There’s a Snake in my Woodpile

There’s a snake in my woodpile. No, that is not a euphemism.

And now all I see are snakes. Every twig, branch, pile of leaves that I catch in the corner of my eye has morphed into a slithering figment of my imagination.

I catch myself lying awake at night running through scenarios in which I lock eyes with the snake in real life.

Would I grab a shovel and chop its head off? Would I simply run away and give it the woodpile, the yard, the whole house? Could I coax it into a bucket and release it away from our property?

Would it change my mind if I knew it weren’t venomous?

I’m finding myself spending way too much mental energy on this.

I know where my husband, and mother-in-law’s instincts lie. I have witnessed first hand their skills with a shovel. Kill first. Determine whether it was poisonous after. The only good snake is a dead snake.

I have a vivid memory of my Dad, heroically grabbing a non-venomous snake by the tail and carrying it far away from people. He didn’t hesitate.

Once as a kid, I went camping with a close friend and her grandfather. A small snake slithered into our campsite and before we could even get a good look at it, he grabbed it by its tail, and in Indiana Jones fashion cracked it like a whip, sending its head flying through the air. He casually threw the rest of it into the campfire and drawled, “it could have bit you.”

So I lie awake and try to decide what my personal philosophy is on killing snakes. Does it even matter?

I suppose it matters a great deal to the snake.

If you’re confused that’s okay. There’s a lot of that going around these days.

It feels more acceptable and immediate to dwell on the snake in my woodpile, than try to make sense of the Covid-19 pandemic and the devastation it is leaving in its wake. I don’t like the ugly that it is bringing out in some people.

I suppose in my head, the two subjects have merged into one and the same.

I can make a metaphor out of a mole hill.

I often find myself paralyzed by indecision. I am not decisive by nature.

Although these days have at times been blissfully simple, the barrage of questions and never ending small decisions seem to be growing by the day. My days are peacefully mundane and predictable, but there is a complexity hovering over even small decisions. Decisions that I used to make without even having to think twice.

I feel as if every movement I make, pushes air toward a house of cards. Every step forward, sends ripples in all directions.

People have accused me of being too sensitive. Dramatic, even. I suppose they could be right.

I guess I refuse to accept that being sensitive is a bad thing. It means I am aware of what my senses are taking in.

In this heightened space— quiet becomes loud, soft becomes violent, and dull becomes sharp. Sticks become snakes.

I think that I would rather be sensitive than careless. Careless and carefree are not the same thing.

I suppose I hope that what I am most sensitive to is that still, small voice that whispers to my soul. That tells me which battles actually matter. 

If I draw inward I can tune in to its gentle nudge, even in the middle of the shouting match that has ensued around the woodpile. 

The deafening noise can easily drown out what is hushed and holy if we let it.

People have decisively grabbed their shovel or their bucket. They are boldly grasping at tails— real and hallucinated.

It must be nice to be so sure of oneself.

You can tell me its just a garden hose again and again, but I will still look at it twice to be certain.

There are precious few things that I am one hundred percent decided on, and those precious few things are just that— precious.

The longer I live, the more I realize that to see things in only black and white means you miss an entire prism of colors folded up in the middle.

To be opened up, to me should feel more like an unfolding, rather than an unraveling.

I don’t know much, but what I do know is I won’t be going anywhere near our woodpile for a while.

Because there’s a snake in it. 

Probably.