Notes from Maine - 2025/04/06
This week brought the crocuses. In my yard they’re little purple and white flowers—always the first to arrive in the spring. Last year I took a picture on April 7 of a purple crocus fighting its way up through the snow. Sometimes we get them at the end of March, but beginning of April is more common. The yard is full of them right now. They’re being pelted by a cold rain. I wonder what they do the rest of the year. In a couple of weeks, all sign of them will be gone until next spring.
In the barn, little Lilly (baby horse) is itching for a chance to go back outside. She has to wait until the rain stops. When I open the door, she squeals and runs out. Her mother, Maybelle (spotted draft), grunts and calls after her while she tries to keep up. So far, Lilly has only seen the barn and side yard. One day she’ll get to run through the big pasture and see brand new things.
The vet came out last week to look at Lilly’s legs. If they weren’t growing straight, there are apparently measures we could take to straighten them out. They would glue little wedges on the sides of her tiny hoofs or something. But, so far, everyone who has come out looks at her legs and says that they’re fine. Makes me wonder why they keep coming. They don’t charge anything—they just look at her and then say that everything looks okay. Maybe they just like Lilly.
Yesterday friends came over and we played a board game called Wingspan. It’s one of those games that seems to have a million rules and impossible mechanics when you start. It quickly becomes obvious how to play, but the strategy remains inscrutable. I don’t think you could play the game with a rigid plan. Every card is a different bird with a variety of benefits and abilities. It seemed like even the experienced players were adapting constantly to the conditions in front of them. In the end, points come from so many different metrics that it wouldn’t make sense to focus on just one. It was fun—I’d like to play again at some point.
I keep looking through the window. It’s hypnotic to look at the rain. Across the way, my neighbor is having a very smoky fire. White smoke is billowing from their chimney and it hangs in the humid air. I’ll glance out, get sucked into watching the rain and smoke for one minute, five, and then ten, and then I look at the clock and wonder where the time has gone. There’s not a single productive thought in my head. Sometimes when I write, it’s like falling into a hole. My fingers work, my eyes blur a little bit, and I lose chunks of time as I transcribe thoughts. But it’s a meditative state that can go awry if there’s rain and smoke to watch.
When I was a kid, I would sometimes drop into a hypnotic state. It wasn’t that I couldn’t move, but I was so intensely calm and still that I just didn’t want to move. Does that happen to everyone? I’ve seen it portrayed on TV and in movies. Usually the other character will say something trite, like, “Hello!? Earth to Jerry (or whatever the character’s name is)!” Then Jerry will snap out of it with an apology. I guess that’s what used to happen to me. My eyes would fix on something and a profound stillness would overtake me, like when your feet melt into the sand as the waves wash back out.
Mr. O’Shields (middle school music teacher) one time snapped his fingers in front of my face to try to pull me out of fugue. Everyone laughed at me, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t that I couldn’t move, or snap out of it, I just didn’t want to. That’s what writing is like for me, except my fingers are typing. It’s self-hypnosis. It’s a dangerous state to slip into when next to window with rain and slow smoke to watch. I can easily lose an hour, and I have things to do today.
Once the rain clears up, Lilly will go outside and I’ll see the world through her big bright eyes. I can’t wait.
