I’m finally learning to listen to my ‘little voice’ instead of burying its persistent nudges deep in my subconscious mind when I make, and lock onto, a plan that turns out to be stone-cold dumb.
Here’s the thing: the little gazebo in the back of the secret garden is nearly finished. The design goal for the space around it was complicated: surround the new structure with the large and medium fieldstone slabs I’d lifted from other spots around the secret garden. Leave ample space between them to replant my succulents, and other little flowers that enjoyed sun. Oh- and I could even grow lots of perfumed herbs, like basil and lemon thyme!
The plan enchanted me.
Fine. My two strong helpers managed to roughly place each monster around the gazebo. It was hard work. (The dolly’s tires went flat with the weight.) When they were done, I stepped back, happy.
Except for that wretched brain-niggle I tried to ignore.
I’d fallen back into cumulative ‘plant passion’ as quick as that.
It took three days to find my brain.
I woke on the third morning to sketch out which flowers would be beguiling between what stones- but then the exasperated murmur in my brain became a roar. Idiot! Look at the gazebo, and the space around it!
Sighing, I looked. I backed up about thirty feet, studied it again.
And winced.
It was a hard, busy landscape. The planned ambience had definitely tipped toward tough, and was way too complicated.
I’d almost made a really bad mistake.
That afternoon we relocated many of the huge stones to sensible places, like the secret garden entrance, where the new grass there is already balding from too much foot traffic. The rest were banished to the garage. (Later I’ll break them up and use the bits as stepping-stones to access and maintain the redesigned flowerbeds.)
Brain-roar dissipated. Whew! The gazebo, escaping a stony future, felt much lighter. I felt relief. ‘To simplify’ my world meant something again.
****
Other entities stifle their little voices, too, perhaps with more success, to fulfill a dream…
Our labradoodle, Bryn, has aspirations. One, born in early puppyhood, was to catch a squirrel. She’s yipped about the prospect in dreams while her paws twitch furiously. But, like children fantasizing about a wrapped birthday present, the anticipation may be huge, while the reality is often anti-climactic.
It was six a.m. We were walking around the block, when Bryn froze. Ten feet ahead a plump black adult squirrel lay sleeping on the sidewalk, almost completely hidden under a big tree’s ground-level, leaf-heavy tree suckers.
What luck!!
With infinite care, a millimeter at a time, Bryn crept close, then assumed a perfect point. Her respirations doubled, betraying her tremendous excitement. Body rigid, paw up, tail arrow-straight, she pinned that squirrel with her eyes and Held. That. Point, body vibrating, for over five minutes- before I got antsy and tugged at her leash. Forced into action she instantly sprang high into the air, and, positioning her front legs straight down, landed full force on top of the doomed rodent.
Wump!!
It died without protest. Bryn did her circle dance, ecstatic.
Gottcha!
But wait! She stared down at the body.
That was too easy…Huh. Squirrels, for all their bravado, are wusses.
Aren’t they?
Puzzled, she thoroughly sniffed the perfectly intact, stone-dead rodent, then looked high up into the huge tree. Why hadn’t it climbed? Too dumb?
That it might have been dead (her little voice whispered) before she dispatched it- was unthinkable.
She’d killed it.
And so there!
Now squirrels aren’t spared more than a disdainful glance as we do our walks. Been there. Done that.
Bunnies- which squirt out of bushes everywhere- command her full attention.
She’s always leashed as we move along. They boldly sit on lawns just a few feet away, understanding dog-tethers, knowing the odds massively favor cottontails.
Still… (mulls Bryn,) one rabbit might lack decent feet, or sit there, still as stone, distracted by dreams of making love in the bushes…
Luck favors the persistent.
Doesn’t it?
Here’s the thing: the little gazebo in the back of the secret garden is nearly finished. The design goal for the space around it was complicated: surround the new structure with the large and medium fieldstone slabs I’d lifted from other spots around the secret garden. Leave ample space between them to replant my succulents, and other little flowers that enjoyed sun. Oh- and I could even grow lots of perfumed herbs, like basil and lemon thyme!
The plan enchanted me.
Fine. My two strong helpers managed to roughly place each monster around the gazebo. It was hard work. (The dolly’s tires went flat with the weight.) When they were done, I stepped back, happy.
Except for that wretched brain-niggle I tried to ignore.
I’d fallen back into cumulative ‘plant passion’ as quick as that.
It took three days to find my brain.
I woke on the third morning to sketch out which flowers would be beguiling between what stones- but then the exasperated murmur in my brain became a roar. Idiot! Look at the gazebo, and the space around it!
Sighing, I looked. I backed up about thirty feet, studied it again.
And winced.
It was a hard, busy landscape. The planned ambience had definitely tipped toward tough, and was way too complicated.
I’d almost made a really bad mistake.
That afternoon we relocated many of the huge stones to sensible places, like the secret garden entrance, where the new grass there is already balding from too much foot traffic. The rest were banished to the garage. (Later I’ll break them up and use the bits as stepping-stones to access and maintain the redesigned flowerbeds.)
Brain-roar dissipated. Whew! The gazebo, escaping a stony future, felt much lighter. I felt relief. ‘To simplify’ my world meant something again.
****
Other entities stifle their little voices, too, perhaps with more success, to fulfill a dream…
Our labradoodle, Bryn, has aspirations. One, born in early puppyhood, was to catch a squirrel. She’s yipped about the prospect in dreams while her paws twitch furiously. But, like children fantasizing about a wrapped birthday present, the anticipation may be huge, while the reality is often anti-climactic.
It was six a.m. We were walking around the block, when Bryn froze. Ten feet ahead a plump black adult squirrel lay sleeping on the sidewalk, almost completely hidden under a big tree’s ground-level, leaf-heavy tree suckers.
What luck!!
With infinite care, a millimeter at a time, Bryn crept close, then assumed a perfect point. Her respirations doubled, betraying her tremendous excitement. Body rigid, paw up, tail arrow-straight, she pinned that squirrel with her eyes and Held. That. Point, body vibrating, for over five minutes- before I got antsy and tugged at her leash. Forced into action she instantly sprang high into the air, and, positioning her front legs straight down, landed full force on top of the doomed rodent.
Wump!!
It died without protest. Bryn did her circle dance, ecstatic.
Gottcha!
But wait! She stared down at the body.
That was too easy…Huh. Squirrels, for all their bravado, are wusses.
Aren’t they?
Puzzled, she thoroughly sniffed the perfectly intact, stone-dead rodent, then looked high up into the huge tree. Why hadn’t it climbed? Too dumb?
That it might have been dead (her little voice whispered) before she dispatched it- was unthinkable.
She’d killed it.
And so there!
Now squirrels aren’t spared more than a disdainful glance as we do our walks. Been there. Done that.
Bunnies- which squirt out of bushes everywhere- command her full attention.
She’s always leashed as we move along. They boldly sit on lawns just a few feet away, understanding dog-tethers, knowing the odds massively favor cottontails.
Still… (mulls Bryn,) one rabbit might lack decent feet, or sit there, still as stone, distracted by dreams of making love in the bushes…
Luck favors the persistent.
Doesn’t it?