Looking out my Backdoor: The mosquito buzz of epicaricacy

A friend introduced me to a new word: epicaricacy. An Olde English word. Means joy upon evil. Like schadenfreude. Like when someone else stubs his toe and stumbles, you gloat that it wasn’t you. Which has more than a sniff of self-righteousness.

I know the word intimately. I try to keep it swatted away and like a mosquito, it returns.

What strange creatures we are who live much inside our own heads. And what a strange head, speaking for myself. I cannot trust everything I think.

An example: There is a truly wretched person, disagreeable, passively aggressive, rude and dishonest and always right. I had dreaded an inevitable conversation. Held myself stiff and anxious in anticipation. We sat down to talk. Within minutes, I found myself filled with love and compassion.

I don’t understand myself. Why do I always have to be the person who changes? That critical part of me secretly enjoys feeling righteous, feeling better than. That is, that critical ugly part of me. That is all I am willing to say about that.

Sitting on my patio, much later, I feel overwhelmed with the riot of color surrounding me, every possible green. Red, blue, purple, white, yellow and orange flowers. Gold finches, like Christmas decorations, hang about in the artichokes. Hummingbirds stitch the whole glory together like a crazy quilt. Ever whirling butterflies add splotches of cinematic color.

Jasmine is pushing out first blooms. Tomatoes planted a month ago have first blossoms. Soon I’ll be eating squash flowers. I’m harvesting most of my limes to make room on the trees for babies, promises from white aromatic flowers. My yard fills with natural perfumes.

Often in the morning, diesel fumes, from the highway just over there, push away the scents of flowers. But flowers are strong. They come back.

I revel in those mornings when the air is not oppressive, but fresh, the diesel undetected. I can smell the corn growing in the neighboring fields, the cut cane in huge double trailers chugging past.

The bobcat is hanging about again. I could smell its rankness night before last. Last night Lola was restless, prowling and growling.

This morning on our sunrise walk, the horses on both sides of the arroyo took flight at strange noises. They ran as far as their enclosures allowed, stood stiff-legged, alert toward the north. The bobcat? I don’t know. I heard the strange sounds but I don’t know a bobcat’s sounds. Another mystery. I want the answer. I want it to be simple.

Rye bread is rising in the pans. Rye bread takes forever. So Lola and I head out for an extra neighborhood walk-about. Me to clear my head and Lola for whatever snoogies and/or treats she can glean. We did well. One neighbor keeps treats for Lola’s visits. Talked with six different neighbors. And the mule.

Ah, the mule. Here comes that pesky epicaricacy mosquito again. I realize that I hold a certain amount of animosity toward his owner, the skinny man at the vivero up the hill on the corner. I know how that mule got the huge scald marks on his back. Makes me angry at the abuse. I like the mule.

When Lola and I walk the lane, the two horses and the mule come to the wall and watch us, talk with us in their way. The horses’ ears swivel frontwards, alert. The mule’s ears, flatten out like wings sideways. We give each other attention.

I know my faults. Who is to say the owner abused the mule? Maybe the man rescued the mule. I don’t know. What I do know is that I hold that smudge of gloating righteousness without examination, as if I am somewhat better. You may vomit here.

I like myself better when I am living in my own little haven of La-La Land, among the birds and butterflies. It’s so easy.

I’ve begun asking myself, a sort of checking-inward, “So, have you had your epicaricacy today?”

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.