VULTURES AND WINGLESS FLIES

This last full moon on the 26th was a doozy. It created quite the fog in my brain and I felt pretty drained, which I’m sure had everything to do with a couple weeks straight of hard creative work as well. The moon was also a raw, tender moon. I am deep in my feelings and very susceptible to replaying past regretted events over and over in my mind. I am active, but my output is half of what it normally is, so I have contented myself (and further worn myself out) with fall cleaning and organization, which, leaves a raw edge for the aching thoughts to seep in to. I am dealing with them all measuredly and sanely, but man! Is it exhausting! 

I wonder if the screaming beauty of New England at this time of year has also tenderized me. The organizational and hopeful scurrying about is also a direct holdover of childhood and that “back to school” feeling. There was so much that could go right at the beginning of that first fall semester; everything shiny and new, that perfect box of crayons, a pair of jeans with no holes, shoes that might keep the water out? (those were never invented in my Gen X grade school lifetime) New projects, new teachers, another year older! It was true that it didn’t usually go right for longer than two weeks but I did enjoy them while the construction paper autumn leaves still marked the giant calendar in the classroom. At least Halloween was coming!

We are getting ten days or so of warm weather this next week and the leaves are just starting to turn. The harbinger red maple in the front yard is fluorescent red, like an emergency flare kicking off some grand event. Here come the yellows. They always make me emotional. Also do the paper wasps desperately trying to come in the house before the first freeze, the woolly bears endangering their fuzzy lives everywhere I step, the last sightings of deer before hunting season and my beloved turkey vultures coasting low and high in columns of thermals whispering to them what the dinner specials are. I saw some picking through a not-so-fresh skunk the other day. What other creature has the kindness to dispose of such a sad thing? Crows, great horned owls (but they like the fresh variety) and some bacteria. Most critters won't touch a skunk. The smell was such an eye-watering, tire fire emergency there’s no way I could get near it. Going past in a car is bad enough! We owe vultures a lot. They do us such a service. Bald eagles too. Most people think they are some pristine, trashing silver fish eating machine (which they are) but they mostly eat garbage and road kill. Wanna see a bald eagle? Go to the dump! They are huge, gorgeous creatures and you can get pretty close! I like being reminded of the job they do as I see them cruise overhead. I will pay close attention to them this week before they head south. Sigh.

There have been a few false-start fly hatchings in the house and barn as well. Big fat ones, barely able to fly with their big bodies. They seem drunk. Which has reminded me of something I saw a month or so ago. It has been haunting me. It was a fly crawling along the sink. At first glance I thought nothing of it, but then my ancient lizard brain instinct said “alert!” and I was startled to find at second glance that the fly had no wings. It was crawling around as if nothing was amiss, but it startled me and I was filled with a mixture of horror, disgust and pity. There were no cruel children in my house to tear the wings off? Was it just hatched that way? Perhaps. I was shocked to find myself on the brink of tears and breathing a little out of rhythm. Poor creature. Compassion is not something we get to control, only practice. Sometimes it knocks me down like a wave. I felt terrible for my disgust. It wasn’t the fly’s doing. My reaction was just the fear of something being slightly off, like when terrible CGI renders creatures on screen too close to human, but not close enough. Like the condition of uncanny valley. It makes your skin crawl. Some ancient part of you says “This is a trap! Run.” The fly was telling me something else, and it hurt. It was reminding me that nature is not some god who sees us, but a force that builds and un-builds. We ourselves have to choose what to do with what it gave us in the storm of our creation. It reminded me that most people either don’t know that or won’t hear it, and they live most of their lives not knowing their own gifts. I mourn for all the talents and specialities unseen and what they may have done for the quality of their host’s life. We all deserve to know ourselves, especially our unique and beautiful parts.