Cotton handkerchiefs and other delights

Posted on November 12, 2024 by maddyruthwalker

On Thursday, two days after the US election, I cycled to my volunteer gig at the craft store. Perhaps one of the last good-weather days for bike riding. No rain, trees shedding their remaining coloured leaves, a bright blue sky. The wind rushed into my face as I flew along the bike path, and my eyes started to water, which set forth a gush of tears because grief is like that. It sits inside you—a tight, impacted ball, unexpressed—and then some external trigger unfurls it like a flag. Eyes watering from the wind or a song or a television show. I cried all of the way, tears streaming down my cheeks, salt drops flying back into the wind that gave birth to them. I was happy to find in my purse a ruby-red cotton hanky to mop up the tears. Double delight.

I locked my bike then stopped at the Parsonage Cafe and waited for my order, a latte and warmed blueberry muffin with butter. The latte came first, and I asked about the muffin because I thought maybe they’d forgotten about it. The friendly counter guy said, “oh, it takes a few minutes because they warm muffins in the oven.” I smiled. When I got to the craft store, I turned on the lights and heat, cashed in, then took the warm muffin out of the brown paper bag. Two halves fell open, steaming. Salty butter had melted into the crumb to mix with soft, warm blueberries. I was expecting a little plastic tub of butter and a plastic knife, so what a delight. Thank you for doing it, delightfully, the old way. Like cotton handkerchiefs instead of Kleenex.

During my shift I met interesting people, as I do every week. Two women came in, one with an unusual looking buggy, not a baby buggy, but a pet buggy. Two zipped, mesh compartments were stacked on a wheeled frame. She came up to me immediately. “I have my two cats with me, is that okay?”

“Of course. I love cats. I’ll come to meet them.”

“This is Ronny, and this is Jimmy. Jimmy is a bit shy; you can see he’s at the back.” I could see two lean black cats—brothers I determined later—through the fine mesh. Ronny sniffed the hand I lay against the fabric. Jimmy just watched with golden eyes.

The two women browsed the store, staying a good long time. Other customers came in and out. A few years ago, I would have fretted over it. I actually didn’t know what the store policy was regarding animals. Was it okay that cats were in the store? Did other customers have allergies? Did somebody dislike cats? Were we breaking a rule? But I didn’t say a thing, and I didn’t worry. (I recognized, later, the delightful absence of worry). I just listened to the lovely chatter that fills the store and makes me want to come back and work another Thursday, even as I constantly wonder if it’s the right volunteer gig for me.

Women (mostly) talking about life and about their crafts and projects, oohing and ahhing over the treasures they find. Often chatting with me about what they’re working on, a crone stick or a pocket skirt or an appliqued cat pillow. Or they tell me whom they are buying materials for—a daughter learning to knit, a grandchild who loves stickers.

The cat owner talked with her friend, but she also spoke periodically to her cats. “Oh, Jimmy, what a nice stretch you’re having!” And “You boys are so good, so patient.” When she came to pay, she had a bag bulging with Christmas foam shapes. “I’m giving these to our craft leader at the church; she’ll have the children making wonderful things.” I don’t know for sure, but I hazard a guess that she is one of those revered creatures, a childless cat lady, the most generous and loving people around. Delight!

After my shift, I cashed out, set the alarm, turned the key. I unlocked my bike, then looked up at the darkening sky. It was only 4:15, but daylight savings is over and we’re in for early nights. I looked at my bike light and wondered how to turn it on. Somehow, I had forgotten. It had been months since I’d used it, not needing extra light during my summer rides. I tried a few things, but nothing worked, so I walked half a block to North Park Bikes. Leaving my bike just outside, I went into the store’s lower level where they do repairs. A friendly guy with a ginger beard asked if he could help. “I’m kinda embarrassed, but I’ve forgotten how to turn on my bike light.”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, just bring it in, we’ll figure it out.” I wheeled it in, and the first thing he tried (keep steady pressure on the + button) worked. “Thank you sooo much!” A simple, delightful thing: help asked for and freely given.

At the end of the day, I had many delights to gather (I have been inspired by Ross Gay’s Book of [More] Delights since I finished it a few days ago; it’s just as good as the first book). Tears released into the wind, cotton hanky, butter melting into a warm muffin, sweet customers, absence of worry, childless cat ladies, help with my bike.

Kinship with Animals

Posted on June 3, 2020 by maddyruthwalker

My friend Nancy and I walk along the streets of her leafy neighbourhood. Suna, her little Shiba Inu, sniffs the shrubs and grass as we go. I notice a doe standing in the shadows a stone’s throw away.

“Look.”

“Yes, sometimes the mother deers think that Suna is a fawn, and they follow her because they think I’ve stolen their baby.”

I laugh at this endearing testament to the deep protective instinct mothers feel. Sure enough, this doe looks with interest at Suna, a plush fox-like dog with a curlicued tail. Her coat is the same colour as a fawn’s—I can see why the doe might wonder. We continue to walk, and I notice the doe has started to follow. Soon, she increases her pace and is very close behind us, an avid look in her eyes as she stares at Suna. Indeed, she seems determined to get close to the dog, and we walk a little faster to put some distance between us. The doe canters elegantly around parked cars on her slender matchstick legs, moist black snout and huge almond eyes leading the way. Nancy and I are alarmed. Might the doe attack us to get closer to what she believes is her offspring?

“Let’s go,” says Nancy, and we begin to run down the middle of the quiet street, Suna in tow. After a block or so, we slow down, and I see we have finally lost the doe. I feel strangely thrilled by this brush with an animal. To see close up her ardency—the quiver of her black nose, her flicking tail and tall twitching ears. To empathize with her desire to rescue something she thinks is hers. I wonder what would have happened if we had simply stopped. Perhaps the doe wanted nothing more than to make contact with Suna, to sniff and nuzzle her. She would quickly realize, “this is not my fawn.”

It’s been a fortnight of animal encounters. About two weeks ago, a nest cradling six or so baby robins in our yard was the epicenter of a grand battle between parent robins and several crows determined to capture and devour the babies. The bush is outside our bedroom window, and early in the mornings, we could hear the desperate chirping of the parents, the caw-caw of their opponents, the tiny cheeps of the chicks, and the rustling of the bush where the nest was located. It seemed that every day, one or two fewer chicks resided there. And soon there were none. Now the nest sits unoccupied, a bowl of fallen petals. I was angry at the crows and heartbroken for the robins, while at the same time recognizing how sentimental I was being about the ways of nature.

A few days ago when I visited my favourite Arbutus tree in our local park, I witnessed two Great Horned Owls sitting about six metres away from me on a branch overhanging the Colquitz River. Astounded at my luck, I crouched on the riverbank, one hand resting on the smooth bark of the Arbutus, and observed them for several minutes. They looked calmly at me. I had a staring contest with the one on the left, and she was the first to blink and look away. The fellow on the right swivelled his large tufted head in a complete rotation. My kin.

Then there was a Cedar Waxwing sighting as we walked through a grassy meadow from the mall to our house a couple of days ago. His head a golden crested helmet, the vermilion patch on his wing like a talisman. I didn’t identify him at the time; when we got home, I got out the Golden Field Guide to the Birds of North America and found his picture. An old childhood memory surfaced: Our family lived in Boston one summer while my Dad did something at Harvard. We rescued an injured Cedar Waxwing, keeping him in a cardboard box. Care and feeding involved an eyedropper. I have a murky feeling that there is a bad ending to that story, involving a cat. My sisters probably remember more than I do.

I’ve had numerous heron and rabbit sightings these past two weeks too, and yesterday morning the insistent mournful cry of a Northern Flicker punctuated my morning meditation. Our neighbour is the lucky one to host the hollow tree where the family lives. He reported today that baby Flicker pokes his head out of the hole a little more each day. This morning a chevron of honking Canada Geese passed over me as I watered the garden. I drank in the sight and the wistful sound, the sound of yearning.

I don’t think there are more animals and birds in our urban environment than there used to be. What has changed is my level of observation. Not working, slowing down, and staying close to home means I notice more of what’s happening around me.

This strong feeling of kinship with all of these animals has affected me. In January, I eliminated animal products from my diet. My bad cholesterol (LDL) has been too high for years. My doctor told me it was genetic and changing my diet would likely not have an effect. I disagreed: I proposed to eat vegan for six months and get my blood tested at the beginning and end of the period. Though at first I missed cream in my coffee and chunks of cheddar with my apples, I’ve grown to enjoy plant based cooking and eating.

It’s easy to tell people you are not eating animal products for health reasons (dietary veganism). How can they argue with that? If you say you’ve chosen this diet because you don’t want to harm animals (ethical veganism), some meat-eaters become uncomfortable and defensive. (I know because I felt this way.) I hate to cause discomfort, yet as I continue into the final month of my experiment, I realize my reasons for not eating animals products are not so simple as they first were.

Yes, I want to be healthier, and I predict my blood test in July will be good news. But I also feel close to my animal family: the owls, the mother deer, the big rabbit who scooted in front of me on the path, the robins, the gorgeous Waxwing, the Flicker, the geese. Even the damn crows. Sure, I know none of those animals is on the menu. But I extend that feeling of kin to the big dairy cows with sad eyes hooked up to milking machines at the Saanich Fair last September. The chickens I imagine stuffed into too-small cages. The lambs my father used to raise on his farm and send to be butchered. My kith and kin, just as much as Joy, our Ragdoll cat lying beside me on the couch is family. I don’t know what I’ll do when this experiment in eating is over. What I do know is that I like this feeling of being connected to all sentient beings.

Fan the embers

Posted on January 14, 2020 by maddyruthwalker

Yesterday I woke, and the world felt flattened out. The white pancake sky dropped beautiful snowflakes, but they were not for me. I felt the cool sheet beside me, the patch of bed our cat Andy used to warm with his furry bulk, kneading magnificently, then laying close beside me purring like a motor.

Andy Carpenter, June 10, 2008-January 2, 2019

Andy died on January 2^nd, and we feel his absence. This morning, everything seemed dark and pointless. The fire inside me was out, just cold ashes. I missed Andy, but it was more than that. It was Australia, Iran, death, war, suffering, the climate crisis.

So, I did what needs to be done. Made coffee. Meditated. Got dressed. Breakfast. I forced myself to walk to the store for some groceries. On the trail through the woods, I didn’t stop to visit my tree, though I waved. I didn’t feel interested in life, didn’t feel my usual excitement about art, nature, friends, poetry.

I should be happy, I thought to myself: I have all of this time, and I don’t have to work until July. What a gift! But I couldn’t conjure up any energy, even though I had slept well. The art/sewing project was a stupid waste of time, and nothing seemed meaningful. I walked briskly, passing dogs cavorting in the snow while their owners chatted. I followed the flowing brown river.

At the store, I chose my items and lined up. The cashier was kind and friendly. She told me she was thinking of making grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch, perfect comfort food for the cold day. I smiled. I drank a cup of Christmas blend from the in-store Starbucks, gazing out of the window at the white sky.

Two men–store employees–sat across from me at separate tables. Each ate his lunch with his cell phone in front of him, scrolling busily as he wolfed down his food. Michael and I share a silly fantasy: we imagine that all of the folks who study their phones in public places are actually receiving instructions from their Masters about what to do next. Or perhaps from one Master. I laughed to myself about this and wished the two guys would put away their phones and have lunch together. Resist the Master!

And all of a sudden, I started to get interested in life again. I had a couple of ideas for “loss,” the next pennant in the series. I left the store and walked quickly home, my backpack bouncing as I strode along the snowy trail.

Was it the brisk walk in the cold, the exercise? Or the friendly interchange with the clerk? Was it caffeine? Humour? Or perhaps the combination of getting out for a walk, being among people, and consuming a psychoactive drug? In any case, I came home, cleaned house, then worked on my project. There is always a spark deep down inside. Sometimes I need to fan the embers.

I finished the “Gain” pennant. Rainer Reindeer has made many gains in his life. He smiles smugly, proud of those gains. He lives surrounded by his wealth, cossetted by silk and sequins, beads and feathers. He keeps himself and his gains tightly zippered away from the world, trying to secure them against loss, but all is transitory, Rainer. Loss, you will see, is inevitable. . .