Navigating writer's block

I was going to write an essay this week, but the words just wouldn’t come to me.

I thought about telling you about the hawk who visited my front garden, a mere foot away from me when I first noticed it and it noticed me, right before I made a high-pitched sound that wasn’t a scream but might have sounded like one to my neighbors. I ran into the house. The hawk flew to a neighbor’s roof. I kept thinking it might give me a second chance and return to the garden.

It did not.

As it turns out, the hawk had recently been released from rehab and wasn’t quite ready for life in these wooded suburbs. After an ill-advised detour through the neighborhood dog park, it is now back in rehab, and I hope it’s enjoying a steady diet of small rodents and birds in the company of caring humans and new raptor friends. It’s important to note that no damage was done by the dogs at the aforementioned park, but that’s where a human noticed the hawk wasn’t behaving as they are known to do. I know all of this because my neighbor is nice enough to screenshot the updates from Facebook and text them to me.

It’s safe to say I’m invested in the hawk’s success.

I considered telling you about my own two dogs at the city dog park. But then I’d have to explain why I drive across town instead of walking down the street, which has nothing to do with hawks just out of rehab and everything to do with space for big dogs to run, more playmates and a walking track around the perimeter that makes me feel like I got enough activity to sit down and write for a spell.

This particular dog park is where my dogs learned about a ball that has a specific smell and a specific texture and a specific squeak, and now they can’t possibly enjoy any other ball on the planet. Unless it’s another dog’s ball. As Lucy and Daisy are notorious ball thieves at the dog park, I now must bring a couple of these balls as a distraction so they won’t interrupt the border collie’s game of fetch. The balls also serve as entertainment when the park is empty and a bribe when calling their names isn’t enough to convince them to leave when I’m ready.

When I give them one ball to share, they wrestle and fight and chew each other’s ears over possession of the ball. Obviously, the answer is to take two balls, one for each of them. Except, after just minutes of being pleased with their own squishy, squeaky, smelly ball, they become so obsessed with the other dog’s ball that they drop theirs and fight for the other one. Invariably either I or another dog will pick up the discarded ball. And then both dogs want that one and drop the one they have. Repeat again and again until both balls are gone and we leave the dog park empty-handed.

It seems remarkably like human nature, but who am I to say?

While this is clearly not at the dog park, it was incredibly easy to recreate the scene. Daisy is complaining (you can’t see the barking, but I’ll assure you it was loud and long) because she wants the pink ball, even though the identical green ball is within easy reach.

Finally I thought to tell you about the process of writing a memoir, which can be really strange and disorienting. One moment, I’m on Zoom learning how to pitch agents and publishers, the next I’m searching for old yearbooks and photos, summoning ghosts from my past to help tell the stories when my memory is struggling. I find that the memoir has asserted itself into the primary position in my writing life, so if my Substack posts seem less frequent, I apologize. Don’t worry, I’m just sifting through the past, finding meaning and grappling with lessons I’m just now learning.

Better forty years late than never.

From the garden

The hawk was the big news in the garden this week. Hard to top that.

I did “mow down” the strawberries, which means I said farewell to the leaves and sprouts so they can fortify for next year’s growth.

I harvested the catnip which is drying out, in preparation for making a batch for the cats in my life.

The cucumber was aggressive in its takeover of neighboring plants, so I’ve redirected it skyward, extending its vines around a wooden trellis. If every bloom turns into a fruit, I’m going to be inundated with cukes. My promotional campaign with neighbors and walkers has begun, inviting them to help themselves when the crop ripens. Perhaps I will make pickles, even though I personally hate them and therefore won’t know if they are any good. My youngest daughter has volunteered to taste any future pickles and take possession of any acceptable batches.

The snap peas are growing quickly, with no signs of the missing romaine seeds popping through. The tomatoes, romaine and spinach are taking their time, making slow and imperceptible progress.

Since starting this experiment, I’ve noticed more butterflies, bees and birds in my front yard, which is both super entertaining and very distracting when I’m writing.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.