It is interesting how our responses can shift. Before I had chickens, wasting food left me frustrated. But when I kept chickens I was tickled. I would scoop it up and head out to the hens who clustered at my feet to get the best noodles. Whenever I ate out I eyed the abandoned salad and squash carried on the trays of busy servers, wishing I could abscond with it for my girls. 

 

For years I saw rain as an impediment to my plans. The summer I had a garden and had my hands in the dirt every day I welcomed it for the life it gave to thirsty beans. I checked the weather on my phone not to count the predictions of sunshine, but to see how long it would be until the clouds broke open. If the wait was too long, I would rig up hoses and turn the sprinklers towards the corn rows, and then the tomato cages. This was all while knowing that pretend rain is not as satisfying as the real thing. 

 

Last month John drove to Philly to rescue our daughter who was stranded on the side of 95 with a dead battery. My response to circumstances like those has not changed one iota in thirty years. My body clamped on to fear until he and she were safely home. Thirty years ago I shivered by the side of the road while John and a truck driver changed our tire in Nebraska. I sweat with anxiety when he did not appear behind me as we were driving in caravan from California to Pennsylvania. He had run out of gas and since cell phones were not yet standard he could not alert me. So I panicked. Perhaps an evolved mother would not be anxious. I can't say. 

 

A friend told me that our purpose on this planet is to whittle our egos down to size. That is rather like sawing a Sequoia to get a toothpick.  So when a few skirmishes showed up this month to make me face my assumptions, I took it as a blessing. I can't work on a flaw that is hidden.