Alone

My boss strode into my office this past week, pulling my door shut behind him. Usually when he comes in and shuts the door, it means that we’re getting ready to have a conversation that I’d rather not have: a patron complaint, an employee problem, other bad news that he’s not ready to share with the entire staff. But this time he had an odd smirk on his face as he handed me a post-it note with a number written on it.

“I wanted to let you know that your job position has been upgraded,” he announced. “That number is your new salary.”

It was big. I was shocked. Shocked and ecstatic. I had received a raise, not because everyone was getting one, not because of time served, but solely on the basis of my work. I felt hugely validated, and I wanted to share the news, to celebrate. So I called…nobody.

It’s times like this when I really miss having someone in my life who could be just as excited for this news as I am. Sure, my friends and family would be happy for me, but there is nobody who would “woohoo” and jump around and exclaim, “We HAVE to celebrate! Let’s go have a beer.”

And that’s okay—for now. I still went home and had a beer. Plus, the humungous raise helped to fill the void caused from a lack of “woohooing.”



But as I look towards the future, being alone worries me. I don’t really mind that there’s nobody who can truly revel in my victories. That’s just too self-indulgent and narcissistic. It’s the bad news, the little piece of information on a post-it note that causes everything around you to crumble: that’s what frightens me. Because I don’t know if I’m strong enough on my own to be brave.

The Wonderful Thing about Chiggers

There is nothing quite so striking, inspiring, and wonderful as a meadow packed with wildflowers in full bloom.

 

Except for the chiggers.

I hate them.

They are worse than mosquitoes. At least with mosquitoes, you can see what has just bitten a chunk out of your leg, and you have a chance to possibly smack the life out of the sucker. On the other hand, a chigger seems to have evolved into a mysterious invisible insect that creeps up whatever body part is touching the ground, and appears a day or two later in the form of tiny white bumps on your skin that itch like crazy and take weeks to disappear.

How annoying.

Knowing this, I can choose to either make accommodations to protect myself from the chiggers, or just not go to the meadow at all. But the beauty of the meadow far outweighs the inconvenience of the chiggers, so I spray on the DEET, tuck my pant legs into my socks, and reap the rewards of the meadow.

It’s the same with people. Each of us, even our friends, has an annoying trait or two (or twenty) that can make others wish they had a knife handy to either use on the person in question or themselves. We can either choose not to spend time with these people, or we can make accommodations for their annoying quirks because they are inspiring and wonderful, and our lives would be drab and unfulfilled without them. Lord knows my annoying habits are closer to the twenty-plus range. I’m just thankful that I’ve found friends who can put up with me, chiggers and all.

The Tenacious Hummingbird

There is a feeder outside of my window where I have observed several hummingbirds vying for exclusive rights to the sweet nectar. One will stop to feed and another will show up to challenge its territory. Sometimes they dance around, using the feeder as a barrier between them until one speeds off, closely followed by the second who feels that the feeder is his and his alone. But many times the attacks are so swift and fierce that invariably one of the birds, in their attempt to either spear or avoid being speared, crashes blindly into the window with a resounding thud. The stunned bird usually immediately flies off, a bit sillier in the head for his trouble, probably wondering what that thing was that just blindsided him. But sometimes, like yesterday, the crash is more violent, and the recovery is slow.

I heard the thud, louder than usual, and looked up expecting to see a bird zooming off into the trees, but instead caught a glimpse as it dropped towards the porch. I opened the door to find her on the concrete, and as our eyes locked, she slowly (for a hummingbird) rose in flight, struggling to attain the gutter along the roof. She sat there for a few moments and finally flew off, fully recovered. I wondered if she would just give up on the feeder and find another food source, but a few minutes later she was back, battling with a second hummingbird over food rights. Again, she smashed into the picture window, but this time she hit a section of screening and stuck there as if it were Velcro. Her upturned head and splayed wings pressing against the screen were reminiscent of the way Wile E. Coyote used to fail miserably while trying to catch the Roadrunner, ultimately ending up in a pancaked heap on the ground. I opened the window and nudged at her feet, thinking that maybe her tiny bird claws had become entangled in the screen. She slowly moved first one claw, and then the other, but continued to cling to the screen, recovering from the jolt of the unforeseen crash. She finally flew off, but was back again a few minutes later, again fighting over the feeder. This time when she hit the window, she immediately dropped towards the porch, and I ran to see what had happened. She was on the concrete, lying on her side, unmoving. She’d had a rough day, and this final blindside may have been her undoing. As I moved the porch chair to have a better look, she suddenly gathered herself and flew off into the trees.

The war dance over the feeder didn’t end with her near-demise, but continued through the evening. Sometimes she was able to steal a sip or two before tearing off again, another hummingbird on her tail. Occasionally I would hear a thud and look to see both birds flying towards the trees. I couldn’t help but admire this bird’s tenacity that bordered on obsession. It made me think about how easily I allow myself to give up when the going gets tough, or I get blindsided by unforeseen obstacles. I tend to move off, licking my wounds, deciding that the prize I hoped to attain wasn’t worth all the trouble. But maybe, if I tried just one more time, knowing that the possibility of failure still existed, but deciding to push forward just the same, I might—just might—be rewarded with a taste of sweet nectar.