March, Second Week

It’s March—that incredible time when the mellow brown earth sings its bright green melodies. Every tree has adorned itself with a veil of pale green spring lace. In New England the moment almost seems perceptible because the earth comes alive to shout “hallelujah” overnight. But here, we have been seeing signs of spring since January, so it is a long process. And I have enjoyed every moment of it. Every week I notice a new shrub blooming and a new tree garnishing its bare branches with tiny sprouts. Every blossom and bud make me rejoice.

And I can overdo it with my nature thing. This morning I woke up too early, feeling too lousy. I had gone to bed at 3:00 a.m.—I stretched my limit. I love staying up late in the silence of the night. Often I am up after midnight, which is just on the edge of my tolerance. However, last night I was awaiting the visit from the fox to make sure he was the one eating the food I’m putting out.

He was definitely worth waiting for. What a gorgeous fellow! I was intrigued to watch his new tactic. Instead of directly approaching the plate with the food, he looked at it from afar, ran under the deck, then jumped up on the other end. After looking all around with an alert stance, he spotted the plate, pranced across the deck and dug into his food. I watched him until he had cleaned up every crumb.

Occasionally I can make it on a few hours of sleep and usually I just cannot. I know I always wake up when light hits my room, so I took the precaution of closing the blinds. Despite my efforts, I still awoke at the crack of dawn and couldn’t go back to sleep. I go through all the motions of the day, yet I am never quite right. Nothing seems to touch me beneath the skin. I am really out of it, I lament to myself. Then I pause to think about what exactly does that mean.

Does it simply mean that I am not feeling the way I normally feel, the way that I classify as feeling good? Being clear-headed, as opposed to feeling foggy-brained as I do today? So the “it” that I am “out of” must mean my usual mode of operation that I feel familiar, therefore comfortable, with. If I am out of comfort, I must be in discomfort. Are they just two labels of infinite possibilities of my being? Why do I think one is so much better than the other? If I want sunny days, I have to accept some cloudy ones. If I want a 3:00 a.m. rendezvous with a fox, I have to welcome the consequences. I do know my limits and occasionally I just have to push them. Really, I'm not ready to have the threat of a dull headache stop me from exploring the world—so I’ll have to enjoy my headache too.

Although the sky remains cloudy, the temperature is warm. One thing for sure, if I am having a slow day, I can do slow things. I am grateful that the shade will give me relief from my daily watering chore. Since the weather is so pleasant, I am in and out throughout the day doing easy tasks in the garden. Sensing a storm is approaching, I plant some wildflower seeds in areas that are out of reach of the hose since they will be totally dependent on Nature for watering.

As a blanket of coolness descends with the darkness, I end the day early by starting a fire, intending to settle in to do some reading. Nearly every time I build a fire I stand in awe of the fact that a forest fire can develop so easily. Here I am with lighter, kindling, reams of paper, huffing and puffing like a wild woman, and the flames just refuse to keep going. Tonight is no exception. I know my mistake; I don’t have enough middle-sized kindling. With abject stubbornness, I pile on more paper to compensate, but to no avail. I have to go back to step one and do it right—go out and find some medium kindling under the trees.

I pick up Walden to start in on it, but I barely get through the first chapter before my eyes start closing. Actually, that’s all I could take in. I am amazed at Thoreau’s presentation of ideas. In the very first chapter he criticizes landlords, professors, philosophers, Christians and do-gooders—in such a cynical, yet humorous, manner. In spite of my lethargy, I find myself cackling aloud every few minutes. He already had his judgments and opinions formed at thirty for questions I am asking at fifty-five. He certainly expressed opinions that I would not dare put in print—and that was 1850. I’m in awe.

While I soak in a tub of hot salty water to relax for a good night’s sleep, I’m thinking of Thoreau’s premises. The first of them is economic considerations. He even entitled his first chapter Economy. He laments how most of the masses work half their lives for the sake of a shelter. In his experiment, he built his cabin on the average wages of one year’s labor. He even considers the possibility of sleeping in a huge toolbox, which has the exact dimensions of a coffin—demonstrating his subtle sense of humor. Interestingly, he lived at Walden Pond for two years, and I can have this Texas home for up to two years. This is truly a unique opportunity for me. I don’t intend to waste it. In the future, I decide to be more careful about pushing my limits. I realize I have to add adequate rest to my list of essentials for keeping healthy, along with healthy food and the four natural elements.

At last I put my dull self into bed, assuring myself of a new dawn. It’s so amazing when I think of it. Yesterday I felt as if I had the world in the palm of my hand. My creativity was alive and bubbling. Tomorrow I may feel the same. But today, because some nerves, synapses or cells didn’t get enough rest last night, I don’t even have the energy to eat dinner. Know thy limits... and stick to them as often as possible.

Stretching out in the luxury of a comforting bed, I contemplate my role in the infinite possibilities of being. I am the one who suffers the pain of a throbbing between my eyes. I am the one who feels the squeezing of some nerve endings in the back of my neck. I am the one who delights in chasing cloud shadows across the meadow; the one who smiles at a birdsong. I am the one who shrieks in horror at a shot ringing through the forest; the one who loves the natural wild animals. I am the one who lives and loves in a lovely green world. I am all of these—and many many more.

Thank goodness, the next morning I am relieved to find myself in much better shape. When I think of it, I see how advantageous it is that I am not a morning person. While I am waking up, I use my first hours to get my material reality in order. I’ve read that most writers get up early, write in the morning, then have the afternoon and evening free. I get up and do all the things I want to do, the gardening, and have to do, the dishes. Then in the early afternoon, after lunch, I am ready to sit down and share what’s going on with me and my world. Most days I feel that I have finally worked out a good balance with my various projects.

But I remain flexible. Occasionally there’s a day when I wake up with an inspiration and end up sitting at the computer all day. A debris of papers, notes, snippets of ideas float around me, piling up in snowy white masses. So the next morning I clean and organize the mess while I am waking up.

There’s a significant benefit to springtime. After spending the mornings with wildflowers butterflies bees birdsong, when I sit down at the computer, I am full of life. From this ecstatic mood, I love to share all my thoughts.

My days are essentially the same—cloudy or not. Besides the writing and gardening, when I’m hungry I cook; when I take the last pair of clean underwear out of the drawer, I do laundry; when every cup is dirty, I wash dishes. I never need a Sunday—the proverbial day of rest. I’m doing exactly what I love to do. Why would I want a rest from that? What I want is more time and energy to do more of what I am doing!