in the street like the man hurled from his motorcycle. I didn’t even realize it was
our tree
—I thought it was a weaker sapling, hauled wholesale from the roots. When I ascertained that it was ours, I wanted to go outside and investigate even though the hurricane was still raging. My husband observed, “If you die out there, your death will be so stupid.” I waited until the wind subsided a little. I ran out to see what remained of our tree. Not a lot.
This morning I prepared my daughter and son for the possible death of the tree. I tried to make them understand how long the tree had been there, and how old they would be before, if in fact we lost it, another tree could grow to be as large. How to make people who don’t understand time feel a loss that is best measured in time? It proved tricky. The only way to demonstrate the loss was to dramatize it. When the tree crew arrived to remove the half-tree from the street, I stood on the windowsill in my pajamas and watched. I acted sad because I
was
sad. Our tree would never be the same. It might even die. The damage wasn’t insignificant. I wanted to be the conduit of sadness—and of passing time and mortality—by interpreting the significance of the potential loss of the tree for my kids. I could tell this wasn’t happening. I could tell they were more interested in my reaction to the tree. I thought ahead to a point in time when this behavior might become symbolic of who I was or, depending on my life status, am. I do not think it unwise to view all children as future tattletales.Such a perspective forces you to better (and with greater care)
behave
, lest your conduct be chronicled later, and prove revealing in ways you did not intend. If and when my daughter told her own children about her memories of the big hurricane, maybe the only takeaway she’d recall would involve me. I was the object lesson.
My mother was undone by the possible death of a tree
.
Today I talked with a woman about ghosts. We were sitting in the shadow of a large building that is reputedly full of them. We wondered if people mistook for ghost sightings what was, in fact, a primal fear response to poorly arranged rooms. The appearance of a ghost was really just the cave brain responding with a potent visual alarm. The cave brain whipped up a ghost when a room lacked escape options, or when it featured too many unprotected entrances through which a saber-toothed tiger or a rapist might prowl in the dark.
I told this woman about a room in which I repeatedly, or so I believed, saw a ghost. The room’s bed, I conceded, was in the dumbest place. The door was to the right of my head; when I was lying in the bed, the door was actually, by a few inches,
behind
me. I’d awaken every night in a state of panic and look to the door, where I saw a figure briefly coalesce from the darkness, then vanish. But I understand now (or think I understand) that I saw no ghost in that room; my brain was just keeping me alert to bad possibilities, tigers or rapists or whatever.
Then I told this woman my theory about rooms, andwhy some rooms immediately feel like home while others, no matter how long you live in them, never do. Maybe ghosts are to blame, or a lack of egresses, but possibly, too, there was, I had recently decided, the issue of light. Growing up, I slept in a room that faced west. From the age of four to the age of eighteen, I opened my eyes to the same message: something better was happening elsewhere. I had to seek out the sun (presuming there was one); otherwise I had to wait for it to come to me. All sorts of bogus long-term psychological effects could be generated from such regular conditioning. To awake to the west has, maybe, imprinted me with certain personality traits. I am always thinking: where I am is not as good as where I could be. I must, from the moment I open my eyes, be on the move.
This sounds like an optimistic mind-set. It’s not. It’s neurotic. It’s crazy-making.
our tree
—I thought it was a weaker sapling, hauled wholesale from the roots. When I ascertained that it was ours, I wanted to go outside and investigate even though the hurricane was still raging. My husband observed, “If you die out there, your death will be so stupid.” I waited until the wind subsided a little. I ran out to see what remained of our tree. Not a lot.
This morning I prepared my daughter and son for the possible death of the tree. I tried to make them understand how long the tree had been there, and how old they would be before, if in fact we lost it, another tree could grow to be as large. How to make people who don’t understand time feel a loss that is best measured in time? It proved tricky. The only way to demonstrate the loss was to dramatize it. When the tree crew arrived to remove the half-tree from the street, I stood on the windowsill in my pajamas and watched. I acted sad because I
was
sad. Our tree would never be the same. It might even die. The damage wasn’t insignificant. I wanted to be the conduit of sadness—and of passing time and mortality—by interpreting the significance of the potential loss of the tree for my kids. I could tell this wasn’t happening. I could tell they were more interested in my reaction to the tree. I thought ahead to a point in time when this behavior might become symbolic of who I was or, depending on my life status, am. I do not think it unwise to view all children as future tattletales.Such a perspective forces you to better (and with greater care)
behave
, lest your conduct be chronicled later, and prove revealing in ways you did not intend. If and when my daughter told her own children about her memories of the big hurricane, maybe the only takeaway she’d recall would involve me. I was the object lesson.
My mother was undone by the possible death of a tree
.
Today I talked with a woman about ghosts. We were sitting in the shadow of a large building that is reputedly full of them. We wondered if people mistook for ghost sightings what was, in fact, a primal fear response to poorly arranged rooms. The appearance of a ghost was really just the cave brain responding with a potent visual alarm. The cave brain whipped up a ghost when a room lacked escape options, or when it featured too many unprotected entrances through which a saber-toothed tiger or a rapist might prowl in the dark.
I told this woman about a room in which I repeatedly, or so I believed, saw a ghost. The room’s bed, I conceded, was in the dumbest place. The door was to the right of my head; when I was lying in the bed, the door was actually, by a few inches,
behind
me. I’d awaken every night in a state of panic and look to the door, where I saw a figure briefly coalesce from the darkness, then vanish. But I understand now (or think I understand) that I saw no ghost in that room; my brain was just keeping me alert to bad possibilities, tigers or rapists or whatever.
Then I told this woman my theory about rooms, andwhy some rooms immediately feel like home while others, no matter how long you live in them, never do. Maybe ghosts are to blame, or a lack of egresses, but possibly, too, there was, I had recently decided, the issue of light. Growing up, I slept in a room that faced west. From the age of four to the age of eighteen, I opened my eyes to the same message: something better was happening elsewhere. I had to seek out the sun (presuming there was one); otherwise I had to wait for it to come to me. All sorts of bogus long-term psychological effects could be generated from such regular conditioning. To awake to the west has, maybe, imprinted me with certain personality traits. I am always thinking: where I am is not as good as where I could be. I must, from the moment I open my eyes, be on the move.
This sounds like an optimistic mind-set. It’s not. It’s neurotic. It’s crazy-making.
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