34—Falling Off the Creative Cusp

On the morning of the fifth day of the rest of my life, word came that my furniture would arrive in four weeks, not three. Initially downhearted, I decided the delay was an opportunity to begin stripping away old patterns of thinking. 

Writing a book that called for more effective school reform would require original thinking. Many books, best sellers even, had revealed the social injustice and academic deficiencies in the system but had changed nothing. Mine would be different. 

Was it luck or destiny, I wondered, that had freed me from the bureaucratic absurdities of the education system then brought me to this small unpretentious town? However it happened, here I was, a world away from policymakers and on the cusp of a fresh perspective. 

So, who would I become without the expectations and judgments of the system?

Who would We the People have become if policymakers had not responded to Sputnik by promoting science and engineering by cutting funding and class time for history, literature, art, drama, music, and creative writing? 
How might our nation evolved at home and abroad over the last four decades if 30,000 years of what it means to be human hadn't been reduced in so many schools to an occasional elective?

Exhilarated by these thoughts, I began setting up my work station at the kitchen table by the window—arranging my laptop, modem, journal, pens, pencils, lamp, dictionary, everything just so. 
Curious, the cats came out from the back room to observe and chase cords.

When all was in place, I sat down to check email and was surprised to find how right the new setup felt. As the cats curled up on our borrowed sofa, I looked out the window at the Pacific—only to see the bird descending to the tar.    

Photo by Walt Van Campen

Thonk.

The cats looked up. But not seeing the noisy one at the living room window relaxed.

“kwawk,” said the bird then gave a respectful little tap on the kitchen window, just inches from my elbow. 
I refused to make eye contact.

“KWAWK,” cried the bird. 

The cats sat up.

I waved my arms at the interloper. He fluttered off.

I turned back to the computer. 

Thonk. 

“Just leave me the fuck alone,” I muttered. 

The bird hooked his beak into the aluminum casing and with his skinny little pink legs angled for leverage yanked with all his might. 

I swept up the laptop and shoved it toward his face. “It’s not food, you idiot,” I screamed at the bird, aware of the absurd spectacle of my rage but unable to control it. As the computer slipped from hands, I managed to grab hold of the $1,600 machine just before it went crashing through the thermal pane. 

The cats fled. “I’m sorry,” I called after them. 

“kwik kwik,” replied the bird, sinking into his orphan-of-the-sea pose.

I left the table and hid behind the small partition that extended part way into the living area to form the back of the kitchen. Peeking around it, I saw the bird now peering through the living room window, the tilt of his head and a quizzical kwawk suggesting bewilderment at my inhospitable behavior. 

With the realization that I’d fallen off the creative cusp into some Pacific coast version of a French farce, I was about to find the whole thing amusing until I heard the  bluck    bluuuck    bluuucking    of a cat about to throw up in the back room. 

Some squawking down on the beach drew the bird’s attention, and off he flew to join the ruckus. I cleaned up the cat barf, then went back to the laptop. The cats came out of hiding. The bird returned. The cats darted into the back room. I glanced at the clock. A few minutes past ten. I decided to take my beach walk before the afternoon wind kicked up. 

Two hours later, I returned, ready for lunch. The cats were sitting on the window sill watching the swallows flit by. I gave them some treats then opened the refrigerator . . . on edge . . . waiting for the thonk but not looking. Nothing. Even as I laid out the bread on my plate, there was only the sound of the sea. Good. The bird was as tired of playing the game as I was. 

The phone rang. A neighbor had tracked down the phone number of a woman named Dorothy who lived up the coast and had been visited every day for years by a great blue heron. 

I wasted no time in calling. Here was my chance to learn how to establish rapport with my guru.

“Oh,” said Dorothy, “I love talking about Heron. Come up anytime, this afternoon if you’d like.”

I ate my lunch on the way and forty minutes later was sitting in the living room of Dorothy’s old beach house. 

Next: Keeping Up With the Herons