I believe it was my paternal grandfather who first recognized, when I was a small child, that I treat inanimate objects as if they have feelings like people. That applies to so many things, not just growing things like trees, but houses, cars, musical instruments, or art, for example. On my way home from PetSmart yesterday, with my tiny new car loaded down with 150 pounds or so of animal food and cat litter, I looked up to see my previous car in the lane next to me. I recognized her immediately, even before I saw her unmistakeable, rather large (gas tank sized) dimple where my man tipped his motorcycle onto her in the driveway last year. I wanted to reach out and touch the car, and ask her how she has been since last winter. I know she is at risk, as I'm fairly certain I was behind her Sunday before I went to the beach, when her teenage driver was swerving all over the lane (probably texting). But it is just inappropriate to lean out the window and reach at someone else's car.
There are times I wish I had been of an age to write things like this back in the late sixties, at the height of hippie culture. It would have been fun to postulate with impunity about concepts like vibes and auras. To speak of such things now doesn't fit with my science-based education. But at risk of being branded a lightweight among my peers, I would have enjoyed exploring the idea of the inherent energy in everything that surrounds us. We are all made of the same stuff, after all. We are just the lucky pieces of stardust who developed complex language and philosophy, and we will be recycled into many other things before our atoms are through. Perhaps when the labor-intensive gardening season ends, and I face cooler weather and quiet nights alone in the fall, I will try again to expand my dilettante's understanding of everything that could explain my instincts, from string theory down to the basics of the conservation of energy. Until then, I will keep acting as I always have, since Gramps saw whatever it was I had done, apologizing to furniture I trip over before I realize what I'm doing, or petting a car I have bonded with, or saying goodbye to my house when I leave it for extended periods.
My favorite neighbor came over for a few minutes today, for the first time in a couple months. I got to show off all that we've done, remodeling inside, and how much the Park has changed since the last time she was here. The deck was entirely empty when last she saw it, and now it is so beautiful. Giving the tour makes me want to have another garden party. My term as president ends next Wednesday. Maybe I can use that as an excuse to have a few people over, to unwind and celebrate turning the reins over to the next board. That sounds wonderfully cathartic.
No photos today. I'm too deep into my own oddness. No cameras allowed there.
Oooooo-eeeeee-oooooo.
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