Squirrely

As soon as I woke up on Saturday morning, my mind started screaming. “What about this?” “What about that?” “How are you going to ... ?” “When are you going to ... ?” It was like being in bed with a hysterical toddler. Finally, I gave up and got up to discover Ter was already up for pretty much the same reason. Our individual issues might have differed, but the mental histrionics were identical.

I am grateful to her for many things, but our ongoing conversation—now in its thirty-somethingth year—is always in the top five. Quite simply, we talk. We share and sympathize and advise and caution and help each other to feel better because monsters are more easily faced with a wingman than by yourself, and sometimes just naming the beast to someone you trust will neutralize it.

Imagination is not always a good thing. Oh, those sparks of inspiration can pave the way to joy, happiness and creative climax. They can also drive me to the depths of despair. I don’t just tell stories, you see. I tell myself stories. I might be mildly anxious about something, but given too long a rein, my imagination can make it into a category five catastrophe.

It’s all about perspective.

A couple of weeks ago, Ter disappeared into the Ocean Room. She retreats to that room when seeking solace from the daily grind, the (real) toddler downstairs, the loud-mouthed roommate, and/or her own incredibly powerful intellect. After a while, I joined her for tea. We chatted a little, then she told me about the aforementioned perils of imagination running down a dark road. Turned out she’d been fretting a bit more than usual about something—okay, many things, but that’s how she rolls—and it had occurred to her that, since we each create our own reality, if she continued to indulge a particular line of thought, disaster was almost inevitable. Once checked, however, she was able to turn her imagination back toward the light. By the time I came into the room, she felt stronger and more positive about resolving what was bothering her.

Then she told me what the Universe had presented as an example to put it in perspective.

After mulling the imagination thing for a bit, she’d got up from her chair and glanced out the front window. It was late afternoon and the sun had moved behind the house, and the shadow she glimpsed crawling up the neighbours’ van was a honking huge critter that looked about to swallow the vehicle whole. What the hell is that? she thought, bug-eyed on adrenaline. Then she saw what cast the shadow:

It was a little squirrel, running up a tree.

Think about it.