The Pusillanimity of it All

A recent post by Colette had me nodding my head. I knew what she was talking about. Nothing going on here, nothing to see, nothing to write about - but hey - wait a minute! Do I still have a pulse? Is my head constantly teeming with thoughts and words? And how does that translate into such inertia that I've "nothing to say"? That was the gist of one comment on her post. Roderick Robinson's arrow hit the mark. It pierced my inertia too. It turns out I have a lot to say but am timid about saying it. Will people fall out of their chairs with the boredom of it all? Will they fall asleep? Will my blog be cancelled? Just kidding. We're not on youtube, nobody cares. There is so much angst in the world right now, so much division, so much an attitude of "if you're not with me you're against me" in matters of huge import to humanity, it's tempting to decide that the simple routines of my days and my ordinary thoughts will just bring on the yawns.

But. 

I am, once again, reading Julia Cameron's efforts to beat those of us with writerly ambitions but lazy attitudes into the discipline of what she calls "morning pages." I've been at it a week or too, hit or miss.  I didn't exactly 'fall out of bed directly onto the page' this morning but I did hie me to the park behind us as soon as I was dressed, even remembering, in my uncaffeinated state, to take the key that would open the gate, my fence scaling days being far behind me.

And what a morning. The park so peaceful, especially as "peace comes dropping slow" these days. Nature is tending to business, unbothered by the latest political and covid outrages from the media. Already warm, the air oozing moisture, the sun wrestling its way through the haze, the lazy overhead drone of an airplane, the nearby drone of dragonflies. There's a large bird in the reeds out a ways from the dock where I'm sitting - heron? Wood stork? 

And then a smaller one shows up - a blue heron ? I wait, hoping Blue will come closer for a better shot but soon realize how impatient I am. If it happens, it'll be in his time, not mine. Half an hour later the larger bird is still standing in the reeds. Maybe this is his morning meditation time? Wisely he lets his breakfast come to him while young Blue flaps about, chasing his. 

The lake looks so calm but don't be fooled. Under the surface and that carpet of waterlilies it seethes with life: tiny fishes, bigger fishes, frogs - I hear them singing, turtles - I hear the occasional splash.

  And snakes. Like this fellow.

There have even been sightings of alligators, reason enough not to go wading out in search of a waterlily close-up! In the interests of keeping my limbs I content myself with this one, nestled up against the dock. 

And yet I know, as idyllic as the scene before me appears, tooth and claw are the order of the day. Should I weep for the fishes gobbled by those herons? Or respect the fact that here, pusillanimity has no place? 

At last, his meditation and breakfast done, the stork departs on wide, lazy wings. I could sit here all day absorbing tranquility through my pores, but my bladder, as usual, has other ideas. I unfold my bones and head for home, emboldened to mine that teeming, incoherent stream of thoughts and words that whirl dervishly through my brain and write something, anything, with more courage.

Thank you Colette, and thank you Mr. Robinson for the kick in the pants.