JUGGLING BALLOONS

 DID YOU EVER TRY TO KEEP A BUNCH OF BALLOONS IN THE AIR? We used to play at birthday parties, a kind of juggling where someone would pull back on the knot of a balloon to launch it. Propelled by its own elasticity and tension, it would rise quickly, maybe to the ceiling, and then slowly descend. The trick was to keep it from sinking all the way to the floor, and whoever was closest would bat it back up. The more the merrier—more people, more balloons, more colors. We would try to keep five, six, seven balloons in the air, a slow motion, rainbow hued juggling game. I think we called it, “don't let it touch the ground,” something creative like that. I can still see the translucent colors, hear the soft, musical plunk of the batting of the balloons. Sometimes we'd see a rhythm, an order—as one balloon rose, others would sink, but size and shape and power of the launch would each affect the speed of various balloons.

 

 I think of those balloons these days when I have so many in the air. A couple of green ones, which are my home and my yard, a sunny yellow one for my friendships, a somber blue one for work (perhaps the most complex one, with smaller, multicolored balls on the inside for the separate rhythms of my working life: reading, writing, teaching, paperwork, meetings—all moving in different patterns and speeds), a red one for my family, an orange one for bills, a white one for exercise and health, a couple of luminous ones for special things like art and spirituality. If I consider just one balloon, the game seems easy. After all, the bills are each only due once a month; I teach one class three days a week, the other two days; I only clean house before major holidays, two—maybe three times a year. On its own, each balloon sinks slowly. But considering them all together, the pace becomes frenzied. Is it any wonder I lose track? I must think I exist in couple of parallel universes. Why else do I (embarrassingly often) find that I've double booked. “Sure, we can all paint the house on Sunday.” “Why yes, I'm free on the 20^th. for dinner at your house. I'll bring dessert.” If I'm lucky, I will notice the double booking before Saturday the 19^th. What's almost worse is when I hit a balloon into the air and simply lose track. Last weekend I got an email from my sweet friend, Joanne. Do I have time for lunch or a coffee visit? “Of course I do!” I typed back from my home computer. “I just need to peek at my conference schedule. I'll let you know when I can meet as soon as I get to the office tomorrow.” I even starred her message so I could find it easily when I opened my email again. I drove to town, doing my best to keep those balloons in the air—planning my week's assignments and my Monday lecture as I walked to campus. I made lists, reviewed concerns, and gathered colors and scents. I passed a small flock of fat, grey and white sparrow-shaped birds. They had collected in a leafless tree growing very close to a brick wall. I tried to take their picture, but they got suspicious when I stopped and fumbled in my bag for my camera, and I found myself focusing on empty branches. Moments later, in the amphitheater next to the retention pond, I saw a hawk tearing apart its prey—pulling pieces with its beak. It too, shunned an audience, and flew with its victim to another flat rock several yards away each time I pulled out my camera. In the end, all the pictures were blurry, and I went on to work. Mondays are always full of activity, and I was tired when I found myself walking back through the park at the end of the day. The hawk had fled.

 Thursday I was making yogurt and happened to think fondly of Joanne. “It's a good thing,” I thought “that we're getting together soon.” I poured the heated milk into the yogurt maker. “Wait,” I thought. “I don't think I got back to her about when I had time to visit.” I went to check my email, and found the stars had long since sunk to the bottom of my inbox. I searched, and found her message from (gasp!) nine days ago.

Luckily, my friend has a generous spirit, and charitably overlooked my confusion. We had a lovely potluck lunch in my office. She supplied the PBJ; I brought a pasta salad. She kindly accpeted my apologies and I gratefully accepted her forgiveness.

Juggle beauty; Pass the PBJ; Blessed Be.

Bless the Beasts--Even Predators

Purple has come to Birdland in the Irises and Sweet Rocket. My once-a-month mowing plan has already had benefits. I found a Redbud sapling in the tall grass, which would surely have been mowed over in the old days. Yesterday, we toured the gardens of Japan House with our friend, Susan, and came away inspired, hoping to bring a little of the spirit of the tea garden and dry garden to Birdland. What a lovely, fragrant, and informative walk.

But these peaceful musings were interrupted this morning. I was measuring coffee into the percolator basket, and happened to see Ursula cavorting outside the kitchen window. Now, I love my puppy, but I brought her to Birdland for a specific position, as an apprentice to Isis. At Birdland, everyone has to do a little bit of work to make this a farm, and Isis, the Lionhearted, is the defender of Chickens, but she is 14 years old, and, let’s face it; she won’t be around forever. She is failing in many ways. She is as deaf as I am, and sometimes would rather sleep in the sun than defend her home. She deserves a tranquil retirement. The plan was for her to teach Ursa the ropes. Isis, my yellow lioness, and Ursula, my black bear cub, would protect their realm.

I pause between spoonfuls to see what my puppy is playing with. She is crouched down (not in pounce posture, but with rump up, tail wagging, head extended up in a playful manner). I step forward to see who she is greeting—and drop my spoon, knocking over the basket and spilling coffee because her new friend is…a Coyote!

I run outside and the coyote is clearly confused, pacing back and forth on the edge of the field. Isis, in her dotage, seems to be taking cues from Ursula instead of leading the attack. And Ursula has probably already given the posture of submission. (Hi! Please don’t hurt me! I just want to play! Want to play? Do you? Please don’t hurt me! I’m harmless! Look—here is my belly; here is my throat! I’m harmless!) Ursula looks back at me and jumps for joy. My presence apparently indicates approval of her game. Maybe I’ll even join in the fun!

I advance toward the interloper, and she retreats a little, but not much. I’m in my socks and robe, and the grass is still wet with dew. The canine signals are all mixed up. The dogs want to play, the Coyote wants breakfast of chicken and eggs. The four of us do a strange quadrille. I shout and wave my arms. “Seriously?” says Ms. Coyote, eyeing the dogs inquisitively. I begin walking, then running towards her, and the dogs run too, tails wagging. I reach the edge of the bean field, and Madam Coyote stays about 20 feet from me. When I stop, she sits, waiting for me to go away. When I press forward, she gets up leisurely and strolls toward the meadow. We cross all the way to the grass waterway in this fashion, where she lies down, biding her time. “What fun!” says Ursula.

Where is my lion? Where is my bear? My wet socks are now icy, and not much protection against last year’s corn stubble. I realize I’m going to have to signal to everyone that this is not a game, and I suddenly run, yelling—Braveheart style—toward the coyote, my arms windmilling. The dogs lope along after me. The Coyote retreats some, grudgingly. However, the herd of deer I hadn’t noticed before at the back edge of the field starts, and runs for the woods. Imagine a middle-aged woman in her socks and nightclothes running across the field. Of course she’s going to trip. Of course she must then get up and run again so the Coyote doesn’t interpret her fall as the posture of submission. Eventually we reached the edge of the meadow, but I’m not sure we got our message across. When I finally turned back, she was lying casually just beyond the field. I walk back, thinking I might just keep the chickens cooped up today. Thinking about building scarecrows with pinwheel heads and flopping arms to stand watch at the edges of the yard.

Respectable Coyote, I honor your place in the web of life. If not for you and your fellow predators, we would surely be over-run by voles and moles and rats and even cute little bunnies. But can’t you find plenty of those in yonder meadow? Can we agree to respect each other’s territory?

Run in Beauty; Hunt in Peace; Blessed Be.

Mary Lucille Hays lives in Birdland near White Heath. She is interested in the balance of nature.