Creative Obstacles

When life gives you coffee...

One of my therapists once called my multitude of “excuses” for cancelling plans “creative obstacles.”

Today, as I stare at the flies swarming around the front of my mom’s rusted metal shed that’s occupied the corner of my childhood backyard for over thirty years, I can understand how one could call this creative.

Her backyard was buzzing; the six wooden bird houses my uncle handmade had become a space for a rebirth of Starlings and Chickadees, all swarming their personal peep holes, which swayed off their distinctive fruit tree, all lacking the needed environment to produce fruit. The black and brown squirrels zipping along the oak branches taunted Fergus, my seventy-eight-pound, white ball of fluff, “wanna be” service dog, my faithful companion of two years now, as his barks grew closer together; scratching his front nails on the cracked wooded panel post that banged against the rusted chainlink fence as he attempted to snag their jaunty tails popping in and out of the leaves. The gusts of wind scooped thatches of his lose golden blonde fur and tossed them in the air, I watched them sway back and forth towards the ground like an infant cradled in a parent’s arms. My eyes dart back and forth from my notebook to the locks, following them across the yard, weaving up and down along the top edge of the green row of tiger lily leaves, clumps getting tangled in the orange and yellow flower buds, others carrying on in the breeze.

I became annoyingly entranced by the flies and bees darting past my head before I realized their flight pattern. Their zig zag zips created the space between myself and the area of grass that only moments ago cradled the emergency poop I could no longer contain. That safe space in front of the rusted shed, that same shed that once stored bikes, scooters and sporting equipment, is now also a reminder of a time I was able to laugh off discretely squatting to emergency poop in a residential backyard, in broad daylight.

I needed to respray it.

***

The morning had been clearly scripted and rehearsed with all parties involved, and up until that point was going down quite smoothly, just like my large coffee the car in front of me paid for in the line at Bigby. I was to drop my oldest off at school, head over to my mom’s, where she was meant to leave the backdoor unlocked (because naturally I can’t find my key). I needed to work on Mudzies Mission, the 501c3 I founded aimed to bridge the gap between health and wealth, but construction was taking place at my house, and hers was always quiet as a mouse, a short drive from my sons new school. A private, quiet place to focus that provided internet, welcomed pets and had basic facilities (or so I thought).

Expectations are funny that way.

I arrived with Fergus promptly at 9:30am, butt cheeks clenched, only a quarter of my coffee remaining, eager to pop open that backdoor and slide right into her vintage green bathroom. I held the metal screen door open with my left arm, twisting the silver doorknob with my right hand, pushing into the door, twisting again, pushing again. That’s when I began to sweat.

Ok. Maybe she had a spare key and left it somewhere.

I began to search under the door mat, the planters’ pots, under the black garbage bin, the gray compost bin.

Nothing.

I knew there wouldn’t be a window unlocked, nevertheless even open a crack. The second break-in decades ago at my uncle’s house next door was lesson enough. I was surprised she even suggested leaving the backdoor unlocked. I called her at work in a slightly calm panic, the type where you already know what you need to do but it hasn’t been confirmed yet.

“Omg I’m so sorry,” a slight chuckle, “I completely forgot! Just come up to work and get my key” was blurted out before a hello.

“You don’t understand Mom. I won’t make it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have to poop!” I exclaimed into my phone as we both burst into laughter. “Mom. Omg. I think I might have to poop in your backyard.”

Laughing increases. She lets out a quiet snort.

“Oh my gosh. Just clean it up and hose it down so the flies don’t swarm. I can’t believe I forgot.”

“Jesus Christ Mom! Ugh. I’m going to need to find a secret spot so the amazon delivery drones don’t see me.”

***

Closing my laptop and swatting the flies away, I pushed the faded white plastic chair out from under the round glass patio table meant to be this morning’s workstation, I grew curious as to how the me NOW didn’t get upset, knowing the me BEFORE would have held a grudge on Forgetful Jones. I was shaking this snafu off.

Or maybe it was the camping meditation…

I walked over to the water hose I subconsciously left out, turning the nozzle from mist to spray, desperately trying to remove the excess poop particles hanging on to the grass blades like life depended on it.

I wonder if this would be considered a creative obstacle?

The flies dispersed and I began to clean up; confident this would be the last time I’d have to use water as lethal force today. Putting the hose away on the side of the house reminded me how I was carefully taught to create a perfect circle when looping it round the reel. “Lefty loosey righty tighty” sang in my mind as I tightened the hose nozzle shut. I closed the metal gate behind me, grabbing the hand sanitizer my daughter left in the car, my hands wrestling with each other to quickly clean off the shame and embarrassment. Still standing, I took the last remaining sip of my coffee, scratched Fergus behind his ear, and pulled back out my plastic chair, bellying up to the table.

Laptop open, front and center.

No obstacles to see here folks…