Looking out my Backdoor: When the pot gets stirred

I’m not going into a lot of detail. There was a death, not unexpected, in the family who own this rancho. It’s a big family, a lot of history here. For the past few days, it’s felt like, humor me here, spirits wandering, a lot of back and forth, disconnected and disconcerted. I’m talking about a lot of restless spirits.

I’m sensitive to these things, to an extent. Aware, that’s all.

This morning I woke up angry, for no discernable reason and with no object for my anger. This after a couple nights of really strange, even for me, strange dreams, in one of which I chased a charging bear, which, let me assure you, is not my nature.

My daughter, who is quite sensitive to these things, cut to the chase with few words. “It’s the death. Smudge.”

If you are a strict traditionalist, an adherent to the way it’s been done for centuries, I respect your stance. I’m more of an evolutionist, move-with-time-and-inclination-and-situation kind of person.

I quickly got a good cloud of sage smoke going and swam around in it to the tune of “We will, we will, rock you!”

After smoking myself, oops, that doesn’t sound right. I don’t mean I smoked the sage, yuk. I mean I covered myself in smoke. I drenched my casa, nooks, crannies and all, stepped outside and wafted smoke throughout my yard, around all the boundaries and betweenies. I finished to the tune of the old timey church song, “Love lifted me.”

I felt scrubbed, inside and outside. Lighter. Drifty. Good.

At the end of the day, despite every window wide open, my house still smiled of burnt sage. Me, too.

Good news. No more bears to chase off in the night.

No bears, but I found two cicadas under the bed during my morning mopping. These critters are big. And crunchy. They could not have slid through the crack under the door. How did they get in the house?

Two of them. Under the bed. You know what that means. Next spring an entire flock will come creeping out from the wooden slats. Always something.

Yes, something. There I sat in my puddle of sweat, minding my own business, when a lizard skittered across the floor in front of me, paused, looked at me, shrugged, I swear, shrugged, oh, just you, and continued to the wall and behind a bookcase.

What? Do I run an animal refuge house? I don’t mind lizards. I’ve said that before. Lizards eat mosquitoes and such. This one might have had a run-in with Lola. Part of its tail is missing. I really don’t mind lizards. But. But. What about at night? Would you want a lizard skittering across your face in the night?

A few days and the mostly invisible world around me should be calm again. In as much as it can be.

We are still under the heat dome. The news tells us it moved north. I think it just got larger, spread out. I like the heat, but in smaller batches. A few days at a time, hey, I’m okay. But not month (April) after month (May) after month (Deep into June) with no relief.

I’d move to Iceland, for its name if nothing else. I’ve been pricing walk-in coolers.

I know some things thrive in this heat. Iguanas. Mangos. I wish you could see my plumbago bushes, explosions of periwinkle blue. As I said, some like it hot!

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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 [email protected].