Shell

While outside knitting I saw a precious thing on the table: the exquisite shell of a spider, a perfect mold of its body, head and legs. Black and white lace it was, a half inch long and not heavy enough to tip most scales. Beautiful, I thought. I knitted a row, looked up again and it was gone, blown somewhere by a slight breeze. I looked on the deck, even got down on my hands and knees, and could not find it. The fairyland carapace of that spider was gone.

That got me thinking about exoskeletons, the chitonous cases that wrap insects, crustaceans and spiders. I found that "chiton," the semitransparent horny substance that makes up the exoskeleton, comes from a word that means "tunic." So this tunic of hard material protects a bug, a crab, a spider from the dangers of existence. Like the knight's armor, the exoskeleton ensures that the soft, vital organs of the creature won't be punctured or slashed or crushed or pulverized.

That's a great system, don't you think? All except for one thing: what happens as the creature grows? Exoskeletons don't come in "One Size Fits All." So the creature has to go through a very, very risky phase: it has to shed the old shell, assume a position of complete vulnerability, and patiently await the completion of the new, larger, more comfy shell. Lots could happen during that wait. Dangers abound.

I'm thinking we go through the same kind of shelling, shedding, shrinking, shuddering, shelling again. We develop thick tunics of indifference and avoidance to persons and situations that could harm us. We allow emotional chiton to shield us from the barbs of the mean-spirited. We hunker down in our comfortable carapaces, ducking from the unfamiliar, staying with the known. This is a good system...until we start growing.

I remember the exoskeletons I've shed. A remarkable one involved a discovery in my third year of college: I was shocked to learn that people were interested in knowing what my thoughts were, without having to preface those thoughts with an introduction of who I was connected to: whose child, wife, sister, mother I was. It was truly a revelation that my ideas were valued, without a connection to other persons. With that unveiling came a huge responsibility: my ideas had to count. They had to mean something. I couldn't just spout the thoughts of others, but had to take time to absorb writers' and speakers' tenets, synthesize them, and build my own set of ideas. It was a daunting prospect, but one that has brought me joy for decades. The chiton of mimicry was off; I had to think, boldly, for myself!

Other shells have come off reluctantly, painfully. Morphing from the fairy-tale wife/mom, living happily ever after, to the single mom raising a child alone, paying 47% of her gross income for rent each month, going without a car for six months...that transformation was not one I asked for. But the growth that came with such a change was incredible. I learned, in my new single mom exoskeleton, how to budget, find free fun, and build a tight bond with my daughter. I learned to share lessons of focus, frugality, and confidence, as the chiton in this shell toughened and protected.

Decades later, when my husband died, I had to leave the comfort of that wonderful carapace of wife. Oh my goodness, did I NOT want to leave that shell. It was a spectacular safe haven, filled with laughter, adventure, kindness, and love. But his death tossed my exoskeleton to the wind. A shuddering shape of vulnerability, I had to grow a new shell. On some days the task was devestatingly difficult, like the day the 100 year rain flooded the lower level of the house and plugged the storm drains in the driveway. The image of me ankle-deep in water, sobbing as intensely as I was scooping water and debris out of the storm drain grate, cursing my husband for deserting me, is an image I'll never forget. The storm toughened me. Within days, I took a knife to the soggy carpet that sulked in half of the house's lower level. I cut it in six-foot strips, rolled it and put each roll into the truck. Did the same with the sopping carpet pad. Took it all to the dump. Got rid of that mess and grew some new armour at the same time.

I did not want to leave that shell, but had no choice. Now I'm stronger for all that, encased in a new exoskeleton that will guard me for awhile. Then I'll struggle again, as the chitonous tunic drops and I face new challenges. Like the insect, the crab, and the spider, I will move on. I'll leave the old shell behind and hunker down in a grander carapace for the days to come.

Perched on the Edge

Four days alone in a cabin at the end of the road on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Just me, the sky, and the surf. What a blissful escape! The time there really helped clarify some things.

First, I live on a ball, a ball that's covered mostly with water. That notion is almost impossible for me to grasp. How could a ball be covered with water? Gravity I get, yeah, but it's a tougher concept when the matter that's being pulled to the core sloshes. The transitory nature of water, not just its fluidity, but also its ability to be gas, liquid and solid, mystifies me to begin with. Water's here, then it's not. It's a soft, sweet brush on the cheek, then it's a treacherous slide underfoot. It's too apparent some months, then woefully non-existent during others. Water's kind of a genie, I guess, or maybe some mischievous sprite.

So, when I try to think that quixotic water serves as a cocoon for most of the planet, I just get perplexed. I guess it knows what it's doing, wrapping the globe like that, and has been at it for awhile. Just seems hard to fathom.

My second "big" thought was that I was perched on the edge of the continent. That's big stuff. I'm at the rim of a huge land mass! I'm exactly at the point where the continent ends and the sea begins, where geographic and territorial and political and emotional fences abound. Yes, I understand about the official boundary, so many miles offshore, but that's all legal mumbo-jumbo to me. What sticks in my mind is that the sea is eating away, over and over and over and over and over, at the rock that is North America. And I sit here watching it happen! Is that exciting or what? As climate weirdness continues, the excitement may not be that much fun.

My third pondering revolved around human sounds. For days I heard nothing but the sea. No TV, no CDs, no chain saws, no cars, no sounds but the crashing of water against rock, against itself, against the rolling sand of beach. I found myself talking out loud, just to make sure my ears were still accepting people sounds. And I found myself savoring this blissful ear-candy. When my late husband and I canoed in British Columbia's provincial parks, portaging further and further from roadways and restaurants, we went for three days when the only human sounds we heard came from each other. We heard no trucks. We heard no planes. We heard no others' voices. It was remarkable. Thought a lot about that feeling on this trip. In fact, on my third day in the cabin, when a small plane flew overhead, I was indignant. How dare that pilot impose that annoying engine sound on me! What nerve to make me listen to that intrusion for three minutes! After this grumpiness subsided, I observed that I may have been cloistered long enough and it could be time to return to my people.

I did so reluctantly, quite reluctantly indeed.