THE NO-SUBJECT POST

Maybe the heat of summer is addling my brain, but trying to settle on what to share is like looking at a garden full of butterflies. As soon as I focus on one idea, it waggles its wings and flits to another flower. I need a butterfly net of sorts: a fine-mesh cerebral strainer. I could toss everything in, run water, and see which thoughts dribble away and which settle to the bottom of the basket. Or maybe I just have undiagnosed ADHD? (D votes for that one.)

I thought about discussing the absurdity of summing someone up on the basis of their age or the size of their home, rather than their intelligence or the size of their heart. Or we could compare notes on how hurtful it is to be shut out by a “friend” because of one miss-speak or misjudgment. That line of thought started the wheels turning to the emotional drain of trying to live up to everyone’s image of whom they expect you to be. If the paint on the picture of expectation shows even one smudge, judgmental faces darken to unforgiving disenchantment. These unforgiving types are often the same people who demand unconditional acceptance from you.

My thoughts skimmed the surface of life with dogs, specifically travelling with dogs. Their uninhibited joy when they realize they’re being included makes any related inconvenience inconsequential. Which led to the black cat who got left at home. I have endless anecdotes about said much-adored cat. At the moment he’s hanging out on my desk, rubbing his head against the monitor and batting at loose pens. And of course, you know that a discussion about whether animals have souls and feelings is a non-issue for me. I see more depth of feeling in the eyes of most dogs and cats than I do in the eyes of far too many people. Like my father used to say, “If dogs aren’t allowed in heaven, I’m not going.”

I considered sharing my passion for books/stories based on Asian culture, especially that of China. There are some great titles in my collection. My fascination began with a book of my mother’s by Pearl S Buck. I was about fourteen when I read it. My own books include nonfiction, but there is nothing like good fiction--well-researched fiction—to broaden one’s awareness of human nature\, and to deepen one’s understanding of cultures and different time periods. When someone declares that they read only nonfiction, it makes me flinch. I see this as intellectual snobbery: not an attractive quality.

That got me thinking about those individuals—we’ve all met at least one--whose entire identity revolves around their PhD. They’re the ones who won’t waste their conversational breathe on anyone with less than a Master’s degree. Their loss. A little Life-101 WD40-chat might be exactly what’s needed to spring open those creaky door hinges in their pretentious brains. How can they not know that everyone has a story, and be curious?

Our connection to nature is always a running theme for me. We all benefit from a little garden soil under our fingernails. What can be more awe-inspiring than the wonder of little seeds popping through the soil, soon to become the plants that treat us to the astonishing beauty of their blossoms or bounty of their fruits. Nothing we humans can create compares.

But instead of writing about any of this, here I am, post-wine rambling and talking about nothing of any consequence, much like an episode of Seinfeld. Sadly, my maze-like rambles won’t justify themselves by bringing in mega $$$. Maybe we could just all hang out, musing about life, over a couple of minty Mojitos. Enough Mojitos, and none of this matters anyway.  So, who’s buying?

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