Natalie Whatley

Other human beings frequently make me aware of my weaknesses and cause me to see areas where I need enrichment. During a riveting conversation this past week with a friend and mentor, I realized that I needed to acquire a new skill: mind reading. I couldn’t help but think that being adept in telepathy could make all areas of life easier, or would it?

Did you know that some scientists claim they are on the trail to real mind reading through PET scans and MRI’s? Such tools combined with complicated methods of computation make it possible to identify how and where the brain stores our intentions. Yep, researchers could see what a person would do (mentally speaking) before they did it. Fascinating and scary all at the same time.   

Through a little impromptu training I learned that as a highly intuitive person (it comes standard with the introvert package of which I am fully equipped) I can already glean a little more than the standard human. (Maybe another day I’ll tell you how I sometimes wish I could turn that radar off – being in a crowded room can be exhausting for me. I notice everything.)

While some find parapsychology offensive— akin to dabbling in dark science or mysticism— I am intrigued. But I’ve never so much as played with a Ouija Board. Merely hearing about others’ experiences gives me the creeps. Besides, religious leaders and parapsychologists alike have many tales of those things dredging up demons. Uh, no thanks. I have enough of my own to battle without calling in extras. But I digress.

I promise I didn’t veer off into weird things; I just need to be able to read minds. Seriously. And some people in my life seem rooted in the knowledge that I already know how. I grow weary trying to hit a moving target, and I know I make people squirm with my probing questions. So, let’s just cut out the middle man here and let me use my new-found skills to get straight to your thoughts.

It’s working already. I hear you. “No way, sister! My thoughts are my own!” Please don’t go all George Orwell on me. I won’t use it in nefarious ways and should we ever be subject to the Thought Police, I promise not to turn you in.

Wow. That’s some scary, mixed-up stuff. I really didn’t want to know about . . . Your neighbor did that? Tell your wife you hate that casserole she’s been making for 22 years. I’m sorry you hated my grocery store column; I was having a bad week. Things are getting all jumbled up . . . Somebody’s husband is seriously grating on her nerves with . . . Whew! That’s enough.   

My head hurts. I’m putting on my tin-foil hat to scramble the incoming signal until I figure out how to turn this off.

I’ll stick to reading between the lines. I can control what my conjecture defines.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

American essayist, poet, and philosopher Henry David Thoreau wrote the following over 150 years ago: “Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises. If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”  Sounds like my kind of guy. Also makes me think that while our environment changes, the human condition does not.

The drummer I’m hearing these days — I’m certain some of you are hearing it, too — is tapping out a slow, rhythmic emergence – a cadence with crescendo leading us to (drum roll) . . . April. My favorite month.

And desperation as mentioned by Thoreau pretty accurately describes how much I was ready for the colorless, dreary days of winter to be over. I’ve been laughed at and told by Yankee friends that I’m a weenie and could never handle a “real” winter. I suppose they’re right. But I also remind them that they couldn’t handle a “real” summer.

March has been described as a time when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold. That sounds about right. I wish I could figure out a way to bottle the gentle warmth and cool breeze of this time of year for both the scorching, drippy days of our summers and the icky (I challenge you to find a better meteorological term) damp, frigid (it’s relative – below 50 degrees qualifies in my book) yuckiness that defines a Southern winter.

 But then again, the vibrancy of spring is probably more enjoyable simply because it is fleeting. To have it available at my whim would ruin the whole concept, I’m sure. Plus, I read somewhere that I should be interested in the changing of the seasons as it will make me happier than being infatuated with spring alone. I can’t help it, though. My eyes see it all in Technicolor, and it does appear more attractive than the others.

As I walk outdoors, I can hear the popping, the bursting, the chirping, the struggle of rebirth, the fluttering, and, yes, the quiet dusting of pollen particles floating through the air. It all comprises what ends up being my heart singing its own little concerto of awakening.

So, if I seem a little off tempo with the rest of the world, know that I try to march with others, but invariably end up out of step as I revel in the wonder of what will unfold along with new blooms. I know it sometimes makes me appear mad as a March hare, but I prefer calling it spring fever. And you won’t find me looking for a cure. I rather enjoy the frenzied pulse – creates a catchy tune. Marching to the beat of a different drummer – there’s nothing further from desperation and nothing closer to the boldness of enterprise.

My yard looks awful. Most of the plant life is crunchy, dull brown, and decaying. The only things lush and green are the unsightly weeds that somehow survived the hard freeze.  It’s an embarrassment given the “Yard of the Month” sign has graced the plot of land in previous years.

My personal yard man, Jeff, gathered all my potted favorites prior to the cold-weather event and put them in the shed. The one I most wanted to save (received it at the hospital after the birth of my now 17-year-old) fared quite well, but all of the others, not so much. I’m hoping to nurse them back to health.

The flowerbeds went uncovered as the major occupants are freeze-hardy, and the lesser inhabitants, well, I’ve wanted to dig them out and do something different for a good while.  It seemed harsh ripping up live plants while they still served their purpose, even if they were no longer what I desired. In a cruel act, I allowed them freeze to death. Until very recently, I busied myself to assuage the guilt and turned my eyes from the carnage upon entering and exiting my home.

Since February is knocking on our door, I began my customary early-spring cleaning. (We only get so much sunshine minus the sweltering heat. I’ll not waste one minute of it cooped up indoors once spring has officially sprung.) Worked like a mad woman inside, cleaning this, scrubbing that, gathering up items and clothing no longer wanted or needed, etc.  Long, boring story short, and since I refuse to clean kids’ rooms, I finished with time to spare.

A couple of nice sunshine-filled days prompted Scooter (my guard dog) and I to begin working in the yard – assessing what needed to be done by the resident yard man. (I should mention that Jeff LOVES for me to do this. He more appreciates it when I prepare a written list where he can check items off and track his progress. It’s the least I can do.)

The nice weather also provided me an excuse to stay outside post assessment and actually do some work. I pulled up the victims of my premeditated herbicide and began plucking the weed-infested areas.

True to my form, I started thinking of the parallels between the human condition and nature. (Yes, it’s sometimes exhausting being inside my head. Planning to spend some time thinking about whether or not I overthink things. ) Anyway, it occurred to me that over the course of many years I’ve blown a few of my own arctic blasts – froze a few things and left them to rot.

Through a great deal of reflection and a subsequent thaw, I realized that I had turned my back, chose not help those things recover, or bother to clear away the weeds that nearly choked them out for good.  My flowerbeds have been sprinkled with my blood and sweat on numerous occasions.  I can now add tears to the list.

The upside: as I care for my still-alive plants, I realize that a hard freeze doesn’t necessarily mean the end. Pruning away damage and providing tender loving care makes way for something fresh, new, and possibly better than what was there before. And since I remember how quickly I frosted a few things, I have the added comfort of knowing that rapid freeze-drying actually prevents decay and spoilage – what’s underneath has been perfectly preserved.

So don’t be alarmed if you see a woman watering flowers with tears on a sunny day, she’s pouring out her heart and melting some frosty layers away.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

I recently read A.J. Jacobs’ The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment, where A.J. makes himself a human guinea pig in “radical lifestyle experiments”. I think he’s on to something. I’m intrigued to the point of wanting to conduct a few experiments of my own.

The title and author, whose other books I’m currently reading, came to my attention during the last Starbooks at Starbucks presentation by Sterling Municipal Library’s Jamie Eustace. Check the library for availability of the book and future Starbooks dates.

A.J.’s intentional shenanigans include posing as a beautiful single woman (he’s a married man) on an online dating service (that should serve as a warning) and following the teachings of the Radical Honesty Movement’s guru, Dr. Brad Blanton.  He lives through each of these little slices of life—among others—for a month and gives hysterically poignant accounts of his findings.  If you enjoy the nonfiction/humor genre – one of my personal favorites as it provides the best medicine, laughter – I highly recommend it.

It was fitting that The Guinea Pig Diaries and the idea of experimenting with life came to me as 2009 drew to a close. I was in a period of intense introspection and was already thinking of trying on a few radical changes. Why not? There are plenty of days when I get the feeling I’m a lab rat – the subject of scientific study on the pliability of the human soul. Any loud “SNAP!” you hear coming from my direction, will be indicative of my personal study’s conclusion if not my demise. Rest assured science will go on as specimens living with teens are in plentiful supply.

For longer than I care to admit, I’ve been scurrying around the bottom of a beaker. (No trying to bust a glass ceiling here – just glass walls, mostly of my own construction.) Some days I felt the Bunsen burner was on its highest setting; I reached melting point and came close to boiling before the gas supply was exhausted. I won’t be refueling that particular device, but must find another source of heat or risk having the contents of my beaker reach freezing point. Science is complicated.

In the spirit of the new year, I’ll be donning a white lab coat and goggles. Please join me with some of your own ventures and tell me all about them. We only get one ride through this thing we call life. Who knows what I’ll put myself and my family through, but it sounds fun.

For all the things that don’t prove to be too embarrassing, I’ll give an account of my findings here, lab-report style – complete with hypothesis, method (to my madness), supplies (this could get funny) and results.  Goodness, just expecting a little unexpected is exciting.

Since it may be impossible to remain objective and avoid skewing data in the roles of scientist and subject, I might ask for outside input from unbiased parties. You’ll know you appear a reliable soul if I walk up and ask you to participate.

Gosh this is going to be fun – sort of like going to the high-school-chemistry lab knowing the potential exists for a spectacular explosion. Happy New Year! It’s going to be a blast!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Imagine if you will a strobe-lit room filled with balloons, streamers, and me throwing confetti above my head. Today marks a special day for me, and I decided to throw myself a little party. Welcome to episode 100 of my column! (I realize 100 is a mere drop in the column-writing bucket, but I wasn’t sure I’d make it this far.) Incidentally, my little celebration is a twofer as I’ll also be observing my very last birthday on Monday. I’m turning 39.

I’ve decided to stop there, because, well, the thought of admitting I’m 40 makes me cringe. I’ve got a year to make peace with it, so I guess I better get busy and seek professional help now.  

I keep hearing that 40 is the new 30, or even the new 20. Yeah, right. I suppose if one’s a multi-gazillionaire and has access to all the latest-and -greatest treatments and procedures, plus on-staff nutritionists, personal trainers, stylists . . . For the rest of us, 40 is 40. Sigh. I haven’t heard the song “Landslide” in quite some time, but for some reason it just popped in my head. And I prefer the Stevie Nicks version:

                Can the child within my heart rise above?

                Can I sail thru changing ocean tides?

                Can I handle the seasons of my life?

                Well I’ve been ‘fraid of changing ‘cause I

                Built my life around you

                But time makes you bolder

                Children get older, I’m getting older too

 As far as I can tell, I’m not buried under a large mass of earth that has fallen down a steep slope, so just maybe this phase in my life will be an overwhelming victory. Only time will tell. Stinks to be impatient.

It seems like just yesterday I was introducing my column and inviting you all along on the ride that’s shaping up to be my midlife crisis, uh, I mean journey to rediscover the parts of me that took the backseat to motherhood.

Putting aspirations on hold – at least temporarily – was a conscious and necessary decision given the particulars of my family. Then I found out like many before me that despite educating myself on the finer points of parenthood and giving it most of what I had, the whole business is a risky, uncertain venture riddled with variables that cannot be controlled.  

Those “variables” are going to force me to ratchet up my maintenance if I’m going to remain 39. Heck, who am I kidding? There’s already too much wear-and-tear.  I might have to revise my plan. Plus, I had some goals I wanted to reach by 40, and it looks like I may need a little extra time.

On second thought, I don’t think I want to be stuck at any age. Through hard-earned wisdom I’ve learned there are some points (possibly years) in life, where it’s desirable to move through a phase quickly. Not that I’m wishing away a single minute. I need to live through it all . . . that should provide at least another 100 columns.   

Thanks for celebrating with me, and for reading. I couldn’t have done it without you letting me know I’m not alone in struggling with the “variables”.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Now that Thanksgiving is over, let the hustle and bustle begin! In recent years, retailers forced us into Christmas mode the day after Halloween; some sneaky ones started before that. I fell prey to such tactics and in years past gloated over having shopping completed by this point. I wish I could get back in that pattern because having that task out of the way cleared my mind and calendar for appointments with joyful and triumphant. For some, desiring the company of those two is, “no appointment necessary” – if only I could be so spontaneous.

Part of the problem: I’m just not that into the holidays any more. Sad, but true. It’s all become over-the-top and too much for my enjoys-peace-and-quiet, introverted self. Cindy Lou Who, of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”, summed it up quite nicely when she told her father, “It’s just that I look around at everyone getting all kerbobbled. Doesn’t this seem superfluous?” I’ll say it for you, “Bah humbug!” It’s just that I’d rather make a special day over something unimportant to the rest of the world than participate in mass festivities; I’m a bit of a rebel that way.

To get through the season with a socially acceptable level of style and grace, I employ a multitude of coping strategies. All the usual suspects are used: exercise (I’m convinced the mental health benefits far outweigh the physical), eating healthily, taking vitamins, getting adequate amounts of sleep, drinking plenty of water,  not overloading the calendar, beating my head against the wall while mumbling incoherently . . .

This year, I researched additional prospective tactics to add to the tool chest as I found myself stressed long before the holidays arrived. An article on the Mayo Clinic website suggests “being realistic and planning ahead”.  Shoot, there’s another problem: I’m steeping in realism, and “planning ahead” (laugh). I try, but with four other people, a dog, a cat, 2 hamsters, 3 automobiles, and a home, the monkey-wrench possibilities are endless. 

Another interesting pointer came to me via e-mail from Dr. Oz’s Real Age Newsletter and caused me to welcome a germ into my world with open arms. Supposedly, I can introduce the inner embryo of the wheat kernel to my oatmeal and it will make me feel less stressed.

Wheat germ contains the phytonutrient octacosanol, which is known to help increase physical endurance and improve the body’s ability to handle stress. From the virtues extolled, one could sprinkle this stuff on just about anything – even glazed, fried-in-lard donuts – and make it healthy. OK, not really. But seriously, sprinkling is for stress sissies; open the jar and dump it down the old gullet. (Maybe have a glass of water handy. I haven’t tried it yet, but it looks pretty dry. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention wheat germ is very high in fiber. How to put this politely? Well, if the bathroom isn’t a place of refuge, don’t follow the whole-jar advice.)

 It will all be over before we know it, and it’s coming regardless of whether or not the house is decorated and the “perfect” gifts are under the tree.  And I will enjoy numerous things, but I can guarantee not one of them will come with tags, my peace and joy always comes without packages, boxes, and bags!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

For those of you who enjoyed my brush with the law and ensuing speeding ticket, that confession wasn’t the end. While losing a clean 17-year driving record was traumatic, the ticket was easy to divulge. What I didn’t tell was that September brought another hit . . . literally. (State Farm knows all about this one.)

It was an ordinary week day. I was out running errands — driving the posted speed limit or below — and stopped by Sterling Municipal Library to turn in some books BEFORE they were due. I’m a rule-follower like that. I secured a parking spot where there weren’t many other cars and took care of my business in mere minutes.

I’m not sure whether I noticed before, or if it occurred to me afterwards, but it was a dreary day outside – one of those days when one wouldn’t notice much color because the sky was a blanket of gray.  At any rate, I got in my tank (Chevy Suburban), started it, looked back, checked mirrors, etc. like I have always done, put it in reverse, backed up, and CRUNCH!

See, a CRASH would have sounded as such, but since I was moving slower than a snail’s pace CRUNCH was the exact sound I heard. My initial thought was, “What in the heck?” as I knew there was nothing behind me. I pulled forward a tiny bit and got out to inspect.  Imagine my surprise in finding a fairly new light-grayish silver Cadillac with a hideous depression shaped like my bumper. When I do things, I do them up right! (Incidentally, my bumper sustained a mere scratch.)

Stunned, I pulled back into the parking spot and wondered where in the world that car came from. It wasn’t there when I looked, or was it? Sheesh! I’ve got enough on my plate to worry about these days to have my visual perception playing tricks on me! Of course the car was there, but from the on-high perch of the Chevy Suburban and against the gray-sky backdrop it was camouflaged and stealthy.

It had been over 20 years since I was to blame for any insurance claims. I didn’t know what to do. The car was unoccupied, so no personal injuries there. I checked myself . . . all was intact save for my ego. I needed to get in touch with the owner, but I was at the quietest place on Earth. Dare I waltz into such a serene place and announce I’d hit someone’s car? Sit and wait for the owner? What if the owner was a large goon easily angered? Plagued by indecision, I called State Farm.

A true angel on Earth, Maxine at Ken Mitchell’s State Farm office, answered. Ugh!  I didn’t want to tell her what I’d done, but did so and asked what to do. She was so sweet and lifted me from the pit of idiocy. “We have a sign here in the office that says ‘Life Happens’”, she said, and I could tell she was smiling or possibly laughing at my expense. She went on to praise my honesty and reported many drivers in the same predicament just drive away. I’ve been on the receiving end of such treatment; it feels pretty crummy.

I did as instructed and left a note on the car with contact information and stated the “accident” had been duly reported. My hands were shaky as I wrote. I know the owner was able to make out the phone number as I’ve received confirmation that my insurer settled the claim. But I also hope they were able to read my apology, because if my eyes did not deceive me (again), they were without a car for a few days. If it’s any consolation, I was without my pride, too.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

I have a little confession to make: Back in August I was caught in a moment of lawlessness and was singled out by an officer of the law. (If anyone from my State Farm agent’s office is reading:  Be a good neighbor, and stop now. Thank you, and have a nice day.)

It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I was driving my middle child out of town to stay with grandparents.  I don’t know about other parents, but I have the best conversations with my kids while we’re alone in the car. Anyway, Jeremy and I were having such a good time conversing through a 50 mph zone that I failed to slow down when it dropped to 40 mph. 

I’ve traveled down this very road many times in the past three decades – even laughed when I saw other poor souls pulled over. It would never happen to me. I knew officers camped there among the trees, and besides, I’m not a habitual speeder. Plus, on more than one occasion I got a teeny little charge out of slowing down to 40, angering the driver behind me, watching them come flying around me and . . . BEEP went the radar! Who got the last laugh? It’s the little things in life.  

I was cruising along with a little old lady in front of me when I saw the officer — radar gun in hand — come out from hiding and motion me and granny to pull over. Drats! No worries, though – my inspection, registration, insurance, and license were all in order. I wasn’t going that fast. Would probably get a verbal warning and be on my way.

Officer as he approached my window “Let me tell you how this ticket is going to work.”

He was no nonsense and apparently had no sense of humor, either. I was stunned. No “is there some emergency?” or any other niceties for that matter.  The ticket was already filled out (he had a whole pad of them ready so he could get on with writing the next one) with the exception of my particulars.

He took my license and as he copied the information asked when I’d received my last ticket. I remembered because I was pregnant with my first child, and in that instance was also pulled over by an officer on foot. For whatever reason, I don’t attract the attention of those actually in patrol cars.

“Last ticket was 17 years ago,” I beamed.  I figured that information would alert him to what a good driver I am (and he could easily verify it on his in-car computer) and he’d decide to cut me a break.

“That’s pretty good. I’m issuing you a citation for 50 in a 40. I’m cutting you a break as I actually clocked you at 51. Your options for taking care of this are . . .”

I didn’t hear much more. But I was incredibly polite and even thanked him. I know he was just doing his job and that a criminal who musters up her prettiest smile along with some southern charm must be dealt with in an unbiased manner.   

My retribution for endangering all others on the road, besides the $103 in court fees, was spending the beautiful last Saturday indoors with a group of other troublemakers. There was one sweet gentleman sitting next to me “for the insurance discount only”.  You can all feel safer on the road because my driving skills have been defensively fortified. It was actually a good refresher. Since I sat through it and passed the test at the end, the ticket will not officially count against me.

I admit I wasn’t paying full attention to driving, but paying attention to something important nonetheless.  I hope you, the motoring public, can forgive me.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

As a first-born stick-in-the-mud (I’ve mentioned that about myself a time, or maybe two. Can you tell I have a complex?) I take most of what life sends my way far too seriously. While that trait is engrained in every cell of my being, I like to believe I have the capacity for having fun. But I can guarantee I’ll not be the one starting it.

For well over three decades, life moved along with me unbothered by my lack of participation in escapism, which has a variety of definitions, but suffice it to say humans use it to escape reality when reality gets to be a bit much. (Etymologists say the word escapism probably came into usage during the early 1930s while our country was in a very depressed state. I take some comfort in knowing it’s not just current generations needing a break from some harsh realities – not that I consider my life as difficult as those who suffered through The Great Depression.)

There are those who proclaim members of modern society fritter away too much time in activities designed to take one’s mind off necessary stressors – rabid consumerism, food, recreational and pharmaceutical drugs, alcohol, books, television, computers, video games – unplugging vast numbers from real life, making us lazy and highly unproductive.

More and more, I’m seeing the value in anything that lets off some proverbial steam. Of course being a writer requires one to be a reader as well, and I’ve tried going that route, except I prefer non-fiction. It’s like I have some sick need to constantly immerse myself in what is or was actual existence. I suppose human nature dictates that at some point a part of me would revolt. I’m curious to see which side will be victorious. 

I’m learning that the wisest among us are those escapists who have mastered the balance of work and play, using the benefits before becoming overwhelmed – yet another lesson I wished I’d picked up sooner. I’m cutting myself a little slack, though. This wasn’t something I was ready to grasp before living with teenagers.

Since I realized my need for an outlet, I’ve tried to find positive ones. While I’m a lifetime member of the intermittent exerciser club, I started running after school started in August.  It’s a strange thing, too, because I’ve never enjoyed running; it felt awkward and I pictured folks outside laughing as I lumbered along. Just weeks later, I’m feeling more comfortable in my movement and furthermore, don’t care what anybody thinks.

Some days I run like the wind when I have a firm grasp on what’s irritating me at the moment and picture myself running away from it. Other days, visualizing something pleasant in the near distance motivates me to move forward. In either case, before long the pea-sized gland in my brain sends out some pretty powerful stuff: endorphins. I think maybe now I’m addicted.

While under the influence and enjoying a particular escape vision, famous escapologist, Harry Houdini, appeared in my thoughts. He was masterful at getting out of straitjackets, which is where I fear I’m headed more days than not. The good news: Before his death (he died of complications with appendicitis, not performing an escape stunt as has been depicted by Hollywood) he wrote a book that told how he got out. By enlarging his chest and shoulders he created a fair amount of wiggle room before dislocating his shoulders and gaining freedom.  Since reality makes me feel so disjointed lately, I think I may have found my new calling: escape artist. Step right up and enjoy the show!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

I joined the SWAT team this week. Before you start thinking I’ve taken my recent participation in the Citizens Police Academy too far, I assure you it’s not what it may seem. However, I have been asked several times in the past couple of weeks if I’m planning on becoming a police officer. The answer is no. But I was pleasantly surprised to find that I hadn’t reached the maximum age to apply. Career changes are on the forefront of my mind lately, and I like to keep my options open.

You’ve no doubt joined the team as well. I refer to the move I constantly make while outdoors and with greater regularity even indoors. Yes, I’m dancing around, slapping, hitting . . . swatting.  After the rain we received, and I’m not complaining because we needed it, the mosquitoes took over. I’ve seen and heard the city trucks out spraying – thankful for it – but I think the little critters have mutated and get a real charge out of flying through the fog of chemicals, straw-like proboscis in the ready position, and poking even the smallest area of exposed flesh. They mock us. For that, I have no reservations over using my brute strength to end their pathetic lives.

Knowing that every living thing has some objective to accomplish on Earth, I asked a question that seems to go unanswered. What exactly is the purpose of the mosquito in the grand scheme of things? I researched tirelessly to provide an answer. (The fact that on most days I’m unable to determine my own purpose beyond providing clean laundry and the restocking of the pantry made the quest laughable, but one never knows when an endeavor may lead to the path of enlightenment.)

The best answer by far was provided by some anonymous soul who posted their wisdom on the internet, “The purpose of the mosquito is to provide humans with the pleasure of scratching that itch!” That has to be it. There was also a whole bunch of scientific mumbo-jumbo. Scientists couldn’t say for certain what role mosquitoes play other than providing a miniscule percentage of a food source for some predatory aquatic animals as well as bats, dragonflies and spiders. They did, however, caution against completely eradicating the species.  I guess that position is understandable in that never solving this problem provides a certain level of job security for researchers and the producers of mosquito repellants.

While investigating, I dug up a few interesting tidbits I didn’t already know. (And people who have conversations with me wonder why I am a repository of useless knowledge.) Mosquitoes pollinate certain grasses, goldenrods, and are the exclusive pollinators for the blunt-leaved bog orchid. I looked those up; they’re as beautiful as the name implies. While they’re not particularly pretty, I’m sure they have a purpose, too.

Old Japanese ghost stories claim mosquitoes are reincarnations of the dead, condemned by the errors of their former lives. In case that causes you to worry you’ll be serving out some time as a blood-sucking pest (which only the females mosquitoes are . . . I won’t go there), you’re safe unless the “errors” in your life include jealousy or greed.  It was unclear in that ancient folklore if one would be reincarnated over and over since the life-span is fairly short – one week for a male, one month for a female – maybe it depended on the degree of jealousy and greed.

 At the end of my little insect journey, I got it. They are here to teach me a few things – specifically patience, tolerance, and endurance for the pesky little things I allow to ruin otherwise nice moments in life. I’ll give it a go as soon as I gear up for battle in the boots, cool SWAT suit, goggles, and helmet. It’s a jungle out there!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley