There was one of those Q&A memes going around the other week that said to "focus on your senior year of high school" and then answer the questions. They were things like "What kind of car did you drive?" or "Where did you work?" One question asked what your favorite shoes were, and I wrote "All of them" because hi, have you met me? But that got me thinking about shoes in high school, even now, weeks later.
Yeehaw, bitches!
My love affair with shoes started eons ago, long before high school (my first pair of leather cowboy boots were red; I was five years old and I wore them to stomp on spiders at my dad's farmhouse). But by the time I reached high school, I was starting to earn money here and there from work, babysitting, etc. And I (very slowly) learned how to (very slowly) save up money from those things and my allowance and whatever else came my way. And even though I knew my mother wouldn't approve, I started to use that money to buy my own shoes from a women's shoe store at the mall (THE mall, we only had the one).
With my heart pounding, I walked into the mall store with, y'know, grown-ups shopping -- I still remember it had mustard-colored walls and unflattering fluorescent lighting. Then, just as now, I hit the sale and clearance section first. I may love shoes, but I'm also a cheap bitch and don't like spending a ton of money on a single pair of shoes; my cut off seems to be fifty dollars.. And at age 16, fifty bucks was a lot of money, period, let alone on one purchase. And I found them. And they were still on sale. And in my size. It was love at first sight between me and a pair of knee-high, black leather, stiletto-heeled boots. I shelled out my hard-earned cash, and I was even tempted to put them on right there in the store and wear them around the mall. But I didn't.
A li'l something like this
I did go home and try to hide their existence from my mother for as long as possible. That probably lasted a day, maybe two. And she was not happy with my purchase. My mother was far from a prude when it came to how I dressed in high school. She was all for figure-flattering outfits and things, including some that were borderline trashy (and I wore anyway). But black leather CFM boots were a line she wasn't willing to cross for her 16-year-old daughter. But more than that, she objected to the amount of money I spent.
She flat-out told me I couldn't wear them (though I don't recall her saying that I had to return them). And I naturally asked (read: "whined"), "Why?" It was my money, wasn't it? They were just shoes (boots), weren't they? Where's the problem?
My mother was unable to articulate the world's hypersexualization of teenage girls, the sexual connotation that boots have due mostly to the patriarchy, the fetishes associated with black leather. And in the back of my mind, there was a slight tug that the boots were somehow "inappropriate," but all the facts on the surface said it wasn't any big deal.
So I wore them. I even wore them to school one fine fall day, below my plaid Catholic school girl skirt, and garnered more than one disconcerted look from some teachers, but not a one of them said anything directly to me. As they weren't sandals or tennis shoes, I was still complying with our dress code.
Somewhere in this same time period, I saved up my allowance and bought another pair of knee-high leather boots. These, however, were flats (gasp!) and made of suede instead of regular leather. They had a large kind of patchwork pattern on them made of jewel-toned suede squares -- emerald, magenta, black, and dark teal. They laced all the way up the back. They were the kind of boots that would look awesome at a ren fair or with a Robin Hood outfit. I had plans to wear them with my costume for madrigal singing.
Imagine these 4 pairs of boots had a beautiful 1990s baby
Later that year, we were on a school trip for an acting competition with events like improv, choral reading, one acts, solo interp, duo interp, etc. A group of about twenty of us arts/theatre students, freshmen through seniors, were there together competing in events against other schools. I was probably a junior. I wore the jewel-toned jester boots over my jeans and was feeling pretty fabulous.
And every now and then that morning, I would feel a tug at the back of my leg. But when I would glance behind me, no one was there. And it wasn't happening all the time -- just intermittently, and I couldn't find the rhyme, reason, or pattern as to why or when. I felt it when going up the bleachers in the auditorium for the morning announcements/introductions. I felt it when sitting at the lunch tables in the cafeteria with my classmates.
And somewhere in the early afternoon I discovered the culprit: a fellow student, one of my own group (so another theatre person) had tied the laces of my boots (because they laced up the back, remember?) together. At the back. But not so tightly or close together that I couldn't walk outright. I still had a couple of inches to spare; hence, why I only felt the tug during certain activities.
And I no longer felt fabulous.
Instead, I felt crushed, embarrassed, defeated. Had they been tied together all morning? How did he do it without me noticing? Did everyone know except me? Were they all secretly (or sometimes not so secretly) laughing at me? I was humiliated and a little betrayed. Even though I wasn't close friends with my fellow performers, we had at least had that arts-theatre-not-a-jock bond in common and were from the same school, traveling together, competing with each other against the other schools. But I was still ostracized and bullied by the very people you would think would understand what that feels like.
And even typing it out now, the fact that someone tied my shoelaces together in a public place, is humiliating and upsetting, and it happened nearly thirty years ago.
I cried in the bathroom at that strange, out of town school and tried to go on about my day, seeing the other events and trying desperately not to feel self-conscious about my choice in shoes (boots) -- and failing miserably. I didn't confront my classmates or the particular "suspect." I didn't tell a soul, and I've never told the story until now. I don't think I ever wore those suede boots again. A year or two later, post-high school, I went looking for them (having conveniently forgotten about this incident), and they had disappeared.
Reticence marks the end of an era, as Miss Gail Carriger has already stated that there will be no more books in the Parasol Protectorate/Custard Protocol universe. For that alone it deserves the four stars as creating this universe and such a series of books (3 generations of characters!) is no small feat.
The rest of this review does have spoilers, so click accordingly.
Was Reticence Carriger's best book in the series? No, it wasn't. She's had others that made me feel more (How to Marry a Werewolf comes to mind; I bawled like a baby at Faith's big reveal); she's had others that made me laugh more at some of the ridiculousness and utterly dry delivery (the lobster line in Poison or Protect, anyone?). And, of course, nothing beats the original; Soulless was the first love for many of us.
Like many sequels, prequels, and other "-els", Reticence sometimes falls into the trap of wrapping up things a little too neatly; Carriger, of course, acknowledges this with the cheeky epilogue, aptly titled "With a Neat Little Bow." Bringing in the characters from the Finishing School series felt a little forced. While we knew that Agatha was sponsored by Lord Akeldama (a.k.a. Goldenrod), the fact that he's been playing this game with these ladies all along was perhaps a little too contrived. Similarly, mentioning that "Miss Imogene" had been around "forever" (with Genevieve LeFoux) felt shoe-horned in, probably because of the writing order; when we're first introduced to adult Quesnel in Prudence (and his mother), Romancing the Inventor (Imogene's introduction to the universe) hadn't been written yet.
My other quibble (and it really just a quibble, a matter of style and preference, really) is one that I also noticed in both The 5th Gender and Competence: playing the ending. When our two main characters meet, their romantic involvement is already a foregone conclusion. Granted, we spend the book watching them try to tell each other (which is amusing); however, I seem to prefer it when we spend a good portion of the book watching the characters trying to figure out their feelings. Arsenic and Percy (and Tris and his detective, and to a lesser extent Prim and Tasherit) already know they are attracted to each other. To me, the rest of the novel then feels a bit rushed since we already know the conclusion coming. I much preferred it, to use an example, when Alexia and Connall didn't quite realize their feelings for each other (though nearly everyone else around them did); their dance around each other (and their feelings) was much more interesting to me that way. It could also be due to the narration type in the books; Alexia's books are primarily (though not 100%) from her limited POV; in the others, we get fairly unfettered access to several different characters' minds.
All of that said, do I regret buying this within minutes of it being released and procrastinating at my office over the course of two days to read it? Absolutely not.
It was still full of Carriger style: charming, sweet, flirty (yes, please, to the boot-unlacing bit!) and had my favorite cameo thus far (Lady Manami).
But first, the song that is now in everyone's head:
So, sex. It is a thing that many humans enjoy doing for its own sake ("recreational purposes").
But how often have we been told that there is "more" to a relationship than "just sex"? I don't know about you, but I pretty much had that hammered into my head since puberty and definitely all through college.
And that "warning" came from a place of somehow trying to "help" young people (including li'l Leonard) not to throw themselves away on their first crush/love/lusty high school sweetheart...I guess? It was some kind of basic "life lesson" that you don't marry the first person you fall in lust with. Or perhaps just because you're young and in love, eventually looks (and sex drive) fade, and you'll want someone with whom you can have a conversation or maybe some common goals and activities.
Maybe?
The why's and wherefore's were never really articulated. It was just that bland, blanket statement: "there's more to a relationship than just sex."
What the fuck does that even mean? Do you remember hearing it? Is this simply a Gen-X thing? I have an inkling that it goes part and parcel with the HIV/AIDS "scare" that we angry Gen-Xers also grew up with.
At any rate, I think little Leonard took that piece of grown-up advice and ran with it, right to our forty-year-old detriment. Follow me through this:
I lost my virginity relatively "late." I was eighteen and a freshman in college, and it was with my first "real" boyfriend. And for that matter, it was by accident, but that story is neither here nor there. And I was, of course, very in love with him, although that's not why I "lost" my virginity with him. Our relationship didn't survive that first summer apart, especially since he decided he was not coming back to our college.
Later that same fateful summer, I spent some time with my dad and step-mom and their family (always a mistake; it never goes well), and my (Catholic) step-monster had a question about health insurance (as I was still on my dad's insurance). Basically, she wanted to know why they were being charged for birth control pills for me. I think she actually said something like, "Are you taking these for....?" and couldn't even finish; she couldn't even make up a reason (many women take BCP for all kinds of health reasons that literally have nothing to do with sex/procreation).
And I said, "I'm taking them for their intended purpose: so I don't get pregnant."
At that, the step-monster made a face and said, "There are some things you want to save for your husband."
To which I replied, "Were you a virgin when you married my dad?" feeling 90% sure that she wasn't.
Somewhere in that same conversation I mentioned that I had "only slept with one person anyway," and she threw back in my face, "And he dropped you like a hot potato!"
Bitch.
Anyway, that conversation shows the foundation of Puritanical, patriarchal, heteronormative nonsense they raised me on -- always there, lurking in the background. And again and again, the same refrain of "there's more to a relationship [or marriage] than sex."
Fast forward several years to my first engagement (circa 2002). I can't remember if we were even engaged yet when our sex life stalled and seemed to die. But I was determined to remain engaged (literally), to get married, AND to "make things work" (WTF does that mean?!?). And I was also convinced that lack of interest in the bedroom must have somehow been my fault. I take a heavy dose of SSRI's every day, and everyone knows those can kill your sex drive. I didn't put it together at that time that having an attraction and then not having it (even though meds remained the same) was a different issue than not having a sex drive at all.
I went to my physician and told him my problems. He prescribed an antihistamine of all things to take 1-2 hours "pre-coitus." One of the antihistamine's lesser known (unintentional) uses was increase libido. I did that, I bought a sexy new corset from Victoria's Secret1, and I thought things would be fixed.
I want to say that my ex-husband even went to his doctor to check for low testosterone, too, but now that I think about it, I believe he (and I) just talked about him maybe going, but it never actually happened.
Things were not "fixed." We didn't really start having regular sex again until we decided to try to have a baby, many months later. And then a month or so into that, he left.
We had many, many red flags during our four years together that things were not going to work, and the lack of sex and attraction should have been near the top of the list. But I discounted that because, y'know, "there's more to marriage than [just] sex."
Flash forward many, many years later: my first kiss with my most recent ex. I remember it because, frankly, it was flat. She and I had almost no sexual chemistry whatsoever. We were dating four months before we ever slept together. And when we finally did, it was kind of awkward.
Yet, I still said "yes" when she proposed. Because I thought that's what you did after a year of dating. I wanted to move in together; this was practically the same thing, right? And maybe, maybe the attraction would improve, maybe things would get better.
Spoiler alert: they did not get better. We had some very good and fun things going for us, but we were also missing some fundamental pieces for a healthy relationship, and one of those was a physically intimate relationship. And I don't just mean sexual intercourse; I also mean cuddling, holding hands, burning kisses like we were twenty-year-old's.
Flash forward to early 2018: I had resigned myself to my life as it was at that moment: living a comfortable lifestyle with a person for whom I cared deeply, but for all intents and purposes was a roommate/good friend. We had a good life and things weren't "bad," per se, but they could have been a lot better. And my reasoning went something like this, "I guess this is it. This is what happens when you get old, right? You stop having sex. You're just comfortable around each other." And, of course, "It's just sex. There's more to a relationship that 'just sex.'" And, of course, always the lingering thought that my daily Zoloft was erasing my sex drive.
And I even said something to that effect to my therapist: "This is what happens, right? You just end up as friends/roommates?" And she reminded me that 1) that doesn't happen to everyone, and 2) it only has to be okay if you want it to be okay. Some people are fine living like that2; others are not. And it only works if both people are okay living like that.
And then I met someone. Someone who was not my partner.
And quickly, and much to both of our surprise, feelings sprung up. Very real feelings of a romantic nature. And I let myself believe that maybe, perhaps I could "have it all" -- I could be with a person who had similar tastes, things in common, someone with whom there was shared mutual physical attraction -- even though, y'know, we're both middle-aged and not as svelte as we used to be -- and that thought was scary and wonderful and eye-opening. As was the thought that we were having physical feelings for each other while I was on my meds the whole time. That perhaps there wasn't anything "wrong" with me; it had been previous relationships that weren't right.
And Person X and I were head-over-heels for each other. And in the middle of our very brief time spent together, in the midst of spinning fantasies and telling stories to each other about what life would be like together, I came up with a fantasy that surprised even me.
No, not because it was twisted or kinky or anything like that (those were different fantasies). Fantasies for me generally fall into two categories: sexual or domestic.
Sexual is fairly self-explanatory. Domestic, though, domestic involves all those little somethings that help make a relationship: cuddling on the couch together, doing different things in the same room at the same time, decorating for the holidays, all that silly "domestic" stuff.
And so far, in my life, never have the twain met. They were separate spheres of desire for me. Not necessarily intentionally, but that's just how it was. And without meaning to, I concocted a fantasy that was both sexual and domestic with Person X. And that's the part that shocked me -- that I could have both things. At the same time!
I never got to tell them about this particular fantasy, and the details of it are unimportant in the scheme of this post; we have since gone our separate ways, with my heart getting broken in the process. But I guess my point after all of this is that telling me over and over again that "there's more to a relationship than just sex" did more harm than good as it caused me to ignore when part of a relationship didn't fit/wasn't right/wasn't working. It caused me to ignore ALL the parts of a happy, healthy relationship and end up "settling" for some things.
During English AP class in high school, we read a poem that I could have sworn was by Maya Angelou, but I cannot find, that described the "recipe" for a good marriage, and it included 3-4 "heaping cups" of sex. I wish I had paid closer attention to that poem than to the "moral" commands of (largely) religious hypocrites.
1I did not buy said corset "for" my ex-husband. I bought it because it made me feel sexy; the fact that he would also enjoy seeing me in it was an added bonus. I recently was told of a woman who bought two pairs of "sexy underwear" but then "never had a chance to wear them" because she and her partner's sex life was dead. And that was one of the saddest things I ever heard -- not that their bedroom was dead, but that this woman somehow felt she needed her partner's attention/approval/interest to wear the sexy underwear. That's not how lingerie works, people. You buy it and wear it FOR YOU, because it MAKES YOU feel sexy. The gaze and desire of someone is an added bonus, but not the point.
2It should hopefully go without saying (but I'm going to say it anyway), almost none of this applies to people who identify as asexual. Not having a sexual component to their relationships does not make said relationships "unhealthy" if that's what they (and all people involved) want. I (obviously) do not identify as asexual.
In my therapy session earlier this week, my therapist suggested downloading a dating app as a means to distract myself/get over my recent heartbreak. She also mentioned that these apps could be good for ego boosts. My response was, "I don't think my ego is really the problem right now." And it's really not.
When she and I started talking about possible future relationships, I drew a blank. All I could think was that my current circle of friends is made up of people who either have partners or are not people I'm interested in dating, often both. Because they're my friends, not potential romantic partners. My therapist said, "Then it's time to widen your circle."
She then suggested I look at some of the dating apps out there. She said, "Tinder," and I think physically reacted negatively. She also mentioned Bumble as being more women-friendly, and I thought, Yeah, I remember hearing about that.
I told her the thought of a dating app terrified me. But I couldn't quite nail down or express why, but my feeling was very visceral.
The last time I tried meeting people online was pre-text message era! We're talking like "Yahoo personals" or something. And then some years later, maybe Match.com? But even then, it was the same five lesbians on every site; I'm pretty sure I had coffee with all of them.
So after therapy, I downloaded Bumble (for free) on my phone. And then I didn't touch it for 24 hours. I mean, I didn't even open the app.
Then, when I did open the app, it said, "Connect with Facebook," and I immediately closed it again.
Then, because I'm a nerd, I did some research. I found a nice "how to" article from Business Insider of all places. By the next time I dared open the app again, I felt a tad better and a bit more informed. And I read the fine print beneath the "Connect with Facebook" promising me that the app doesn't post to Facebook ever. And even then, I made several changes to the access the app had to my Facebook profile for my own peace of mind.
I went about "setting up" my profile; however, there's very little to actually "set up," especially if you just import six pictures (the max allowed) from your Facebook profile. I was surprised (and therefore scared) at how fast it was. No surveys to fill out, no questionnaires about my hobbies and what kind of cheese I like to eat. I had to condense myself into a brief bio -- not too hard to do for an actor as I have to write them all the time for show programs.
And then I found a button to make my profile "private," and I hit that little fucker so fast! "Private" on Bumble (apparently) means that no one can see your stuff, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden reprieve and a chance to tweak my profile/bio a bit.
And during all of the above, I had butterflies in my stomach -- and not the excited, happy kind. This was trepidation, not anticipation. But all I could reason was that it's all so new (and new is scary, change is bad, etc. etc.). So I gingerly waded back into the fray.
And then I hit my next conundrum: there is no way to "skip" a profile. You must decide, then and there, if you want to swipe right (good) or swipe left (bad) before you can see any other profiles. And I have yet to figure out or see how the order of profiles is chosen1.
So of course I started to freak out a bit. What if I changed my mind? What if I miss somebody good? What if I want to compare to the next profile?
And then the crux of it: I did not want to swipe ripe. I was terrified to do so.
And it wasn't until a few minutes later in the bathroom (of all places), sitting on the toilet, when I made the stunning realization of why and why all of this was so frightening to me. I'm still trying to unpack it all, but I'll do my best to explain it here.
My first, unbidden thought about a dating app, and then "swiping right" was: But then they can see me!
I recognized that non-butterfly feeling in the pit of my stomach. I didn't want to invite their attention.
At. All.
Because then what?
Then I'm stuck with them.
How do I get rid of them?
Things like Tease Well, you were asking for it You invited me
bounced through my head.
Inviting attentionlike this felt akin to interacting with cat-callers and street harassers (which I don't do). Just keep your head, girl; just keep on walking.
I flashed back to a date I had in 2006-ish with a man. We met for drinks at his apartment first, before dinner. Sitting on his couch, mid-conversation, mid-sentence even!, he leaned over and put his mouth on mine in a slightly insistent (and not all that great) kiss. I was more shocked than anything at the time. Yes, I had agreed to a date, but that didn't automatically mean (forcing) a kiss, let alone in the first 20 minutes! I didn't like the kiss, and then I still had to suffer through the rest of the date.
I thought of my stalker and our original coffee meet-up/non-date.
And through all of this, and telling some of the briefest bits of these insights to a couple of friends, I tried not to cry at my desk at work. On my birthday, no less!
I thought back to the old days of the Internet and some of the BDSM forums, trying to extricate myself from people I clearly wasn't interested in but had made the mistake of being "nice" to.
I didn't (and don't) want any of that again. I didn't (and don't) want to be accused of leading anyone on2. I didn't want to "swipe right" unless I was absolutely sureI could "follow through" (with what? what the fuck does that even mean??) -- and that's not how these apps are designed, even the ones that are designed for more than just random hook-ups.
And that's when I realized I'm not ready for this yet. That's a lot of baggage to unpack, mostly (though certainly not only) due to toxic masculinity.
Everything is still too new, my heartbreak too fresh; I'm still too tender and bruised.
One thing about the person who did break my heart: I felt very safe with and around them, both physically and emotionally. There was very little holding back of feelings and words, the freedom of which was exhilarating.
-- up until the moment they broke my heart, of course. That almost goes without saying.
So today I messaged two of the five "matches" I had made3 and basically said, "Sorry, I'm not ready for this dating thing; I did enjoy your profile." And then I made my profile "private" again.
I didn't owe them that (or anything), but in addition to not wanting to be rude, I might want to find them again when/if I return to the wide, wide world of online dating.
But Jesus H. Christ! Who would have thought that one free app and sitting on the toilet alone with my thoughts would bring to light so. many. issues.
And I don't just mean with me.
I mean with our society that has instilled such fear in me -- a forty-year-old woman -- making me too paralyzed to "swipe right."
1I have emailed the Bumble staff about that; rather, I put down that I'm interested in both men and women, yet I'm only getting men's profiles. The only way I've been able to see women's profiles is if I change it to women only.
2One of the things I appreciate about Bumble is that men can't initiation conversations. At. All. Once a "match" has been made, the woman has 24 hours to start a conversation (another conundrum/source of stress for me -- the time limit!). After that, the "match" disappears. If both people are same-sex, either can initiate conversation.
3Only if both people have "swiped right," will you both be alerted that a "match" has been made. So far only 5 of us had done so. But for my ego boost, Bumble kept showing me the number of people who had already "swiped right" for me, offering to show those profiles first (if I upgraded the app and paid them money). That number was last at 50+. Yay me.
So the artist formerly known as my Unit1 and I were sitting outside on the patio steps again around 8 p.m. when Dogzilla raced straight across the yard to the back. Sure enough, the owl was back because we saw her/him/them raise wings and effortlessly move to the right, out of Dogzilla's charge.
And we both oohed and ahhed.
And as before I immediately put the circus dog back inside (at just 13 lbs. he may very look like food to an ambitious bird of prey), and Dogzilla came bounding back to us with that look of, "OMG YOU GUYS DID YOU SEE THAT!?"
We went inside; I refilled my drink and immediately went back out to see if the owl would come back, but not before yelling down the stairs to my bird-nerd sister that "THE OWL IS BACK!" Within moments of being outside again, s/he landed on the neighbor's swing set. Bird-Nerd-Sister came outside quietly armed with binoculars.
We stayed out there for well over an hour, watching as the owl moved around, trying to hunt something on the lawn; sometimes s/he was very close to where we were sitting (well, close as far as I was concerned). S/he is also still a big fan of the power line from the night before. At one point s/he was "just walking on the tightrope," per my sister; there was a large tree in my view, but I could see the line bouncing a bit as the owl strutted.
We did, of course, take a moment to raise our glass to her/him/them. Salut.
And because we are sisters, we argued a bit.
Bird-Nerd-Sister: "It's not a barn owl. It's definitely not a snowy. It's not a long-eared owl."
Me: (muttering) "Owls don't have ears."
BNS: "They do, too! They have holes in the side of their head for hearing."
Me: "Those are ear holes, not ears" (about to launch into the differences between seals and sea lions, including ear holes versus ear flaps) BNS: "What kind of owl is it??"
Me: "You are asking the wrong-ass person." (beat) "What if it's here to give us our letters to Hogwart's??"
BNS: (laughing quietly) Me: (hissing in owl's general direction) "You're late!"
BNS: (laughing more) "Here I thought we were going to argue about whose letter it was going to deliver, and you're busy sayin' 'bish, you're late.'"
And as before, when it got completely dark, the street lamp from across the way would catch the underside of the owl's wings and their breast feathers, especially during those brief flights.
Me: (soon insisting we refer to the owl as "she") BNS: "As much as I hate to say it, it's probably a he. It's pretty small, and females are bigger."
Me: "Maybe it's a really small type of owl, and she's actually quite large."
Me: (happy gasp at another view of wings and light) "Oooh, it's like the opening of Labyrinth!" (another gasp) "What if it's the spirit of David Bowie??"
BNS: "That's it. I'm calling it 'Bowie' from now on."
Eventually my Bird-Nerd-Sister went inside, and I said aloud, "Well, it's just you and me, owl." By the time I extinguished both of the citronella torches, Bowie had made it to the power line, the fence line, and then grass to my left (just beyond the torch I had just extinguished). When I finally went inside (out of wine), they were back on the power line with no intention of going anywhere.
I may be the unofficial Queen of Small Animals, but birds are usually the exception. If you know me at all, you know that I don't usually get along with birds, nor they with me. The feeling is entirely mutual. As I told my former Unit, I don't interact with Nature often, but when I do, it's always adventurous (read: "disastrous") and occasionally just a tiny bit awesome and magical.
And the former Unit commented earlier on all of the birds we've seen lately. First, there was the hawk several times over a week or so. "Hawks are messengers," she said. "But I wasn't getting the message."
Then, within a day of our separation, there was the hummingbird. Sometimes she saw it, once my sister saw it, but many times (like four times in two days), it was just me. "Hummingbirds mean joy," she said.
And now the owl -- wisdom.
It may not seem like that big of a deal to you, but keep in mind all of these encounters have happened in the past month or so. And frankly, a hummingbird? In the Midwest?!? I've never seen one outside of California before.
I'm not always one to believe in real-life "signs" and symbolism, but when the former Unit listed them outright like that, I had a shiver go up my spine, despite the summer heat.
My train of thought is a weaving, waving bit of transportation, but sometimes I end up at the depot of "How Would I Teach This (If I Were Still Teaching)?" Last night's excursion went something like this. Bear with me down this rabbit hole...
I am currently reading Starless by Jacqueline Carey (highly recommend!) and was thinking of how much I'm enjoying it. And then I immediately compared it to another book I'm reading: Homer's Iliad. The Iliad is keeping my attention a lot less than Carey's novel, and so I got to thinking about why. I never had to teach (or read) The Iliad, but I did teach classic Greek plays and Beowulf, and my goal was always to get my students to make connections between these ancient "classics" and contemporary literature, TV, film, pop culture, etc. because many of the elements of storytelling, of tragedy, of comedy, remain the same. So how could I teach something like The Iliad if even I wasn't liking it?
So of course I went to asking students what they like about things they read and watch right now (particularly in the sci-fi/fantasy genre). When I've taught, this is the section where they just get to shout things out loud and I get to write on the board (writing on the board was a huge reason why I started teaching in the first place).
Epic
maybe meaning large scale, like creating entire worlds
maybe meaning giant, impressive battles
Attention to detail
So much food!
Fashion!
[more on attention to detail/world-building later in a wholly different blog post]
Great deeds
swords and dragons and rescuing people from monsters
saving people from famine, being a voice for the downtrodden
And then I thought about The Lord of the Rings (frankly, when don't I think of LotR?). While I will always contend that Jackson's adaptations of the trilogy are fairly faithful, incredibly well done interpretations of Tolkien's text (FIGHT ME!), there is one large, huge almost (pun intended; wait for it) difference: Jackson's films have some beautiful, "epic" even, battle sequences. I'll never forget the intense anxiety and fear I felt watching the battle in the mines of Moria for the first time on the big screen ("They've got a cave troll!"). There were so few of the Fellowship and so, so many of them, the orcs and goblins. [Sidenote: what is it about attempting to barricade a door against an oncoming horde that gives me palpitations?] And at least four of "ours" were so very, very small. Literally. Small and woefully unprepared for battle of any kind.
And therein lies the difference.
Tolkien purposely did not write an epic heroic adventure filled with the usual heroes -- strapping swordsmen cutting a swath through the fray. No, his heroes were two very small, very usual hobbits. And while the battles do happen in the books, they often feel removed from the main action, almost in the background. Because the main action is that of our two small heroes doing an awful lot of walking. Seriously. So, so much walking. And then more walking.
(And occasionally breaking into song.)
Then we walk some more!
Because Tolkien's point (in addition to attempting to create a mythology specifically for Britain) was that small, "normal" folk can do epic things. People who aren't martially trained, people with no talent for statecraft can accomplish things simply through virtue of being themselves with their own points of view. They'll not come out of it the same as they went in, of course, because this is still a hero's journey (and that is the foremost marker of a hero's journey: change), but they're a different kind of hero altogether.
And I think that, both in Tolkien and in other pieces of literature, touches on the very heart of human existence: we want to do great things -- not just good things, but great things. We want to complete a great quest, we want to bring salvation to a group of people, we want to be a hero of some kind. But we are also so very small and normal, walking around in these very fragile bags of skin and water. So the bringing together of the great and small like that is something we all hope to achieve, being able to accomplish these things just by being ourselves (and, apparently, doing a lot of walking; even hobbits have to do cardio).
And while I was sitting outside on the steps of my patio last night, with a drink and a cigarette, having these thoughts about things great and small, Dogzilla turned and rushed in the darkness to attack something. It was an owl. I know it was an owl because, thanks to a street lamp, I could see her/him/they outstretch their wings and silently, gracefully lift up and away from Dogzilla's reach, effortlessly, like pulling silk backwards.
Sorry, Dogzilla, but you are neither hobbit nor orc in this scenario; you are meddling mankind, and the owl is Gandalf. And the wisdom of wizards (and owls) is always just out of reach.
Prosaic Little Epilogue: As soon as the owl was out of sight, I scooped up my tiny circus dog and put him inside. And Dogzilla soon followed. And then I refilled my glass of Prosecco and went back outside to see if the owl would return.
In a few moments, there was a flicker of movement out of the corner of my left eye; the owl had landed upon the power line running between my house and the next. That same street light reflected just the tiniest bit off of the owl's lighter-colored breast feathers. That and those first occasional flutters of movement were the only way I could tell the owl was there.
[When you've worked around animals for years, you learn to not look directly at them, but to look towards the center and use what we Viewpoints actors call "soft focus" -- let your gaze relax; the periphery opens just a bit further, and then pay attention to the movement that happens. Ask me about the ways to see "hard to find" zoo animals!]
So I continued to sit there, drinking and smoking, attempting to make my movements smooth and slow so as to not disturb her/him/them. It wouldn't have mattered. S/he was far enough away that I wasn't a threat and I'm fairly certain they gave zero fucks about me. Sometimes I even reached for my wine glass to my right without looking, not wanting to lose sight of them in the darkness (and my very poor eyesight, particularly in the dark) as nearly any and all movement had stopped. At one point I raised my glass to them. Salut.
I stayed out in the sweltering heat as long as I could (over 90 degrees after 9 p.m.!), through two cigarettes and down to the dregs of my wine and finally went inside. The owl didn't move. After I was inside, I looked out the giant dining room window at the power line, but due to the angle, I couldn't see if s/he was still there. And then I went to bed, dare I say somewhat peacefully. Salut.
