There is a squirrel who runs along a telephone line outside my “tree house” window (2nd floor study) while I write. It stops to look in and I pretend not to notice. We used to engage each other and had quite a nice little game of meeting, chatter-cooing, and admiring, That is to say, I was admiring. But I once made the mistake of inviting Lucy (our pup) to the party, picking her up, cradled like a harmless babe in my arms, and bringing her to Squirrel’s window. Lucy barked and squirmed while I held her – she “loves” (dreaming of capturing) squirrels. And, that was the end of that. Now squirrel still comes to watch me, as long as I don’t turn my attention, and Lucy’s, in its direction. So I’m writing this pretending to be ignoring a squirrel who is likely pretending he’s not looking at me. Thus we continue.
More admiring.... We spent part of the Thanksgiving week on the Monterey peninsula. It was a thoughtful time reacquainting ourselves with the astonishingly ravishing coastline there, with unique qualities of light…Light…and illumination on that particular stretch of ocean, admiring creatures of the deep, not so deep, and of flight, as well as dear friends in a sisterhood of women who have among them, us, a banquet of lives cornucopiate with insight, wit, and wisdom…with so much experience and perspective shining through their tender regard for each other and for us, as well as through so many of their stories. We had the most beautiful time.
The trip came at the perfect point in my journey as I have been deep in contemplation these months since my father died. The plane flight and holiday provided a good airing out I very much needed--to gain perspective on some of the things I’ve been discovering and rediscovering. I’m reminded of the image of the red-tailed hawk from one of my early short stories, “Life Begins,” where the hawk soars in a circular pattern, rising on thermals of warm air, covering the same territory again, again, and again, only each time from a higher perspective, gaining a wider and wider view.
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