The Furious Spinner

It's the middle of the night. Well, morning, actually. I'm awake. That's all right. I awakened in a tangle of blankets. I had already kicked my husband out of bed. Not that I had any memory of that. Sometimes I wake up and Mario is gone and I've got little bloody spots on my ankles where I've kicked myself, too. Strange little person that I am.

On Thursday, while I was contemplating my "invitation" to the Mysteries and driving to Hood River, I had to go by another pesticide sprayer. I stopped in the middle of the highway until they stopped spraying, then I went around, but not before I realized I had stopped my car in the lane where they were spraying, just as I had on Tuesday! I was sure the car was contaminated and probably me and what was going to happen and I started sobbing as I'm driving 70 mph down the highway. I finally reached Hood River, pulled into a gas station, and phoned Mario. I cried some more. Hung up the phone and couldn't stop sobbing. You know those deep sobs where your whole body shakes. A man and a woman whose car had broken down discreetly stayed out of my way as I tried to not cry but I didn't want to get back into my contaminated car. There was nothing else to do. I got into the car and went to the grocery store. I bought some food and drove home. Then I ate until I dropped. I've got to work on my coping skills.

Friday it was still beautiful out. Mario and I drove to Panther Creek in the Giff and walked the trail which is part of the Pacific Crest Trail. We went on the west side of the road for a time, stopping to admire the quadzillions of mushrooms along the way. I remembered my melancholy during the recent rains. I would have to try to remember next time the results of early rains: mushrooms! It was still too dark to take many photos, but we tried. I like using the macro lens and getting so close I can see the texture of the 'shrooms.

Despite the rain, the creek along this side of trail—I'm not sure what the name of this creek is—was silent. Suddenly, this howl or scream or something filled the forest. To me, the sound came from everywhere. At first I thought it was an owl. Then I had no idea. Did bears scream? Elk? Then it sounded like the baying of hounds. And then it was over. Just as suddenly, leaving behind no trace, not a whimper or a stirring of leaves. Mario and I looked at each other, hesitated a moment, then kept walking.

Later, we went on the other side of the road, toward the empty campgrounds. First we walked through the old growth. We stopped at the spot where sunlight poured through the trees and onto the ground, creating gorgeous sweet light. We breathed it in. This was the heart of the forest. At least one of them. We reached Panther Creek and stood on the sunny banks watching the water flow by, gurgling as it skied over the rocky bed.

In the Mysteries today we were supposed to go to a place where water and shore met. I hadn't brought clothes to change into because it was too cold. I watched the river and wondered if it was actually possible for a person to change. I had seen it a few times—just not to me, not for a long while. Yet, I was cursed with hope. I looked around at the surrounding woods—spots of yellow beginning to show here and there—and was so glad to be in this place on this day, with Mario. We continued walking. We saw so many lobster mushrooms: huge twisted red and white fungi pushing up through the humus. Mario said the red looked unreal, as though someone had come by and spray painted all the mushrooms. I agreed.

Now it is morning. Still dark. I awakened feeling as though some of the recent madness was leaving my body. The chemicals and hormones must be switching gears or settling down. I don't know. I don't care. It feels nice. Perhaps the Mysteries are having a calming effect on me.

Recently someone asked how I could write about the times when I was sick or behaved badly or was just generally not having fun. The question reminded me of a response I had gotten nearly ten years ago when FS appeared as a column in the magazine I edited. I had written about getting angry and nearly hitting someone. A reader wrote, "I thought you were better than that." (I may have told you this story.) I responded by saying, "Better than what? Than being human?" Or when I wrote the essay about being tired and discouraged, someone wrote and said, "Couldn't you wait to be tired and discouraged after the election?" I just laughed. No, I couldn't wait. And I wasn't going to hide the fact that I was weary. I'm human.

I've said this before here, but I'll repeat it again. And again. Everyone of us has something we struggle with. Every person you have ever known or ever admired was imperfect. Yet most of the people we've admired woke up every day and did the best they could. They created inspiring music. Wrote a great novel. Took their children to school. Walked across a room. Did the laundry. Tried to stop a war. Or all of the above. If we waited until we were "perfect" before we acted, before we lived our lives, before we stepped into "it", we would never act, never live full lives, and never find our way.

I am so imperfect. Yet I am astonished at what I am able to accomplish—or even try to accomplish. I admire my strange ability to keep on trying—knock on wood. I hope by sharing my struggles, readers will look at their own beautiful selves and think, "Yep, I ain't so bad. I'm doing the best I can." As you walk across the room. Spoon up to your mate. Love your children. Feed the dog. Work for peace. Help your neighbor. Save a tiny piece of the world—even if that tiny piece is you and yours. It's OK if you get tired or discouraged or angry. Rest, encourage yourself, and try to fix what makes you angry. When used right, anger can be the fuel for inspiring fire.

At least that is what I believe. This moment.

Now, I'm going back up to bed.

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All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.