The lilies of the valley are out in all their sweet little glory right now. I know this because rather than go for my Sunday walk (a ritual much like a Sunday drive only faster) on my dirt road, I drove a little ways into town, parked and started from there. And those suckers are EVERYWHERE in town. They smell great.
I love neighborhoods. (I don’t think I want to live in one, mind you, because I’m too loud.) Neighborhoods have houses that slump from centuries of being mired in the same spot. Kind of like me. I love to see attic bedrooms with fans and kitties pressed up against screens 30 feet off the ground, unperturbed. I also like walking through them and noticing stuff. I play a game with myself—it’s a pretty new game that I’ve started since, well, just since this past week of trying to pull my head out of my butt. I try to notice things without judging the ever-loving sh** out of them.
For instance, this morning, there was this nice little old house on a rounded corner, with an almost imperceptibly tiny driveway whose cuteness rivaled the aforementioned lilies of the valley. In it sat a couple-year-old Adirondack chair of the smallish variety 10 feet away from the front door, placed at a very welcoming angle to the sidewalk. This added to the over all cute factor by at least 30%.
There were shade trees drooping all about. Dappled morning light was shining through them. Hostas were brimming forth with large leaves behind the entire setting, yadda yadda... All was sweet and well in non-judgmentville when my eye landed on the extra wide armrest characteristic of those fancy chairs. Aghast, I did a double take. There, on that armrest, sat a can of WD40—and it didn’t even have its tiny little hose! I looked away and looked back. Yep, still there. Just then I caught myself in my new game: I was becoming internally indignant about this WD40 messing up the entire tranquil scene. Then, I thought, you goober, it’s PART of the scene. It’s the trail of a story left behind, no doubt. I’m sure somebody was greasing up a squeaky door or maybe sitting there on that extra low chair oiling their grandkid’s bike chain. They got distracted when a neighbor drove by to talk about the upcoming music festival in the ‘hood. And the WD40 got forgotten in the dark. You know, something probably like that.
It’s like going into Plum Market on techno day.
Plum market is a mini version of Whole Foods only more expensive. I have nicknamed it “Plum Broke” or my favorite “Plum-outta-cash”. I digress. Anyway they jam tunes in there. When I have been really freaked-out, jacked-up on caffeine or just generally anxiety-filled, I have gone in there and nearly suffered a full-blown myocardial infarction from a combination of shock at the price tags and the music. Then it hit me awhile back. One techno day, I was so irritated and jittery that I looked down to notice that I was actually dancing a little. Then, when I realized I was actually dancing, I started laughing and dancing MORE. Then the lady next to me started dancing and we were busting our white lady groove right there in the canned goods section. We surrendered to the irritating. And of course, we became part of the scene. But that was actually more like “making a scene.” But you get what I’m saying. Chillaxicating involves surrendering to the, in some cases, supremely uncomfortable.