It’s all gone to the birds. I’m sitting on my front porch, laptop snuggly on my legs – it’s a bit chilly out here yet, so the warmth of the processor is as good as a cat, and less claws. I’m listening to the birds. The tiny town we’ve settled in is a bird sanctuary, and my son decided he was going to buy a bird feeder. I find it interesting that he opted to spend some of his savings, unprompted, on a feeder and seed and then make sure it was set up for the birds. Given how much is going on, why that? But he did, and then I pointed out he’d hung it virtually on the front porch, where the birds were rightfully wary of it. Perhaps in the small pecan in the yard?
We’ve got doves, and grackle, and the ubiquitous LBB. He wanted to attract the cardinals (we had one nesting in the vines at the porch) and succeeded. In the distance I can hear the Canada Geese at the town pond (I know the sign says lake. It’s a pond). I won’t take much time, today, to sit here watching and listening to the feathered neighbors, but someday soon I will be able to do so.
We write about the chaos. Living in the peace of feeding the birds is much easier, but it makes for a boring book. Likely a blog post, as well, but I do have a point… somewhere. They wander off, you know. Book plots revolve around the biggest events in a life, and a series strings those together like pearls on silk, if pearls coruscated with the internal fires of eruptions and explosions. Drama! Action! Adventure! And here I am sitting on my porch sipping the cold caffeine (I have got to start coffee…) and contemplating popcorn ceiling repair.
Drama can be a small thing. In our case, the grand adventure started over a year ago, with a decision to move away from the state I’d been in for several years, and my husband had spent the majority of his life in. Neither of us knew what lay in store, but we sat on another porch a thousand miles away and talked it over for hours before making a mutual decision. Despite there being a plan, and, shockingly, the plan being maintained, it’s still had it’s snags and crises. Of such things a book could be written. Not mine, but…
Adventure, my First Reader is known to say in exceedingly dry tones, is what you want to happen to that other guy, way over there. In a book, this is exactly what we enjoy. We aren’t living through it, slogging though mud until our feet start to rot, and the leeches seethe under the rags hanging off our bodies. We are sitting quietly with book in hand – or listening to it as we drive – and thrilling to the courage of a character who is doing things we wish we could.
And the tiny dramas of doves arguing over the feeder. For avatars of peace, they squabble a lot.