Wild Into

Kathryn Spence, from the installation, Short Sharp Notes, Rolling or Churring Whistles, Clear Phrases

The other day, a hummingbird flew into my house. Have you ever tried to catch a hummingbird? It ain't easy. And the poor things never really want to take a break. The hummingbird flew round and round my living room and kitchen ceiling, beating its wings against the crown molding and scaring my dog so much he wouldn't come back in the house. After about 20 minutes of trying to coax the hummingbird back out through the front door by basically asking it nicely to leave, I started to panic. I had to leave and I really didn't want the death of a hummingbird on my hands.

I remember when I lived in Mexico, I was always surprised to see the rows upon rows of hummingbirds for sale laid out at the weekly flea markets along with the antique frames and rusted tools. I never understood who could possibly want a dead hummingbird. But when you actually saw them still, they were beautiful, startlingly kaleidoscopic creatures.

I left the house and came back as quickly as I could and heard nothing. For about 10 minutes. And then the hummingbird emerged beating against the door jam. Unable, once again, to find a way out. I watched him for a few more minutes, occasionally resting on a window sill, and tried to swat him unsuccessfully with a broom. When I saw my neighbor and her dog in the front yard, I called her in. She brought over a ladder, a metal bowl, and a flat piece of cardboard. She climbed the ladder and as I continued to swat, she attempted to trap him in the bowl as he flew past. As the bird flew by, more and more frantic, he left dark, tiny feathers on the ceiling.

But, no luck. Finally, after about 30 minutes, the poor bird rested on the sill again, and my neighbor caught him, slide the board over the bowl, and we raced out of the house to let him go. For a long moment he didn't move. And then, out of nowhere, he just flew off into the air. We looked at the cardboard and there was a tiny smear of blood. Hummingbird blood.

We both felt exhilarated by the release. But what did it mean? A hummingbird had never entered any of my homes before. Why now? Was it a good sign? A bad omen? And wasn't hummingbird blood a particularly powerful ingredient worthy of some kind of sorcerous spell. Did my house need a cleaning? Or had it just been blessed? My heart pounded as I shut the front door and wondered what the next wild creature would bring.

Things you should know about me if you don't already

Eleven

Photo by Thierry Bouët

We are in the precious remaining last few days before the semester begins. Yesterday I spent sleeping, eating bacon, eggs, and pancakes, and then napping some more. Today, I was a bit more productive. It's hard to predict what I feel like each new day. I am no longer in charge. My body, it seems, will make its own decisions for me from now on. It really is like a bad J Lo rom com.

In other news, who do all these pregnancy books think they are talking to? Decorate the nursery? Dude, that would require a two-bedroom apartment. Start picking out a crib? Uh, don't I have, like, 6 months and a baby shower before I really need to decide on sleeping apparatuses? And don't get me started on all the lame sidebars for Daddy, like, Why not a baby shower for Daddy? and Just for Daddy: Lamaze!  Puke. I know gay couples have been dealing with that shi-ite for centuries. But it's so 1985. C'mon folks! 

It does remind me, however, that I will have my share of explaining to do. My friend's son upon overhearing that I might be pregnant, promptly demanded to know who got me pregnant. Smart ass! Others want to know all about the sperm donor. And still yet, there are some people who know more and some less about exactly how it all came to be. And I kinda need to keep those stories straight. But with all that blood rapidly leaving my brain and travelling south, that I fear, will be a challenge.

So, next week I officially wave goodbye to the first trimester. And I start teaching four classes. I am hoping I can use the pregnancy as an excuse for basically everything, but in particular, for why I just can't seem to stay awake during their groundbreaking films and why I just can't seem to keep up with reading their mind blowing scripts.

Passing

photo by Joseph Szabo from the book "Almost Grown"

I live near a school. An elementary school to be more precise. Because I have a dog, and because he is oft in need of walks, I find myself near the school at various hours of the day. I have always loved the sounds of a playground: rubber balls hitting pavement, screeches sent across the jungle gym, even the mechanical echo of the school bell. And I have always felt melancholic during summer when those sounds go away for months at a time. I was one of those kids that actually got depressed at the end of the school year. Even at a young age the end of the academic year marked, not the arrival of summer, but another year passing. I distinctly remember during those moments thoughts like How many more years just like the last? Will I be the same person I am now when I return in the Fall? and Will I ever make it to the 8th grade? Summer just seemed to be so purposeless, and though I appreciated the pool time which basically could last from 9 in the morning til 9 at night if you begged hard enough, I never really knew what to do with myself.

As a teenager, however, I did find that when I returned back to school for the 10th grade, I was a new person. I had had sex, I had gotten stoned, I had figured out how to elude my parents' reach. I had found late night bus routes to take me to the places I wanted to go. I knew where the skateboarders and the punks hung out. I suddenly had taste in music and movies. Even an appreciation for art and poetry. I was someone new. I could reinvent myself. And this new self that I presented to the world was believable.

I have spent many years inside some kind of school or another. Most of my life, you could say. And today, I have those same summers off. But teaching college doesn't make me feel the same kind of heartbreak that being connected to elementary and secondary school does. I guess the kids I teach don't seem to grow up all that fast...they are already more (or in most cases less) there. When summer comes,  I am ecstatically relieved. The campus doesn't have those same playground sounds, and while the cafeteria may be just as bad, there are no ringing bells to remind us each hour of the time passing.