To the soft cat sitting on my foot and the God who ordained its existence:

Thank You.

How to Be a French Farmer

One morning on the farm, Isabelle and I were moving the paddock where the goats graze. This involved gathering up the electric fences and carrying them to another end of the property, where the goats had not been to pasture for several weeks, giving the earth a chance to replenish itself and for the variety of grasses and flowers and leafy plants to spring up, healthier than ever. The goats were very happy on the days when we moved their paddock. They would literally jump for joy. It was really fun to watch.

We were just about finished with the task of moving the fence when I got stung by a bee on my finger. I don't think I'd ever been stung by a bee before (only a wasp, once) and it really hurt. Isabelle felt responsible because she suspected it could have been one of her own honeybees. "And now she's dead," she added, rather matter-of-factly. I apologized for having unintentionally murdered her (possible) bee.

The next morning, the finger that the bee had stung was really swollen. To the point that the skin was tight and itchy and I couldn't make a fist all the way. Isabelle noticed. "That's not normal," she said. She had a sad, concerned look on her face: which was the look she usually had on her face, but now even more so.

I didn't think my finger could get any more swollen but, the next day, it was. Isabelle gave me some green clay to put on it that she said would bring the swelling down. I rubbed the clay thickly all over my finger and then sealed it up with plastic wrap. It started to feel really hot. With my finger wrapped up this way, my whole left hand was out of commission, and I found myself incapable of carrying out some of my chores (including my favorite: milking the goats). I felt rather guilty about this, but my concern for the way the swelling was now progressing into my hand slightly outweighed my guilt.

I wanted to go to a doctor, to tell you the truth. But I didn't want to be the one to have to say it. I wanted them to be the ones to make the suggestion that I consult a professional. So I sat at the breakfast table saying things like, "I don't know what to do!" and "This definitely isn't normal."

Isabelle's mother, Dany, told me I was behaving like a baby. "Oui, c'est normal," she said.

I think of myself as rather tough, and I'm used to people taking me and my maladies seriously. Dany's comments left me somewhat taken aback. Fine, I would not insist on seeing a doctor. But now, if I lost the arm, it would be on her conscience.

The next morning, the swelling in my finger had gone down significantly. The day after that it was restored to its usual size. Oui, c'est normal. I guess I still have a ways to go before I can become a farmer.

More life lessons from animals

Sometimes, it's okay if all you did today was pet a cat.

Pets can be messy. They can be expensive. They can be pesky and needy and intrusive. But, sometimes, pets really help make life more bearable than it would be without them.

My parents have four cats and a dog. They drive me crazy on a regular basis. But most of the time, even when I'm mad at them, part of me is still thankful that they're there.

I typically find it a bit annoying when people glorify their relationships with their pets as though the devotion and loyalty that their animals show them qualify these relationships as being somehow superior to the more complicated relationships they have with other humans. That's so simple minded, I think. It reflects self centered-ness and an unwillingness to extend oneself on behalf of others (though, I realize, there are situations where an ill, traumatized, or otherwise unstable person may find this sort of uncomplicated companionship to be a therapeutic stand-in for more emotionally or psychologically demanding human relationships). No matter how well-trained they are or how much you enjoy their company, animals are not people.

Still, there is something to be learned from the unexacting, nonjudgmental company my cats offer me when I'm feeling less than wonderful. People are not always the best comforters. We have lots of different ideas, perspectives, and opinions and all of these have a way of of expressing themselves, even when we're not necessarily conscious of it. I know that, on occasions where I've been depressed or upset about something, I've refrained from speaking about it with certain friends simply because I could imagine how they would respond. And I know of friends of mine who have kept their thoughts and struggles secret from me for the same reasons. Sometimes, the best support you can offer a friend is to just be there and not judge, but the only way you can really do that effectively is to never judge at all. For me, that's hard work. I can learn a lot from my cats about how to be a better friend.

Thanks, cats.

Waiting for Wrinklebutt

On a Saturday afternoon, Laurent and I push our kayaks into the water next to the park at the National City marina. We climb somewhat clumsily into our boats--neither of us are professional kayakers--and, after a bit of trial and error, fit our spray skirts securely into place before paddling out into the San Diego bay. Laurent, a Couchsurfer from Bordeaux, France who is currently staying at our place, needs only a minute to get accustomed to the rhythm of paddling before he is speeding off in front of me; meanwhile, I suffer in silence with my old, defunct paddle, dousing myself unavoidably with sea water after each stroke. It doesn't really matter, though: the water in the bay is surprisingly warm, to the point that I'm genuinely tempted to tip my kayak over and go for a swim. But now Laurent seems to be stopping to let me catch up and so I power ahead.

To our left as we leave the marina and enter the bay proper are grassy saltwater marshes, bustling with bird life and excellent for exploring by kayak during high tide. I even spot a snowy egret taking flight: always a thrilling sight. But we're not here today for birdwatching. I must confess I've led Laurent to the bay today with somewhat exaggerated suggestions that we might encounter a sea turtle. And not just any sea turtle. The largest sea turtle in recorded history.

It isn't just I who feel the urge to swim in the warm waters of bay: the San Diego Bay is home to a group of about 60 green sea turtles (according to a 2007 report from the NOAA Fisheries Service), considered an endangered species throughout the East Pacific. Up until recent years, the water discharged by the South Bay Power Plant created a turtle jacuzzi on the south end of the bay, and the turtle population still seems most concentrated in this area. The conditions in the bay are so ideal as a turtle habitat, in fact, that they have succeeded in winning the long-term residency of an exceptionally enormous green sea turtle, Wrinklebutt, so monikered on account of an unusual deformity on her shell. When she was last netted by scientists in 2006, Wrinklebutt weighed in at an astonishing 550 pounds, making her quite possibly the largest of her species in the entire East Pacific. Since there have been no "official" Wrinklebutt sightings for a few years, however, it is not known for sure whether this colossus is still alive. Still, she remains a celebrity among local wildlife buffs and a legend among those who spend their weekends kayaking in the bay.

Laurent is beginning to tease me, "Where are all the sea turtles? I want my money back for this kayak tour." I reply with some clever crack about how they dislike French people. But turtles or no, neither of us really have anything to complain about. It is a beautiful day, and we have a clear view of Coronado Island and its bridge and Point Loma stretching out toward the sea in the background. There is a slight breeze, but the water is mostly calm. As we turn the boats around to head back to the dock, the tide pushes us in.

Though I doubt the likelihood of ever actually encountering the famous Wrinklebutt, it would be wonderful to someday spy a sea turtle while I'm kayaking on the bay (though, of course, going kayaking more than once every two years wouldn't hurt my chances). But if I never see one, that's okay, too. The point is not seeing the sea turtles, but simply being outdoors in the place where I might see them. On this day, I can't help but draw a parallel between Laurent and me and the two main characters in Waiting for Godot (I mean, besides the fact that we also seem to repeat the same jokes over and over and over again). Gogo and Didi spend the duration of the play standing on the stage, "passing the time" as they wait for an illusive personage who never appears. If we in the audience focus morosely on the fact that, in the end, Godot never shows up, I think we're missing out on so much of what the play has to say. It's not whether Godot comes but the act of waiting for him that matters. The journey is more important than the destination, an adage that holds especially true in the context of outdoor activities. In other words, life isn't about the turtles; it's about just getting out there on the water and having a lovely afternoon.

Charlotte's Elephant

I made a little elephant and gave it to an old friend from church who is expecting her first child--a girl--at the end of this month. I hope that baby Charlotte will enjoy snuggling with it as much as I did for the two short days that I had it in my possession.

Poor Kitty

Last weekend, my parents' cat, Socrates ("Socks" for short), got in a fight with a neighborhood cat. She walked away from the tussle with a pair on incisor-shaped punctures in her hind quarter, which, according to the vet, threatened to fester. In order to prevent infection, she was prescribed ten days' worth of antibiotics, the fur around the wound was shaved off, and she was fitted with a heavy-duty plastic cone around her neck. Poor kitty.

So, until the wound heals, this mostly outdoor pet and top-notch mouser is confined to life as a house cat. I watch her meander meaninglessly down the hallway. She stops in the living room and stares straight ahead for ten minutes. She stands up and walks around again. Restrained. Uncomfortable. Helpless. And I feel a pang of sympathy.

She is me.

For the last twelve days my life has been less than thrilling. I returned home from a great two weeks on the road, seeing new places and visiting old friends, and now I'm back to the drudgery of living with my mom and dad and having no job, no friends, nothing to look forward to. Like my feline invalid friend, I spend a considerable portion of the day walking aimlessly around the house. I check facebook obsessively. I make dinner for my parents. I watch shows on Netflix until I fall asleep. This can't go on much longer.

Soon, Socks' wounds will heal and she will be allowed to go outside and live her life as usual. As bad as I feel for her, her situation gives me hope: it reminds me that we all have "blah" moments in life, but that these moments inevitably must pass. Though I may feel anxious and unsatisfied now, I know I won't always be unemployed and living with my parents. Things change. Eventually, the cone comes off and it's back to pooping in the garden, killing birds, and breathing the sweet air of freedom.