I’m sill hard-wired for stress reactions. It comes from years of working with people whose entitlement leads to bad behavior that is considered acceptable. In reality, it was all self-defeating and pointless. Put a group of people in an airport and tell them their flight is delayed and you will see Harvard MBAs and MIT graduates lose all social graces and act like toddlers throwing a tantrum in the grocery store. Put them in tons of steel and let them loose on a freeway/highway at commuting hours and watch them close off their senses to the world around them, simultaneously ignoring and “flipping the bird” to their fellow humans all just trying to get to the same place.
Tonight I closed up the shop and raced home. I had to get the dogs fed, the house secured, messages returned and something to eat before 7pm. A neighbor was driving me to pick up to NUCs of bees. That’s starter kits to non-bee folk. I ordered them back in January and bees need to moved either before 7am or after 7pm when they are back in the house for the night. Luckily, we took his car. I have met Steve and Cilly on a few occasions on the Groh Farm but wasn’t beyond the Hello-in-passing friendship. We now traversed the bumpy roads to Swanzey, around the mountain who was cloaked in fog. The evening light was magical after the afternoon’s deluge of rain. Around one corner we spied a fading rainbow.
I felt jittery, the “something to eat” part of my plan somehow got past me and I attributed this feeling to hunger and fatigue. When we arrived at our destination, no one answered the door. We wandered down to the bee yard. I called from my cell then began sending urgent emails as the sunlight faded. Finally, the son came out to say his Mom was several towns over helping someone with their bees. He called her and indeed, it was a simple mix-up, a miscommunication. Human error; but I began to feel the heat of anger and indignation rising…
As we drove back around the mountain, Steve and Cilly were still admiring the landscape and telling me stories from their past. They didn’t see this situation as anything worthy of losing one’s temper. Steve got a call as we approached my driveway, his baby piglets had escaped for the third time since arriving at the farm today. He was looking at a long night of chasing bovine through the woods, yet he wasn’t angry or stressed about it.
I had only to heat up some soup and my night would be over. Why do old habits die hard? I haven’t ever thrown a tantrum in an airport, but the tantrum is always just below the surface. I want to learn from those who accept and look around for the joy of the moment. So I come home. I sit and write. 10% of the flow from my brain to my fingers makes it here. The rest is gibberish or too embarrassing to share. I write and I write and the stress flows from my shoulders and my clenched teeth to my fingers. It pours out over the keyboard and puddles in my words.
This is all I’ve got for today…
P. S. Do Oreos count as dinner?