For The Love of Humphrey

I have always been more of an animal person.  People seem too opinionated, always at the ready to share unsolicited points of view.  Don’t get me wrong,

I have lived with people, have given birth to people, worked and volunteered with people, traveled with people and the list goes on.

Somewhere in my journey, I opted out; probably more for self-preservation than for any other logical reason.  Although during the transition from gainfully employed by somebody else to gainfully employed by me, I needed the select group of people who shared their homes with animals.  Some coined the phrase “pet parents”.  I didn’t really like that (for if you know anything about animals, the parenting of one is not, in any sense of the imagination, possible).

I became a pet sitter. Started small and ended that career after a decade of living in my car between the hours of oh my God thirty and the bewitching hour. Daily, (holidays included), I would pack for the day and maintain a driving route which repeated in 3 hour intervals.  Mostly dogs and cats; birds and rabbits were an added irritation, but not my call.  I had only three exceptions:  no snakes, no puppies and nothing that crawled both vertically and horizontally. 

I am still a pet sitter, but the club is now so exclusive, that I no longer live in my car and can say no just because.

In my home, I live with animals.  It would be absolutely naked without them (the house, that is). We get along without expectations and the few rules are flexible.

As the new ones join us and the old ones leave us, the commotion is my refuge.

Sometimes a guessing game ensues if I have been away too long.  The culprit is not always easy to spot…

Occasionally, my life is lived outside the parameters of my cozy abode.  When opportunities present themselves, I travel. When I travel, I find an excuse to be with animals.  I will book an excursion to commune with a wolf.  I will plan a short vacation around a zoo or aquarium. Other options are animal shelters and those are the most difficult for me to visit for obvious reasons.

I am just back from a visit to San Antonio.  It was a reunion with the city of my early married years.  I can’t remember exactly when I left, but gaging that my youngest is now 22 years old, it must be at least two decades absence.

I traveled with my husband, Jeff, who informed me that I had been places and had done things I couldn’t recollect.  We were pretty evenly matched, because I countered with the same logic.  That repartee allowed for long lunches and a little too much drinking.

I didn’t remember the zoo. I remembered going to the zoo, but the layout was unfamiliar and the species were somewhat not the collection of my original visit.

Those details were inconsequential because I was expecting a thorough education and heaps of joy.  The morning was cool and the parking lot was unoccupied when we arrived.  A shady spot beckoned and we accepted the invitation so that the rental car would be bearable inside at the hour designated for us to leave and lunch.

Prices had gone up…that I remember. Thankfully, the gray hair prompted a smile and a discount. Map in hand, my husband headed that-a-way and I tugged and suggested that we head another direction. 

After about an hour of nose to glass exhibit gazing, we rounded an enclosure of tropical birds, Koi and native ducks.  The keeper was busy adding sand and a layer of hay to the few covered nesting lairs. Cushy life, I thought. As we approached the pathway to another enclosure, I read the sign “Giant Anteater” and I stopped.  I was immovable. I was over joyed and the tears started.  The keeper said that “they” would be out shortly.  I waited. My husband waited. We found a bench and waited. I asked again and was told the same thing. I walked around the exhibit for the umpteenth time and the keeper kept his focus on his task at hand, but his peripheral vision kept me on the horizon and he said “the trainer just passed us, they will be right here”.

I wondered where they were now. I followed the trainer. She shut me out. I couldn’t see anything.  She took too long. While I stood vigil, Jeff moved just to the other side of the enclosure and shouted “Here he is”.  I couldn’t get to the viewing spot fast enough and I needed to ask questions of the employee.  Thankfully she didn’t step back out for a minute so I had a quick peek and my heart skipped a beat and I exhaled. 

His name was “Humphrey”, he was two and part of a breeding pair.  Her name was “Sprout” and she didn’t like him and was generally a trouble maker.  Humphrey was allowed out during the day and she was allowed out at night.  I learned that they were good swimmers and that their diet was not restricted to ants. His bowl was filled with freeze dried insect pellets, avocado and orange slices.  He was magnificent! I introduced Jeff and myself; don’t know that he realized the magnitude of the moment, but he lifted his head to investigate and then went about forging a path between the ducks and the fence line to the enclosure.

I followed him from my side. He was so close; we were in harmony.

Let me interject and inform you that Humphrey was not my first Giant Anteater. I have seen others in my travels.  Yes, I have seen maybe half dozen of the specie, but I didn’t fall in love until now.

So deep was the bond, that I (and Jeff by default) became sponsors.  I think the contract referred to “adoption”, but the wording doesn’t matter.

Our visit had a hidden agenda, I didn’t realize it then. I came as a spectator, ill prepared for the fork in the road which led me to unexpected resolve. The uniqueness of him allowed me to make sense of the world.  I don’t know a better ambassador of the splendor of nature.  He is my guide to all things peaceful and possible and joy filled.  It is predestined to journey together and I will share the horizon of my life with Humphrey, one ant at a time.

Artist By Design

Here I am, avoiding another task.  I have to critique another’s writings for class tomorrow.  And I don’t want to.  I must, but not at this moment.  I have finished one critique and it was tedious labor of I don’t know what.  I’m not a published author, want to be though and understand my membership in this informal “Meet up” social group requires that I give and take helpful pre-publishing advice from total strangers. 

Purpose of joining is to expand; socially and professionally.  It’s been too long sitting on the fence of what to do next.

So while I am avoiding my promises, I hopped on the internet and searched framed art for sale.  It’s a totally cheap, neatly arranged package of endless inspiration.  Don’t even have to change out of my moose slippers to view the world’s contributions.  My current address limits my ability to physically travel to galleries and museums within a reasonable day’s driving distance.  How fantastic to be able to point and click.  Even the few local collections can be visited 24/7 from my computer screen.  Occasionally, I still tune in to see what television programs offer when needing a more personal or guided tour of exhibits.  Haven’t gone so far as to rent a DVD though, but just might.

I remember “Kodak Presents” travel presentations…went with my grandmother.  Always held at the university’s auditorium, they were an annual highlight for us.

She always planned excursions.  Loving all things educational, she perused the newspaper, clipping out advertisements and making lists of upcoming events. If the subject matter was appropriate for a preteen, she’d extend an invitation.  Now, her definition of appropriate might have been questioned, because one time, we ended up in the campus theatre watching an Italian foreign film about the Crucifixion. Thankfully, there were subtitles and I read most of them when not hiding my eyes.

So, growing up I had unlimited opportunities to see what’s out there and I am thankful that those memories keep me in constant forward motion in the hopes of continuing my informal education.  Daughter of an educator who married an artist and said artist had an interest in Chinese history, I had no chance of missed opportunities.  It was almost normal for our home to be filled with interesting people who had been to interesting places.

Art, in my opinion, is present always.  It’s in the deliberate design of slippers at bedside.  It’s in the positioning of the toothpaste on the brush.  It’s in the collage of dogs within the border of the rug at fireplace’s edge. I’m surrounded by it. It is my joy.  The natural world is a gift of art from a higher power.  The manufactured and intentional art is a gift of that same higher power. I am lost and unfulfilled without it.

In my home, I have inspiration drawers and closets and once empty spaces between cabinets on the floor.  All projects for someday.  It’s a modest collection and I’m not going to expand its size beyond my estimated life span. No one else, here to named in my Last Will and Testament, will ever be able to understand my reasons for keeping the varied collections.  So I promise to complete them as soon as I can figure out why I bought them in the first place.

This brings you to the point of my story…a small collection (maybe 7; always odd number) of keys.  One of them is a working skeleton key (to someone else’s door),

some are from the charm and jewelry section of a local art and craft store and the rest are from the only designated junk drawer in my house, so they’re definitely mine.  The collection has been carefully chosen for a framed shadow box.  I changed my mind…the collection has been carefully chosen for a painting of a framed shadow box,  I think.

All the keys are together in a zip lock bag in a drawer of my desk. So now I need a background for the grouping.  My current choices are: newspaper, a page from Merriam Webster, fabric, painted canvas, sketch, photograph, stained glass, wood,

decoupage, dried flower arrangement and any and all borrowed inspirations from the recent internet search. Well, now that I think of it, maybe the arrangement of the keys will dictate which background to use.

I can’t go forward in my creativity.  I’m stuck with my current train of thought; which is why “keys”? What is the significance? It must be a pertinent and deliberate answer to my ongoing search for purpose.

Keys are tools. They’re no use on their own they must be paired with locks. So the mystery evolves.  Why locks? Subconsciously, I may be repressing something. I generally do not lock anything; not my house, not my car, not the cabinet where I hide the M and M’s.  I don’t want to delay access by unlocking.  Now, if I were to be responsible for something of yours, which you normally lock, I would comply. My life, however, is no secret - hence no need to keep you out. My things are just that and if they disappear, the memory of ownership will suffice. I have no use for delegation to future generations, if their respective memories want to include things I had, so be it. 

Keys are also an explanatory list of the symbols on a map or chart.  Ok then,

now I am a map; road, world, atlas, bike path or trail? The endless combinations here are sufficient to entangle the left (logical) side of my brain.

Another definition is something that allows someone to achieve a desired goal. This would include the intangible variety of keys. Education comes to mind or perhaps

invention; maybe sheer dumb luck. Goals at any age are a good reason to get up in the morning. Short term (more appropriate for the over fifty crowd) and long term are the choices. Let’s see, my short term goals include creative expression.  In my bucket or (on my bucket list) are a gallery showing of my paintings, complete memorization of any Rachmaninoff composition, learning flower designing and/or interior design ( to the point of earning potential) and inviting old hippies to share nirvana with me.  Long term?  None at present.  My comfort zone is in the here and now.

So let’s go back to just keys and locks.  But then again, there are endless kinds and sizes of locks; doors (interior, exterior, jail cell, root cellar, and car) and padlocks (big and tiny), ones to gain entry to diaries, windows, lockboxes, munitions lockers, guided-missile silos…Oh my g…..

I don’t think I really know why “keys”.  I think I’ll let the artist within struggle with the bigger picture or let you see the finished project and pass the responsibility of interpretation on to you.  In the meantime, I’ve got details to contend with and no time to consider my choice of the subject matter. The elements of design within the art form will reflect who I am creatively.

Spirit has delivered the following message: “You a creative soul. Take your gift and let it shine.  Share joy….for it is the key to your divinity”.

Ah, now I understand.