Of tardigrades and…

I woke at 5 a. m. from a deep sleep. I had been dreaming but don’t remember the dream, just the feeling of being deeply under and then emerging, slowly, to consciousness. I could hear the cat scratching in her cat box in the next room. Birds were starting to call outside the closed window.

A snippet of a Johnny Flynn song played in my head—“been listening all the night”—providing a soundtrack for early morning mind rambles—Manchester bombing, work dilemmas, upcoming knee surgery, Manchester again, what’s the latest information. I resisted the urge to grab my phone and check email and news updates.

Out of the warm bed and into the chilly house. Furnace rumbling, coffee maker gurgling and coughing, cat brushing my ankles and yelling for food.

All too often, I launch into the day, as I did on this morning, feeling taut, distracted by news from the international and national stage, stresses on the home front—and then, when it’s most needed, something will sidle in that shifts my perspective, helps me pause and breathe and listen in a new way.

Coffee made, first sip taken. Cat fed and quiet. Computer booted up. Twitter feed on screen. I’ve deliberately kept my Twitter feed a politics free zone—an occasional tweet about national or international shenanigans sneaks through but mostly I read about things related to language, art, music, education.

This morning I was captured by contributions from Robert Macfarlane about tardigrades. He linked to an article from New Scientist, in which I learned that tardigrades are also known as water bears and are tough, tardigraderesilient creatures that can survive years of dehydration.

And as is the way on Twitter, what began with a link to a scientific article then led in a different direction, this time to a song from Cosmo Sheldrake praising tardigrades.

Sometimes all that’s needed is a nugget of information and a song. I listened to the song, and listened again, then set about my day with a much lighter heart and mind.

What helps you to shift perspective?


The garden in May

Various shades and tones of purple and pink dominate the garden bloom right now.

Deep purple tulips grab attention near the front door. IMG_0682

A small rhododendron anchors the east corner of the house. This shrub was in the yard when I bought the house over 20 years ago. It was starting to look worn out but a rigorous pruning last year has brought it back to life.


Further down on the east side, a lilac forms a fragrant arch leading to the back yard.


On the western edge of the back yard, a spring garden emerges from a tangle of straggly trees.


Just in front of that garden is an old lilac that is blooming profusely this year, another shrub planted by the original owner of the house. It’s survived a winter storm many years ago that split it down the middle, a more recent summer storm that brought a tree down on it, summers of drought and summers with too much rain. I’ve pruned it a few times, fed it occasionally but mostly just let it be. It’s an ordinary looking shrub once the blooms fade, can be downright unattractive late in the summer when the foliage succumbs to powdery mildew. But right now it’s the queen of the spring garden, putting out its exuberant and fragrant blossom.



I’m teetering on the threshold of change—and I’ve never been very good at transitions. I went through a tumultuous period when I was in my early 20s, a newly minted teacher who realized that teaching high school was NOT my calling or my talent. I was living at home, struggling as a teacher, and feeling like a failure. My parents didn’t know what to do and sent me to their minister for counseling. He wanted to pray with me. I politely declined and left. I eventually found my way through that time, left high school teaching behind, got a degree in counseling, moved to New England. 

Fast forward to my early 40s. A love relationship just ended. Tip-toeing into middle age. Beginning to feel burnt out in my work as a counselor. MFA writing degree almost complete. Deeply uncertain about next steps. I sought out a therapist, looking for support as I sorted out feelings and figured out what came next. I got someone who led me into some sort of visceral place—I cried a lot in those sessions. I wish I could say I emerged cleansed in some way. In truth I’m not sure. But I found my way through to a calmer, more contented place. 

Now I’m in my 60s, trying to figure out what it means to “grow old,” how to find my way through this final adventure. I’m healthy. I’m solvent. I’m surrounded by friends. Life is good. But I worry, especially when I lie awake at 2 in the morning. It’s all so ephemeral. Friends move away, they die; my own health might fail (will fail eventually); financial hardship is always one serious illness away.

Be proactive, I tell myself. I tinker with my budget, trying to figure out a way I can leave my job and support myself without a full time salary. I jot down ideas for self-employment, fantasize about having time to write, to garden, to move slowly through my days. Inside I feel like the same old blue-jeaned me but then am surprised by a glimpse of my aging face in the mirror.

Something deeper is needed, something beyond numbers and logistics and plans. I cast thoughts out into the universe—any ideas for next steps, I say, please point a way.

For tonight I’m making pasta—comfort food. Earlier, in my stroll around the garden, I cut flowers and put them in a vase on the mantle—tulips and lilacs—deep purples and pinks, sweetly scented. I talk to a friend. Soon I’ll clean up the kitchen, read a book or watch something on Netflix. Sleep. Step by step, life unfolds.