An addendum to the first story

My sister-in-law read the first story and sent me an email saying the image of a deer beating me about the head and neck with spindly extremities made her laugh out loud.  Which only proves the point that being eaten by a bear would bring more honor from the grieving relatives.

I politely refrained from writing in my response that she was sipping wine as she read, no wonder she laughed.

But I digress:  She also tweaked my take on the early morning driveway stand down with a doe (which sadly hasn’t had enough time to ferment into a legend about how I took on a four-point buck with my bare hands and a newspaper).  Maybe the deer was just sending me a message that I needed to take action.  Could just be that the deer was my spirit animal.

Fortunately, I’d had two glasses of wine at dinner so I was receptive to the thought.

According to my SIL’s mother, when a deer appears it is a reminder from the universe/God to be kind to yourself. ( SIL’s note to me: Yes, that means ignoring the inner voice of doubt!)  Native Americans believe deer guide you to a destination or action.

I did a little Googling of the idea and found that the Celts thought deer could cross over to the faerie realm and had magical powers.  The Greeks equated deer with Artemis.  To the Chinese the deer is a symbol of abundance.  Now I’m not sure we’ve got faeries in the woods behind the house, but I do know that a google search can take you into many, many fanciful realms.

But the idea that it wasn’t just a stare down with a displaced animal and instead was a  sign from the larger universe to move ahead and be kind to myself appealed to me on many different levels.  One site suggested adding a deer to your meditation and as you walked with it deeper into the forest you’d actually be going deeper into your soul.  I have enough trouble keeping my mind from making grocery lists when I meditate, so deer hikes will take a little time. I tucked my new knowledge away and went to bed.  Maybe I’d just keep an eye out for what happens next.

I’m back in training mode for the OBX Half Marathon in November.  This would be my third consecutive race at the beach and I’m determined to go into this one with healthy knees and a steady pace.  So I’ve gone back to 30-minute walk/runs twice a week and longer runs on the weekend.

Yesterday was a glorious morning to run — in Laura’s book.  It was cloudy and cool with no hint of sun peeking through the cloud cover.  My hands were cold!  This hasn’t happened in months and made me so, so very happy.  I tweaked my route and ran it in the opposite direction than I had two days earlier.

I usually look at the middle distance in front of me, concentrating on the leaves and twigs strewn all over the path after some recent downpours. My mind wanders, I enjoy just being outside and moving.  Then at one point I just had to look over to the right.  No particular reason, just had to look.

There was a deer, up to it’s neck in the bushes, eating leaves off a tree.  It stopped pulling at the branches and looked straight at me until I went past.

Hmmmmm.  Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something — even if it’s only that I should have my camera with me at all times to document these moments.  In any case, I emailed my SIL, mainly to say she could be right.  But I would have to meditate on it a little more.


A start to the story

Roses in Iveagh Gardens, Dublin (not eaten by deer)

I’ve been waffling about this space for months, committing a good bit of maternal fraud along the way.  I go back and forth about how I want to use this space for stories: a daily post to keep the writing habit up?  A lab for stories I want to expand?  Preachy little bits about how I do things so well (which would well and truly be an exercise in writing good fiction)?

And as I waver back and forth  between the choices, I don’t put a word on the screen.

I hang out with a lot of writers.  Writers who have found their process (finding your own process is an oft-repeated line at writer’s conferences) through their own trial and error.  Writers who have devised carrot-stick methods to create the perfect ratio of action and reward to come up with a finished product. Writers who have learned to accept that it’s ok to try something only to learn that while the overall effort might not work, there are bits that do.  Writers who don’t wait for “inspiration” but have immense faith that showing up, putting words on the screen brings the story to life.

There are living/breathing/typing examples of working writers all over the place in my life, but I’ve stubbornly decided that I’m different so I keep holding out until I hit on the type of blog posts that will make for a perfect, always cohesive whole.  Preferably without any mental sweat in the creation.

Then there’s the maternal fraud.  Lovely Daughter graduated from college in May with no real firm vision of what her next steps will be.  I do my best to encourage her to look around, to experiment,  After all, I ask, how can you know what you want to do without trying?

In other words, my pretty, smart, 22-year-old daughter, you go try new things, but in the meantime I’m going to waffle and not do anything until I figure out what’s perfect.

Yes, I recognize the sheer hypocrisy in telling anyone to try, try, try and refusing to do the same.  But that doesn’t mean action.  I’ve been edging closer to filling this space.  Shifting from thinking I want to do something here to admitting that NOT doing anything here is hurting me more than helping.  But still the cursor has blinked on and on and on without words to give the story traction.

Then this morning something clicked.

I went out the side door of the garage to get the newspapers when a flash of brown shot up the strip of lawn between our driveway and the new house next door only to stop just before the sidewalk.  The deer stood there, motionless, giving out that “if I don’t move the human won’t see me” vibe.

Since the greenway behind our house has opened for humans in motion and the building frenzy in our neighborhood has closed in the remaining empty lots, the neighborhood pack of deer seems to have been at a loss.

They still like to scare you silly at dusk or dawn, leaping through the old deer runs that now involve streets and cars and danger to anyone not paying attention.  They still like to nibble at the willows in our backyard or munch on our knockout roses which are decimated and sickly compared to the neighbors’.  (The knockout roses in my care are the only ones NC deer eat, apparently.  And somehow they’ve decided to share them with voles which are protected in this state. )

MDR and I have commented on how there are a couple of deer who’ve decided that humans are not going to hurt them.  They continue to graze along the Greenway pavement, unconcerned, unmoved by the people running or riding by them.

I recognize this deer standing by the sidewalk on this early morning.  She hasn’t moved when I’ve run by her on the greenway.  And she’s not giving up her space on this strip of lawn for the likes of me.

I approach, staring her down, sure she’s going to bolt back down to the woods when I get closer.  But she just coolly watches me as I walk by.  I get to the grass by the curb, bend down to get the paper and look casually over my right shoulder back at the deer.  She’s gone.  Normal behavior, finally.

I stand up fully and turn around and there’s the deer, standing on MY driveway between me and the door, staring me down again.  Think of a horror movie and how the scary thing gets closer with seemingly not movement.

But this is real life.

With a deer.

I consider this.  I look at this skinny deer with her spindly stick legs.  Her ears are pricked forward, eyes on me.  The only bit of her consternation shows in the small heaving of her sides.

Now, I have a friend who lives in the wilds of California’s Sierra Nevadas.  She runs into all manner of wild life in her walks – bear, coyote, pigs (or maybe I imagined that).  Since she has a healthy respect for the potential pain a run in with them would bring she does the smart thing and runs in the opposite direction.  But this deer was between me and my side door. (OK, now that I think about it, I could have gone to the front door and rung the bell, but that would have been ridiculous.)  Being hurt by a bear or coyote has a weird sort of honor about it.  Me?  I was facing a deer that could have attacked (I’ve seen the You Tube videos) with spindly legs slapping out at me.  And that would not only look silly, it would hurt.

Not to mention the potential for ticks if I tangled with a deer.  Shows me, doesn’t it?  She might not eat me to death, but she’d give me Lyme Disease and I’d have joint pain for the rest of my life.

I wasn’t going to be stared down by a deer.  I looked in her eyes and said, “I’ve got nothing for you. I’m going in now.”

And, breaking the eye contact, I walked past her as she stood there.  I didn’t look back, I walked with great dignity, heart pounding at taking on wildlife and holding my line. As I turned to go in the door, I risked a glance.  She’d lowered her head and was taking a bite of the roses.

It was an adrenaline rush for 6:50 am, I’ll give you that.  Had to tell MDR about it as soon as I got inside then shared with the Lovely Daughter when she came down for breakfast.  (When I went for my run a couple hours later, the same Lovely Daughter saw me off with a “watch out for that deer.”  I think it may stick as a family catch phrase.)

As I told that story of my morning adventure (twice) that voice in my head (the critic, the head cheerleader) said bluntly, “that deer stood for what she wanted, despite the fear.  You can’t stand for something you need to do?” And for a change I didn’t argue with the voice, I could see exactly what it meant: the deer skittered a bit, probably dithered in her head the way I do all the time then ultimately decided to not give away any more ground.

Or at least that’s how I’m going to interpret the stand down at 6:50.

Thus a story was written.  And regular posts will follow.

The why of it

I tell a lot of stories. It’s my nature to wind my way through a narrative, pausing for interruptions now and again then picking up the threads until I get to the end. Some days that end is a strong and sure stop of a paved road. Some days that end is a path that just gets smaller and smaller until it has nowhere else to go.

The stories don’t have to be for an audience; I tell myself a lot of them throughout the day. Some are true, some I wish to be true, but all of them pick up the pace of my heartbeat, bringing me fully into the time, the place, the scent of the story.

For instance, that cow in the very first post.

We were visiting my grandmother’s homeplace in Owenbeg, Sligo place last August. In the Irish, Owenbeg is An Abhainn Bheag, meaning “the little river.” My cousin Margie brought us round to the house where my grandmother grew up. My first time there, in June 1983, it was a two room cottage with a huge kitchen fireplace, in many ways, the place she left in the early 1930s.

But now it was expanded, modern, more. The laundry still went out on the line in the brilliant sunshine, but the place shone bright, new and I was certain the machine that washed those clothes on the line did it efficiently, quietly. Another cousin had inherited the homeplace from his mother, my grand aunt, but while he and his family were in residence, they weren’t home just then.

In a whirlwind of conversation, Margie Tuffy took us round the house, knocking on the available doors, showing us the place. Along the back of the house was a 10 foot high privet hedge about five feet out from the exterior wall. Margie told us that the field beyond the hedge was let to local farmers, but through the thick greenness you could hear a rustling. Not ominous, more curious in nature.

We walked to look in the kitchen window and Margie could show me how the room was the size of the room I’d been in, but no longer dark and closed in, rather light and airy. Turning around there was a large hole cut into the privet – about two feet in diameter – directly across from the window. I thought, idly, that it was to relieve the green that encompassed the view of the person doing dishes.

The rustling came again and we peered in through the hole. And the cow peered back, impassive, unimpressed by these chatty Yanks coming through and disturbing the peace, thank you very much.

And while I took a photo of the cow, what you can’t see is the bright crisp sun over our heads, the laughter in our conversation, the connection to the place my grandmother called home for just a short while in a long life.

So I’ll be looking for these stories in the holes in the privet hedge, capturing them as best I can. Spinning the tales I need to tell, finding the ends of the roads be they neat or rough or green.