September 3 • 2024
The last time I was here (February 29th of this year), I was restless, writing about falling back into the waiting arms of strangers = one of those trust exercises 😳, needing to leap, but not like people in squirrel suits jumping off cliffs.
Anyway, I was feeling pretty squirrely.
What does squirrely mean?
Squirrely is a slang term meaning eccentric, flighty, or slightly odd, as in There was something squirrely about the way the suspect gave his alibi.
- dictionary.com
Yes, like that, except without the need for an alibi.
My daughters will attest to this as back in Pennsylvania, this squirrely energy would sometimes result in a big-ass bonfire in our back yard. We had a sweeping back yard with many trees. Branches were always falling from wind and storms. Sometimes I'd get struck, like lightning in a way, and go out and start a roaring fire in the middle of the day. This was not a let's make s'mores fire. Clearly it was the outer manifestation of my turbulent insides.
Claire, help me carry this old dresser out. It's falling apart. Time to burn this baby.
Jesse, lift the other side of this old table. It's done for. Let's burn it.
Or, they'd find their mother in the far back of the yard, pitchfork in hand, tending to a blazing fire and throwing the ball for Chewy, our beloved dog.
Last night I felt a tad squirrely.
But now I live in Southern California. I don't make fires. California, home of the stunning Pacific Ocean, canyons, redwoods, and raging wildfires. With darkness cooling things down, I went out into the backyard (postage stamp) and moved (more like muscled) the wobbly garden table and dusty pots to a different location, raked leaves fallen from the dry lemon and mulberry trees, + enjoyed an ice cold beer under the smattering of stars when it was all done.
I'm back here, all these months later.
Every day I make a list because I like lists.
Today's list included:
Write a blog, it can be really short, about nothing special.
Part of my restlessness has to do with not showing up here. Simply connecting with you, dear reader. Even if it's just one, that is one more than if I didn't share. Waiting for something special or magical to strike ain't happening. Write about the dog. Or the way my girls still laugh when they remember me like a crazy woman at the bonfire. Write about how you can't believe this is a razor-thin election. Or don't write about that. Write about the woman who walks in the mornings when you're walking Daisy, the new dog. How she's bent over looking at the road, and yet, she's out there pumping her arms and moving. Write about how it feels to have another birthday coming up. The privilege of it. And ticking of the clock of it.
Squirrels, leaping, bonfires, art, clearing the clutter, writing, walkers.
It's a wide net, this being alive.
love,
b
