Dear Mother Nature:
Oh dear! I should have written this letter much sooner. I’d plead for forgiveness because my life is so complicated, but let’s face it. Your responsibilities leave mine in the dust.
So I guess a heartfelt “I’m sorry,” and “Thanks!” will have to do for now, along with a few things I should have said long ago.
First, I’m very grateful to you for our home turf. Putting the ocean and Cambria’s forested hills side by side was a genius move, Mom, but you give us so many other wonderful things here:
Never miss a local story.
▪ Clean air (except in pollen season). I love breathing air I can’t see.
▪ Seeing a mother otter blow into her baby’s fur to keep him drier, warmer, fluffier and afloat.
▪ Poppies, lupine and other wildflowers. Cecile Brunner climbing roses and trees busting out in blossoms. Glorious.
▪ The buzz-click-flutter when a hummingbird flies close to my head, nagging me again to fill his feeder, and the chatter-hum as the little warrior chases away all the other hummingbirds.
▪ Early-morning sunshine spreading golden light through our patterned-glass window. Rainbows. And vivid sunsets reflecting everywhere. Sometimes all on the same day.
▪ Finding pebbles of chalcedony “moonstones” or jade tucked in the sand.
▪ Six deer snoozing in our meadow, a condor soaring overhead, a dozen turkeys waddling around, and a bobcat hunting in the shadows.
And that’s just for openers! Your wonders here are absolutely on point. Thank you indeed.
Secondly, Mama Nature, I apologize for all the horrible things some humans do to your planet, burying it in garbage, smothering it in carbon dioxide, overpopulating it, destroying its natural treasures.
I try to defend and honor you, Mom, but I must do better. I’ll buy less stuff and reuse/repurpose/upcycle instead. We’ll conserve more water. I’ll remember more often to turn off my computer and lights when I’m not using them, and unplug various power-draining appliances.
And if ill-advised folks argue that taking action to protect our Earth is useless, hopeless and/or not necessary, I will have the cocky temerity to tell them in no uncertain terms how wrong they are and why.
A few minor gripes
But … umm … while I have your attention … I do have a few minor gripes.
▪ Creepy-crawlies, like ants, ticks and cockroaches: Whatever were you thinking, Mom?
▪ Calories. Why can’t kale have a thousand calories a spoonful, and Häagen-Dazs be low-cal?
▪ Our weird flip-flop, drought-deluge weather pattern. Likewise, if you were trying to accomplish something positive with tornadoes, hurricanes and earthquakes (although I can’t imagine what “positive” would be in those cases), couldn’t you do it more gently?
▪ Snoring. Ear plugs just don’t mask the nasal jackhammer, and I really would like a good night’s sleep without having to relocate to the guest room to get it.
▪ Poison oak, rose thorns and the aforementioned pollen (I know it’s essential if we want more plants and trees next season, but couldn’t you have put it in a salve or capsules?).
▪ Paper cuts, hangnails … and random hair growth. I mean, really, Mom!
You know I’m not anti-beard, really I’m not. You remember that Husband Richard had a lovely one for years, until he discovered that eating thick soup or recovering from a cold could be truly ugly for the beard wearer and his observers.
But hair popping up on a lady’s chinny-chin-chin? That’s just plain unkind. And getting rid of a gal’s prickly whiskers is a nuisance, expensive and/or painful. (I’ll bet you don’t have them, Mom!)
Hair growing where it shouldn’t ranks right up there in unpopularity with root canals, speeding tickets and trifocals, or rude people, locking my only set of keys in my car, and how much harder it is after a certain age to go down the stairs, let alone up.
Too much good stuff to whine
But that’s enough whining. If I have to put up with windstorm paranoia, ants in my sugar bowl and kale salad as compensation for the sea, the forest, the warm sun and cool breeze — for the certainty that North Coast folks live in paradise — then it’s no contest.
Our home wins again. It always does.
Thanks again, Mom! You’re a force of nature (well, yeah) and you’ll always be my heroine, whiskers notwithstanding.