simple.

I officially renounce any intention to ever stop writing about lizards. Especially dead ones.



I'd left the terra cotta pots on the patio all winter, and this little fella was in one from the middle of the stack. No idea how he got there in the first place, let alone how I inadvertently killed him. But Sunday night, re-potting herbs... jeebus. Glad I inspected before clearing out the debris with my hand because EWWWWWW to lizard skeletons under the fingernails.

I love listening to Rosie Thomas but rarely do. The excess of feminine longing does terrible things to my brain. (Terrible things I love.) But Rosie was on when I found the mummy, and her simple nostalgic language colored the shock and the out-loud laughter that followed, bringing my attention to something beyond the discovery of yet another untimely death.

I still remember when coming to Florida was Utter Catastrophe. Gainesville felt so boring, the South so uncultured. I wailed at one point that I was afraid my soul would die; that I wouldn't know how to love weirdness anymore and be accustomed to a cookie-cutter world. I'd leave Florida a brainwashed fan of pop country in a miniskirt and halter top, punctuating the end of every sentence with GO GATORS!

(Because, seriously, people do that here. Someone will send out a memo about lunch or something and end with GO GATORS! Because gators have so much to do with the location of the sandwich trays.)

Eccentricity's still a thing to be fought for in Gainesville, but considering I work in a psychology clinic, it won't be hard to find. Actually, forget the clinic. I work in academia. IT WON'T BE HARD TO FIND.

Back to Rosie and the reptile remains. Laughter and intrigue over lizard skeletons is pretty lame, especially shared only with a cat whose simultaneous lack of surprise and deep contentment in my company is unwavering. But it brought to light - in a way I finally deeply understand - the reality that the city with all of its excitement is not necessary.

It's fun, but also sensory gluttony having hundreds of restaurants and bars to choose from, dozens of plays and concerts going on, going to games in stadiums and being surrounded by strangers whenever you step out in public. Not that I'm in any way opposed to experiential gluttony. It's just that it's not necessary...

There is much less to choose from here. A few unique bars, music venues, bookstores and groceries. I see the same people all the time. But the other side of boring is simple, which is beautiful. It leaves room where love can grow for the faces you see every day but don't look for. It leaves room for amusement to need no more than dead creatures in strange places and things that grow in the sun from your back window. It leaves room for the earth's beauty to spring out on you from everywhere. Look at my profile picture. I can have that any time I want, no hour-long drive out of the city. The drop of a hat.

At the drop of a hat, last Friday, I took my bike out for the afternoon. Followed a trail fringed with shade trees and flower bushes until it came out along a field, with woods further back. It was a simple view: green, blue, white, all intensified by the sun. Grass stretching with sky stretching over it but I'd say the world looked bigger than it had before. Endless. It wasn't remotely interesting - no action, no characters. But in its simplicity, it was breathtaking. It had so much room.

still life.

Just when I thought I'd posted my last lizard blog, the critters outdo themselves. This weekend we took a bike ride to Micanopy in 98-degree heat (104 with the humidity factor; p.s. I almost died). Standing around drinking water after, Lindsey noticed him in the hinge of the front door. Who knows how long his little corpse lay hidden there, or the exact moment his life snapped swiftly shut, stamped out mid-motion?



This day's evolved into something of a yearly mid-motion stamping of myself. An impression of life at this given moment, leaving behind snapshots I set side by side each year. Clearly I have too much time on my hands.

Last year's snapshot was also my first post, about ferocity and folderol. About the foolishness of passion that clings wildly to an ideal, beyond the point of no return. Beyond the point at which the heart commits itself to a fervent, hopeless path rather than accept - both disappointing and liberating - the need to change course.

What would it look like if I was pressed in a book (or a door hinge) today?

I'm less afraid of anything now than I've ever been. I'm more ready for disappointment. Not in a bleak way, but in a way that understands all life's tiny deviations from what you hoped for are not the same thing as disappointment. Having what you wanted is not victory, and changing - even letting go - is not loss. There is no such thing as The Way It Should Be. There's only The Way It Is, and however it is it's a gift. Even and sometimes especially when you hate it.

Change also loses its potency to disappoint when you stop expecting what's not yours to ask for. I'm less afraid because I'm learning to make fewer assumptions about what I'm entitled to, and considering more of what others need. My heart still makes its commitments, but it finds itself beyond fewer rubicons. It doesn't believe in easily given promises. It doesn't offer what it can't afford to forego. It offers small, solid promises that are thought out and can be counted on when given.

This may sound too controlled. But in reality it's about giving up control, about paring our needs down to what we really require and deserve, and letting go of the comforts we mislabel needs. I'm finding this posture toward the world softens the pain that comes when we don't get what we want, because we know it's only that. It's only what we want.