped on her when I'm harvesting our squash or tomatoes or chamomile. 

Naya named our Pacific Tree Frog Justin. He is a marvel. He seems to prefer sunning himself in amongst our zinnias and giant Aztec marigolds.

Alex and I walk most evenings. Once, she saw a nestling goldfinch on the ground and asked me to rescue it. I knew better, but her heart was breaking right in front of me. I took him home and for a week, fed him with a syringe, and occasionally outside once he had started to fly. The day I was set to take him in the yard and release him to the world, I found him cold and stiff. I hadn't named him.

Douglas squirrels are solitary and remarkably territorial. Our resident red is named Brownie, and she will scratch at our sliding glass door if we are not prompt with a peanut. There is a neighboring Douglas squirrel named Scruffy, who sneaks over when Brownie is not around and takes peanuts from our lap until he is run off. Brownie is equally unwelcoming of a Steller's Jay we call Bluey. More recently, a grey squirrel, who eerily resembles Adam Driver has joined the gravy train. We call him Adam. Brownie is half his size, but Adam will flee in terror when she chases him off. It makes me smile, in spite of myself.

On Monday, we are headed to France for two weeks. Earlier in the year, Alex had me drag home a tall piece of driftwood, which we planted among our irises, and now collect street signs to add to all our happy memories.

We have a place in Normandy along the Seine for most of the trip. We'll visit Monet's gardens in Giverny, and spend our days in Rouen and Honfleur and Mont Saint Michel and Versailles, whenever the protests allow. We'll finish in Paris. I was a French major in college, and had always intended to go, but I made different choices. I've never been before.

I asked Tristan to watch our tomatoes while we're gone. We have so many, but there are quite a few on the vine still. I showed him what to watch for, the faintest change of color, which indicates that the abscission layer is cutting off the fruit from the stem.

You are on your own now.

I don't feel ready.

You're blushing.

Why does it feel like dying?

Maybe I should look into that medication.