You Don't Know Me

There are times when the words do not come. No matter how much I cry and pray and beg for them to appear nothing happens. At those times I look to what others have written and hope for inspiration. Sometimes that works. Today it didn’t. I did find something that moved me, so I borrow, (steal?) from David Klass' book "You Don't Know Me". It reminded me of my own feelings as a young boy. Some of the details are different but the pain is the same.

Maybe tomorrow the muses will smile on me.

You Don’t Know Me
David Klass

You don’t know me at all. You don’t know the first thing about me. You don’t know where I’m writing this from. You don’t know what I look like. You have no power over me.

What do you think I look like? Skinny? Freckles? Wire-rimmed glasses over brown eyes? No, I don’t think so. Better look again. Deeper. It’s like a kaleidoscope, isn’t it? One minute I’m short, the next minute tall, one minute I’m geeky, one minute studly, my shape constantly changes, and the only thing that stays constant is my brown eyes. Watching you.

That’s right, I’m watching you right now sitting on the couch next to the man who is not my father, pretending to read a book that is not a book, waiting for him to pet you like a dog or stroke you like a cat. Let’s be real, the man who is not my father isn’t a very nice man. Not just because he’s not my father but because he hits me when you’re not around, and he says if I tell you he’ll really take care of me.

Those are his words. “I’ll really take care of you, John. Don’t rat on me or you’ll regret it.” Nice guy.

But I’m telling you now. Can’t you hear me? He’s petting the top of your head like he would pet a dog, with his right hand, which just happens to be the hand he hits me with. When he hits me he doesn’t curl his fingers into a fist because that would leave a mark. He slaps me with the flat of his hand. WHAP. And now I’m watching him stroke your cheek with those same fingers. He holds me tight with his left hand when he hits me so hard I can’t run away. And now he’s holding you tenderly with his left hand. And I’m telling you this as I watch through the window, but your eyes are closed and you could care less, because he’s stroking you the way he would stroke a cat and I bet your purring.

You don’t know me at all.

You Don't Know Me by David Klass (c) 2001 Thorndike Press

Harvester Ants and Therapy

A friend reminded me I needed to update my blog. She was right. The problem is I haven’t felt very inspired to write lately. Maybe it was the flurry of Advent and Christmas. Maybe it was my dogged insistence that, “Dammit, it’s my vacation from Boxing Day until January 8 and no one can make me do anything.” Maybe it is just that I am lazy and any excuse will do.

I did think about the essay I have been working on about Harvester Ants. It isn’t finished and needs some work. But I did go out to watch the Harvester Ants again.

You have to understand Harvester Ants are these big honking ants that are almost fire engine red. When I was a kid we just used to call them “Big Reds”. They appear as ferocious as anything you might see in one of those old black and white Japanese horror movies. Most of the time they are quite content to leave alone and be left alone. If you irritate one of the workers enough they will bite and the pain is excruciating and will travel along your lymph system. Many of my friends and I learned this as kids.

For the most part Harvester Ants seem contented to scurry about gathering grass seeds and dead insects. I think I was once told they will travel 200 feet from their nest which looks like a hole big enough to put a Magic Marker into and smack in the middle of a six foot bare spot.

There is a Harvester Ant nest in the field behind the church. Although some members have wanted to put out poison I have insisted the ants be left alone. They are the only food source for the Texas Horned Lizard and I am hoping maybe one day a “Horny Toad” finds its way to our ant nest.

The ant nest is also a place of therapy. Mental and emotional therapy for me, that is. When I am frustrated with my parishioner’s behaviour or my own inability to craft together a sermon I walk out to the ant nest and stare at the ground watching the Harvester Ants scurry about. There is something soothing about watching the ants move around in an ordered chaos. It is not like the sonorous ticking of the clock on my office wall but there is a rhythm to their movement. It somehow connects me to that cosmic heartbeat that ties us to each other.

I needed to watch the ants the other day. It wasn’t a good day and my brain refused to cooperate with the coping skills learned to manage ADD. It was cold outside, which for the area I live in means not hot. But it was cool enough that the ants were moving more slowly than usual. Although there was the usual deliberateness in their actions they moved at a different pace. Less frantic. Less hurried. Almost as if to say, “It is between Boxing Day and January 8 and it is cold outside. We will do what we must but no more and we won’t do it more quickly than we have to.”

I stood there for a very long time, shivering now and again as the wind whipped through my thin tee shirt. Some therapy sessions go quickly others take a long time. This one took a very long time. I had goose bumps up and down my arms when the head therapist ant said, “Well our time is up. Please see my secretary to schedule our next session. Oh and I am going to the Caymans for a seminar next week so I won’t be available.”

I turned and walked away from the ant nest. It had been a good session. I was cold and needed to get some hot tea. I let go of fighting the million thoughts a second racing around in my brain. I took the keys to my office out of my pocket, looked at them for a moment and reminded myself. I am on vacation from Boxing Day until January 8. I do not need to go in and do any work today. Oh look, a rabbit!

This post is for you Spideygirl. Thanks for the encouragement.


Here is link for some basic information about Harvester Ants:
insects.tamu.edu/extension/bulletins/l-5314.html