There are a couple wasps up in the corner of one of our living room windows. Too high up to reach, but close enough to make out their stripey abdomens. I'm puzzled. They were creating a marvelous nest out at the end of our walkway, but it stopped growing. It was full of perfectly sized compartments, and I kept my eye on it because I was waiting for it to become a danger. Somehow they made their way inside. Now those winged creatures do not fly or even crawl, but have snuggled together to protect against the inevitable. What are they protecting? A small new nest with one egg? Why don't they try to escape to the outdoors? Is glass really that deceiving to almost all creatures, that they would rather keep trying to get near the light through something inpenetrable than consider another, roundabout way?
I am like the mother wasp. I am displaced, yet safe. I can see possibility for thriving, but instead am spooning with what is familiar and still trying to protect my young, rather than risk. Okay, not exactly, but I do resound. Both my boys and Kate are moving to Austin, Texas. How did this come about? Well, that's another story -- one of the myteries and signs of life. I have never been to Texas except to stop at the airport in Dallas, and I have never had a desire to go to a place that doesn't seem curious about me, the PNW, Canada, or anything but itself. And yet. I will go. To visit them and see it through their eyes.
I am like the wasp who is tempted to curl up in the corner with my spouse rather than venture out and be subjected to the elements and certain death. But the slow careful stillness inside is a prolonged certain death -- a death of possibility and adventure. And yet. We only have so much aptitude for the unkown when the rug feels like it's being pulled out from under our feet all around us.
I do venture out, of course. Often right into my back yard. There is a rat back there that is thrilled with my low lying tomatoes and scarlet beans, but leaves the jalepenos. It scampers away when we draw near, and I haven't brought myself to use poison yet. My neighbors use a live trap and I need to talk to them about that possibility, but until I do... the rat feasts and is happy. No conserving of energy and curling up to protect for Ratty -- instead taste everything in sight by taking one bite of each new possibility.
Why do the trees and bushes in my yard keep blooming into October? Amazing. That is something I don't remember and never considered. Don't they know the frost is coming before they can bear fruit? Or will it?
Things grow differently here -- longer, fuller, and prolific. Even my compost surprises me. Was not prepared for the soldier fly larvae that cover the apple peels en mass and make the whole surface pulse with their chomping. When I first saw them upon opening the lid to add new rose stems I froze and was torn between fascination, curiosity and repulsion. At first I thought the whole bin was a failure, until I did some research and learned that they are helpful, not hurtful, morbid as they appear. Okay. I never had those in Alberta. My compost was frozen half the year. Supposedly these larvae break down the bio matter way faster than the heat and I should be grateful.
Life, teaming. And life, not knowing where to get out of the house, shrinking and protecting.
We often find outselves up in the corner, but when we venture out and allow ourselves and others to do what comes naturally, we can be a part of the process of nuturing good soil for the future.
I'm just not sure which pile I'm supposed to be on.
I have the dreams, the great ideas, the stories... just not wanting to scare those near me by venturing out too soon, and not wanting to do it alone.
Wanting to trust.
Listening.
Watching for the open door.
And grateful for the sound of rain on my roof.
No comments:
Post a Comment