5. The cavity of my brain previously used for “work related things” is now unexpectedly freed up for other much slower, often more interesting concerns. This is a strange phenomenon I could not possibly have anticipated and cannot adequately explain. Many simple things now transfix me, such as a recent close encounter - verging on mystical - with a hummingbird, as he suddenly appeared hovering about 4 inches from me, literally showed me the whites of his eyes and then disappeared upwards like a Roman candle who knows where. Strangely, I felt privileged by this and to have seen his bib of silvery-grey at such close range. I have experienced such things before, usually when camping but never on a daily basis. I also saw a butterfly unfurl his proboscis like a party-blower last week shifting from skinny leg to leg on an unsteady zinnia and I watched quietly as he drank. I felt my senses melting and completely at peace. I don’t recall ever feeling this way as I was on the phone at work with someone else holding, googling the answer to a question, whispering advice to a co-worker in the background, looking up requests in a second window while I was put on hold myself and waving people into my office who were waiting in person for my assistance all at the same time …
An artist friend of mine who never had a great deal of money always used to say that no matter what, he always made sure that his soap and tea were of the best quality that he could afford since they were among his few luxuries and would be used daily. I have never forgotten this sentiment since it struck a chord with my own measured, Capricornian (but not completely stoic) sensibilities.
A few Christmases ago, Frasier spoiled me by presenting me with loose-leaf Vanilla tea made with Assam tea leaves. The whole ritual and build-up to the tea drinking itself is an exotic event and the scent when the boiling water plummets through those leaves is ambrosial, amber, vanilla steamed heaven in a (porcelain) cup. I now find that it is the only tea that I really enjoy and will squinge in many other ways in order to purchase. (The tea is not being flown in by leer jet by the way, just a lot more expensive than my traditional Tetley’s. I am also haunted by a sneering tea sommelier who once told me in a special voice that tea bags were made from the sweepings off the floor and did I know that?)
Like a fool, I believed that if I survived my sons’ teen years I would be assured of a (relatively) worry-free life which I might congratulate myself for later and bask in the afterglow of getting something right.
I now know this basking-thing will never happen.
There is not going to be a time when I do not worry.
Like other hip parents, as I foam quietly at the mouth with anxiety I have become the master of the mock-casual 3 am text:
ME: Hey, what’s up? Haven’t heard from you in a bit.
SON 1 or 2 (eventually, often days later) Right? How are you?
Which as any savvy parent knows is one of those generated, easily spotted responses (intended for those who are just way TOO busy to think of a word) and conveys slightly less than nothing.
