The Mystery of Time

I've put together another deep-thought blog entry this week. For whatever reason, philosophical notions swim between my ears and sometimes writers just need to get them out.

The Mystery of Time

  

By, 

Jennifer E. Miller

Springtime brings an array of color to the otherwise drab landscape of an evaporating winter snow. Green stems poke through the earth and matted grass straightens its posture. The leaves on trees form ever so slowly, twisting and unraveling themselves to transform the brown branches into silky green bushels.

My favorite part of spring is when my garden irises bloom. Their sharp, pointed leaves appear first, followed by the bulges of the buds, tipped with color. Finally, they emerge completely, bathing my garden with rich colors and shapes.

From a philosophical approach: what causes the irises to bloom and unveil on a particular day? How do they know when to appear each year and when to stop blooming and curl back into hibernation mode? It’s strange and mysterious, how plants know when to do their thing.

My irises only bloom late spring and into early summer. Their blossoms are short-lived but it’s a tidbit of the season where I enjoy stopping and admiring their beauty. I often wonder if the reason is a higher conscience telling me to slow down, and enjoy the moment, because the next seasonal phase will arrive soon.

This reasoning makes sense. Once the irises, and other flowers, are done for the season, I turn my attention to planting my vegetable garden. As I monitor its progress, there’s weeding, keeping birds away, and watching for pest infestations. Tasked with gardening duties, there isn’t as much time to admire the flowers.

Which brings me to another observance. What is time? Dictionary.com’s first listed definition of time is “the system of those sequential relations that any event has to any other, as past, present, or future; indefinite and continuous duration regarded as that in which events succeed one another.” That was a mouthful, let’s read it again in a shortened version: “the system of sequential relations that any event has to any other; an indefinite and continuous duration as which events succeed one another.” The phrase that stands out is “the relation [of] events.” Taking the time, or stopping to reflect, and admire my irises, perhaps provides the awareness to shift focus next on my vegetable garden. To the birds, flowers and budding trees are signals to nest. These are examples of how events relate to one another.

The “sequential relation [of] events” correlates to anyone, but perhaps we forget to notice it. As humans, we generally observe nature, rather than take part in it. We, many times, simply see and expect the return of growth and routine of seasons. The signs of nature are cues. Cues and clues to the purpose of anything and everything in the mystery of time. 

Being A Mother

Being A Mother

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

What does it take to be a mother? Do you need a child? Or does taking care of someone qualify?

Growing up, a child’s mother feeds, nurtures, and consoles. A mother is who we run to with a problem, an injury, or just a hug. A mother is who we bond with first, our first teacher, and our first love. She raises us and releases us into the world with the skills and advice they provided. And then, one day, we experience being the mom.

Women become mothers differently. Whether naturally, adoption, step or foster parenting, it doesn’t matter. When your child cries, they run to you for a hug full of love and comfort that they know is always tucked away in mother’s arms.

What about non-biological role models? A latchkey child who spends time at a friend’s house after school where the friend’s mother provides a caring and supportive presence, perhaps brings safety and comfort. She acts as a step-in mother for a few hours each day. If this scenario went on for a long time, a bond would develop. She is a mother to another, in a sense.

After a car accident, an ER nurse may hold the hand of a child while the rest of staff attends to his critically injured parents. She is doing her job, but in that moment, isn’t she being a mother? The same concept can be applied to a teacher who consoles the crying student because of a bully: a temporary mother role.

Does being a mother only refer to taking care of a child? There may be a day when we take care of our mother. It could simply be taking care of her after a surgery or doing household chores that have become too exhausting. Does the (adult) child who looks after her mother need to be a parent herself to master this task? After all, many non-relatives are employed as caretakers. The role of mothering can default to a variety of people.

All these thoughts ran through my head as I stood next to my ailing grandmother in the hospital, a few years ago. Unable to feed herself, I spoon-fed her soup. I dipped the spoon into the steaming cafeteria-white bowl of broth, and slowly brought it to her lips as she slurped it from the utensil’s concave. Soon, my eyes began to tear up and tears leak out. I thought about how I had fed my own child this way as an infant, how my mother fed me, and how my grandmother helped with this task with all three of us. Now, here I was, reversing the natural sequential order: I was mothering my grandmother. I was being a mother.

The roles of mothers clearly extend beyond just offspring. It shouldn’t be underestimated how other special women hold a near and dear place in our hearts. A neighbor, teacher, aunt, or friend’s mother can provide a level of support or love that is needed. But when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, we have a main mother role; usually that’s biological. It’s that mother who we bond with first, our first teacher, and our first love. That special woman who reared us into the person we are today. Happy Mother’s Day.

Bear Bells and Buck Knives

Bear Bells and Buck Knives

By, 

Jennifer E. Miller

Bushwhacking through the wilderness in search of huckleberries brings the possibility of a bear encounter; a terrifying prospect to anyone but, in particular, to children. Such was the case with my seven-year-old daughter, Gia.

“I’m scared. And why isn’t Daddy coming?” she said.

“Daddy can’t come this time. But don’t worry, there are ways to protect us,” I assured her.

I had done internet research and discovered various ways to fend off bears.

One line of non-lethal defense is to simple make noise while hiking such as talking or singing. For those who are introverts or not karaoke inclined, a bear bell is another option that alerts wildlife of humanoid presence. Kids love bells and I told Gia she bring every one she owns on our excursion.

After rummaging through her stash of toys and craft supplies, she gathered up some items. She planned to string a large Christmas bell to her shoe, clip smaller craft-sized ones to a lanyard, and found two musical instruments. One was a shaker type with a dowel-shaped handle and a cluster of bells on the other end. The second instrument was a tambourine which she declared had enough bell-like quality to ward of predatory wildlife.

The preferred line of defense, according the internet, is bear spray. This is basically high-zoot mace capable of reaching a distance of thirty feet or so. Gia was more at ease with a physical defense against the attacking bear. We headed out to the local sporting goods store to purchase a can.

The sales person was a middle-aged man with a protruding gut and a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth. I inquired as to the location of bear spray.

“You mean you want a 12-gauge shotgun.”

Gia skipped off to look at something that caught her eye.

“No just bear spray, please.” The sales person shrugged and led me to the section with the bear spray. His thick boots clonked on the tile floor. The cans were larger than I expected.

“How about a holster of some sort for this thing?”

“Don’t have those.”

When he spoke the only part of his face that moved were his lips; everything else was stiff, like his personality. I wondered how that was possible.

“How am I supposed to tote it?”

He shrugged again as he gnawed his toothpick.

I thought out loud, “Well, I suppose I could take a plastic cup, drill some holes near the top opposite each other, and thread a narrow rope through them, and attached it to my belt loop.”

“Now, that’s McGuyver-ing it!” At least he smiled. I was beginning to have doubts he possessed any personality.

“I’d also like to purchase a bear bell,” I said.

The smile was whisked away and the shrug returned, this time with a crotchety, “Mmm. Don’t have those either. But we have a nice selection of 357 magnums. If you’re not into shooting anything, the noise will sure scare off a bear in a hurry.”

Before I could respond, the phone rang and he excused himself to answer it.

Since, Gia wasn’t interested in sharing her arsenal of bells, my plan was to buy a bear bell for myself. I would have to do without. Oh well, I thought. The chances of a bear encounter were pretty slim anyway.

A head of bouncing blonde hair came barreling around the corner. “Mommy, look what I found! Daddy has a big one like this on his boat.”

She showed me a miniature marine horn. The sporting goods store had stocked baskets full of them for boating season. They were next to the cash register, the life jackets, the kayaks, and probably even the camping food.

It gave me an idea. Internet research said to make a lot of noise, like yelling and clapping, to ward of bears. Fog horns are loud. It should, in theory, get the job done. I gathered the spray and the horn and walked to the counter.

The salesman had just hung up the phone and the dirty telephone cord swayed over the edge of the glass countertop. I handed my items to him and dug out my wallet from my handbag.

“I figured you was hiking up a mountain when you asked for bear spray. What’s with the horn?”

“I thought this could be that loud noise to scare off the bear. Like you guessed, I’m not into shooting things.”

His eyebrows shot up in the air with surprise.

“You’re coming up with some pretty creative work-arounds.” He almost sounded impressed.

“You don’t leave me with much choice. It would be easier if you just carried what I need.”

“Mmmm.” Back to the crotchety grump face.

I paid and as I headed for the door I heard the salesman holler, “Donny, move a basket of those fog horns to the hunting section.” I smiled. I guess I did leave an impression.

We arrived home and I couldn’t locate a plastic cup to McGuyver into a bear spray holster. I sighed and looked around the pantry for a viable alternative. I found a foam beer bottle insulator. You know those things that keep beer cans cool, same idea but shaped for bottles. The size wrapped perfectly around the bear spray can and I secured it to my belt with a reusable rubber twisty tie. The bear spray easily slid in and out of that thing. This would work! I proudly showed it to Gia to ease her fears.

“Hey, Gia, look. Mom has bear spray, you have your fog horn and bells, so we are all set to pick berries tomorrow. Let me show you how to use this in case something happens to me.”

Gia was attentive and repeated the instructions for bear spray use: pull the safety tab, aim slightly lower than the bear’s head, and spray for five seconds.

“Do you feel safe now?”

Her little face dropped, a frown forming, and crocodile tears silently leaked out again.

“Why are you upset?”

“What if we have to use it?”

“We hope we don’t, but in case we do, it’s there. Like insurance.”

“What’s insurance?”

“Nevermind.” For a moment I forgot she was seven. “Look, I know you are worried, but we have done our best to prepare. Let’s go to bed and be rested for tomorrow, okay?”

I could tell she wanted to forget this whole huckleberry idea. Nevertheless, I helped her into her PJs and get ready for bed. I switched of her light and sat down on her bed. She snuggled her favorite teddy bear as I rubbed her back, and soon she fell asleep.

I exhaled in relief and climbed into bed, switched off the lamp, and went to sleep.

At approximately 1:17 am, I was jolted awake by a blood curling scream. I whisked myself out of bed and dashed down the hallway. Gia was flailing her arms about and kicking her legs.

“Don’t eat me! Don’t eat me!” she screamed.

I knew exactly what her dream entailed. For a moment, I considered letting the bear chase her and hopefully she’d remember to use all her defense tools we discussed. Nah, I’ll have pity and wake her up.

“Gia! Wake up. It’s only a dream!” I said, as I gently touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes, which were wide with terror. I grabbed a tissue and wiped her face, which had collected tiny beads of sweat. She sobbed while catching her breath and wrapped her skinny little arms around me. I returned her hug.

After her heart rate stabilized, she shared her nightmare.

“It was a big bear. He ran on two legs. And he chased me! I dropped my bucket of huckleberries, which I know was going to make you sad. He we reaching to grab me with his great big long claws when you woke me up.”

I smiled to myself. A bear running on two legs.

“Where was mommy in your dream? You didn’t go into the woods by yourself did you?”

“No. The bear ate you. Then he can after me.”

I gulped. “Oh. Well, did you try clapping, throwing rocks, or using the fog horn?”

She began sobbing again. “Yes! I tried all those things! You even used your bear spray; nothing worked! I’m scared, mommy. What if none of those things work and the bear still gets us?”

I knew that wouldn’t happen and reminded her that it was only a dream and to return to sleep.

 * * *

Over breakfast Gia seemed more excited. I packed food, water, and berry collecting containers. I strapped the bear spray on and as added security, I slipped a buck knife to my belt. Maybe it was the size of the knife, but Gia stared coldly at me. She had that weepy look on her face again.

“What is it?” I asked. “I have prepared us as best I can. Everything will be fine and we will have fun. What would make you feel safe?”

“If Daddy came with us.”

Copyright 2018 by Jennifer E. Miller