Words

When I was 14 years-old, in 8^th grade, I had an English teacher who I did not appreciate at the time, but who did a lot for me, in ways that I only saw later. He once gave my class a challenge to write a paper that would explain to someone else the instructions to tie a shoe. He said that anyone who wrote a paper that could be followed to the letter, and end with a tied shoe, would receive an “A” for the quarter. I relished the way this challenge made me think intensely about every word I put on paper. I tied a shoe, stopping at every step to write down what was being done, so I could use written words to describe the exact process. I knew I was incapable of vocally describing such an act to anyone, but I was comfortable in believing I could successfully describe such a task on paper in a way that would help another human understand what I was trying to convey. The teacher had different students come up in front of class to try and follow the instructions of every paper written, as the papers were read aloud, to see if the instructions in each paper could help someone tie a shoe. A student named Monty was the one who followed the words of my paper, as it was read. At the end of the reading of my paper, Monty had tied his shoe. I was the only student in that class whose paper ended this way. I knew something very important at that moment:  if I could find a way to convey something real in written words, I could successfully communicate with another human.

This same English teacher made us write daily journals. He had us name our journals, the way Anne Frank named her diary “Kitty.” I named my journal “Sigh Lentz,” and told my teacher this meant I was supposed to remain silent, so I did not need to keep a daily journal. He told me that the name was great, which meant I needed to write “Two” pages a day, instead of just one. I still have some of those journals I wrote many decades ago. I look at them now, and can hear my teenage self, testing the waters, trying to see if anyone would listen to the words dying to leak out of me. I was too young, and way too messed up, to write the things that I truly needed to release, but I did get to use those journals to learn quite a bit about written communication. I already knew that I was meant to write things, I just had no idea who would ever be safe, and trustworthy enough, to read such words.

I have written a lot, ever since I wrote my first poem (http://sighlentz.blogspot.com/2015/09/fiction.html) when I was around eight or nine. Most of those words had never been seen by anyone.  Unfortunately, my childhood education was severely stunted by the stress I was under, so my ability to convey English in its proper written form is far from correct.

Starting 8 years ago, I took some college courses, including a handful of English classes where a wonderful instructor taught me a lot, and got the first story I wrote for her class published. The experience was amazing, opening a new world of communication for me, and giving me quite a bit more knowledge about the horribly complex rules of written English words. (I SO wish I was fluent in a language like Spanish, because my blog would be full of a lot less mistakes if I could write it in a language that made any damn sense...) 

[Edited on Sept 5, 2023, to say that while taking this college course, it was assumed I had learned the basics about the English language.  After all, I did graduate high school in 1984.   My English professor was later surprised to realize I knew nothing about sentence structure, and couldn't identify nouns or adjectives or anything to do with the basics of writing.  For me, writing is like playing guitar.  I play what I hear, but can't read a damn note. End of edit]

This past year, I shared some of my darkest words with another human.  It did not turn out well. 

Technology is dicey, and written words about dark truths can be dangerous. I always knew my darkest words were not something that just anyone could hear. Monty could tie that shoe way back in 8^th grade, because he was totally open to just listening to my words, and no one else was interfering. Real life is not some classroom. It is humans, each of whom is dysfunctional in some way, doing their thing to accomplish whatever they want to accomplish. I think this is why I like communicating with other species. Human communication is too complicated for me to ever grasp.

I love words. I love writing. I hate words. I hate writing.

Written words saved me. And destroyed me.

A bit ago, I stepped outside to watch the space station fly over. I have signed up for notifications from NASA (https://spotthestation.nasa.gov/signup.cfm) so I can watch as various humans orbit our earth, in a dance that involves very important communication between human-created machines, computers, and instruments, as well as an understanding of physic's laws that humans have discovered and communicated to others over centuries, and communication between those handful of humans on the space station, and a ground crew willing and able to listen and communicate in response. I think of each human up there as I watch them fly over, and wonder who it was in their lives that gave them the support every human requires to accomplish anything good humans are capable of accomplishing. I wish everyone could be supported, and communicated with, in a way that brought out the good each human is born capable of accomplishing. Humans are capable of so much good. And so much bad.

This past year has healed me. And devastated me.

And written words will always be the only release I know.

Talking to animals

Kittens from yesterday's clinic

A deer who communed with me as I left for yesterday's clinic

A critter that spoke with me this week

White rabbit on my hillside.

The bird who talks to me.  Its nest is under that eave.

One of our recent conversations.

I love animals.  I always have.  I am blessed to be able to try and help critters with some of what I do in my daily life.

I am not an animal whisperer.  Hell, I cannot even communicate successfully with most humans, much less other living creatures.  But every day, I am in contact with all kinds of critters, and the contact I have with species outside of my own is very special.

Along the road I drive to get to my home in a tiny rural town, there are feathered critters I call "Surfing birds."  I am not a birder, and know nothing about identifying specific kinds of birds.  But since moving here in '92, my kids and I discovered that every spring, a weird thing starts to occur.  A certain kind of bird would swoop down in front of our vehicle and fly in front of it for awhile, then fly away.  This occurs throughout spring and summer.  The birds seem to have a Swallow-type shape, but are smaller than the Swallows I can identify.  After about three years of witnessing this strange behavior, I recognized something familiar about what they were doing:  they were catching, and then gliding on, the wind currents that sweep up the front of cars.  These birds were riding wind waves.  I have ever since called them "Surfing birds," and I truly believe they behave this way for the simple pleasure of it, as it serves no other purpose I can see.  I have never found proof of this in literature or online, but because I have witnessed this phenomenon faithfully for the past 24 years, I am quite sure it exists.  Some birds know how to use the creation of cars to hang ten.  I love it when they choose to surf my car.

A couple of days ago, a praying mantis spent time on my hand, looking at me whenever I spoke, and joining in with me as I surveyed the fields and trees around us.  We spent about 6 minutes together. 

Two herons used to fly over my home, back in the early '90's when I first moved here.  They flew over our place often, specifically on some days that were especially hard for me, and this brought me some comfort.  A few years later, the female of this pair was shot by someone on the river walkway in town.  After that, the male would sometimes fly over my home, on his own, in heartbreaking solitude.  His flights became a kind of prayer for me, a prayer for my children, and a prayer for him.  I do not know exactly what he was feeling as he flew over alone, but I'm quite sure he grieved the loss of the one who once flew beside him.

Two birds built a nest under my back eave this spring.  One of them started to "talk" to me on a regular basis.  This continued throughout the incubation and raising of the birds' offspring.  I would step outside, and this bird would whistle, and wait for my response.  Then we would talk.  I recorded some of our "conversations" on my phone.  Now that this bird's babies are raised and gone, the nest has been vacated, and we no longer have daily conversations, but the bird does come back once in awhile, and speaks with me. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was present for the last moments on earth of a cat who has meant the world to me the past few years.  I spent time with this cat often, and talked to her a lot, even though she was deaf.  I knew her eyes heard me.  She was a beloved member of a beautiful family, and it was a simple quirk of fate that brought us together as she passed on.  There was a moment, soon before her passing, where she and I awaited the test results that would decide her fate, and her head suddenly leaned against my arm, and rested.  That moment will forever remain in my mind, a connection that surpasses words.  

Early this past Sunday morning, a white rabbit appeared on my hillside.  I wanted to get close enough for a good picture, but I did not.  The rabbit was back that evening.  I wish this rabbit luck, as it survives the rural area where we live. There are plenty of coyotes who would find this rabbit easy to spot at night in our terrain, and make a quick meal of such a critter. 

I am blessed to drive transports of cats to a spay/neuter clinic in a nearby state.  During the loading of the van, I do not get a chance to meet every cat, but once on the road, there are often certain cats who start to vocalize.  I respond to each of them, and get to know their voices.  Once we arrive and unload, I start to get to know the many furry souls who just spent time with me on the road.  I also get to connect the various voices I had communed with to the faces that go with the specific voices I just spent road-time talking to.  I love these trips, and the talks I am blessed to experience.  I cherish getting to know these beings, in both pre- and post-op.  I just finished one of these trips a few hours ago.

My communication with creatures thought of as "animals" means more to me than I can put into words.  I am thankful, every day, for these beings.  I would give anything to see humans learn to communicate with each other as well as some animals have communicated with me.  The world would experience much less violence.