A change of perspective can be a humbling experience. It can also remind us that all perspectives are, in essence, very subjective interpretations of circumstances, as various as our background, psychological and emotional baggage, cultures and, perhaps especially our fears.

I used to housesit in a place where a couple of squirrels decided to check in as bed & breakfast guests. There was a small cubby in the wall, next to my bed, where I had stacked sweaters. One morning, as I began to select a sweater from the pile, I discovered two brown eyes staring into mine, half in shock and half in anger. After this, I removed my favorite sweaters and left the rest for the squirrels to keep warm. I also stored a few shoes in that cubby, so I began to announce myself and knock gently before entering each day. My guests seemed to appreciate their host’s special attention and we cohabitated peacefully through the winter. They left in the spring, never to be seen again. I missed them.

That was nearly twenty years ago. I have a place of my own now. We have lived here for over eight years. The neighborhood is well guarded by several massive, expert hunter felines. My younger cat shared this home until he died, last September, at the ripe age of twenty-one. I assume his presence made it inhospitable to rodent guests. The best mouser in town moved away a few months ago. Last week, I found certain evidence of rodent activity.

In a matter of twenty-four hours, I went from being glad I could provide a warm home to a little creature to considering the best way to trap it (them?) and release it far away, to wanting it dead because it had walked all over my art supplies and bread board. I am not afraid of germs; I have even been known to drink out of a glass of water after one of my cats had stolen a sip or two, yet I have caught myself rinsing or washing every single utensil I have used over the past few days… just in case.

In addition to this, our dog, who happens to be a Rat Terrier, took notice of our friend when it began causing a racket somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. At night, Mathias has been jumping off the bed, running back and forth around the house, coming back to bed for a few moments and repeating the routine, which begins at about three thirty in the morning. His Ratter programming is clearly intact, even though he has not been exposed to this sort of experience for the three years he has been alive. I must say that he is quite a beautiful, though annoying, hunter.

For a short while, I wondered if our guest might not be significantly larger than a mouse. I had cross paths with a rat on our street during one of my morning walks only a few weeks ago. The noise between the kitchen and bathroom was formidable, too much so for a tiny creature to produce. Yesterday, as I considered these new circumstances, I realized that I could now understand why people feel so invaded by rodents. It is, indeed, an invasion. They are extremely smart and gorgeous and, in many ways, harmless, but I can see the difficulty and risk of sharing a home with them. As I contemplated this, a small, little gray face appeared in the corner of the kitchen counter. “At least it’s not a rat”, I thought. I did not feel so angry anymore. I smiled at it and it waited a while before returning to its hiding place.

Roderick purchased two small traps that are designed to capture rodents without killing them. I thought this was pretty cool and remembered that a former colleague had been very successful using these to escort mice out of our offices. We set them up last night. This set my mind in motion again, wondering how terrified the poor creature might feel once trapped. I could hardly sleep… and then the dog started his circus act and I wished the mouse would go away, by any means.

The day went by uneventfully. I thought Mathias had likely made eye contact this morning and the little thing decided it could not live with a lunatic Rat Terrier. For a moment, I also thought the mouse had run for its life when it heard what could sound like a cousin or sibling being strangled to death when Mathias played with a squeaky toy for over a half hour. What a cool way to get rid of mice. Could it be that simple?

By the time supper came, the house was still silent and the temperature outside dropping slightly. I caught myself keeping an eye on the corner where I had seen the mouse the day before and paying attention to any noise, wondering where our tiny guest might be. Now I am concerned. It did not come home for dinner. I did not trap it or poison it, so who did? Is it suffering somewhere? Why did it not come home for dinner?

It is past eight o’clock and there is no sign or sound from the kitchen. I felt invaded when my food and health seemed threatened. Living with rodents takes its toll on our pride. I suppose even million dollar mansions can have them. They are as good a place as any for scavengers. Now I feel the emptiness of one less creature to love. Should it show up at three-thirty in the morning, like a recalcitrant teenager with an attitude, I will probably “hate” it all over again.

In the end, the rodent-human connection is purely emotional. It triggers in us a powerful feeling of vulnerability. Something found its way into our home, our territory. It is stealing our food and soiling our things. It is dramatically smaller, yet dramatically present. I toy with the idea of creating a form of accommodation for rodents in house building codes; a sort of isolated chamber that would cause no threat to humans and provide a sanitary home for the little scavengers we despise, admire and fear, but that truly play a role in the equilibrium of the world.

I hope my little friend is alright... somewhere else.

Slainte!

The day was mild. I remember high blades of grass undulating in harmony with the gentle breeze that faintly touched my cheek. I remember the sand, so fine, at once off-white and golden, and the gentle slope that reached far behind us into the water. I remember walking through a field of flowers and wild herbs, reaching an almost distinct border between the flowers and the sand, as though two different ecosystems had developed on either side of the border. I remember turning slightly left and up the sandy dune that led to a low, white cottage. A smiling woman, wearing a scarf on her head, emerged half way from her door as we approached it. She smiled and handed me an apple. It never happened.

I never forgot. I often asked my sister, who is older by five years, about this event, where we might have gone on vacation on the seashore when I was a child, about this utterly radiant woman whose memory fills me with a sense of being safe and loved to this day. My sister has no recollection of any such event.

A greenish figurine that, it seems, looked like a sort of android, was placed on a circular surface toward the far right hand side of a board game I had unfolded on the table. It held a long stick, which pointed down at the board. It vacillated on its circle for a while, appearing to hesitate between right and left, perhaps due to a cleverly arranged set of magnets, until it finally rested, pointing at one of the questions or phrases that radiated away from the circle. I spent hours playing with this android, this plastic being that for long moments seemed a real and fascinating man-god who lived in a box and needed to be acknowledged and allowed to communicate its wisdom by pointing at the words at its feet. This, too, never happened.

I never forgot. I spent hours playing with this board game or contraption. I asked my sister about it, assuming that since it appeared to be an educational game of sorts and she was older, it had to have been hers. She has no recollection of any such game. I asked many people of my generation and some older, thinking there must be some vintage board game out there someone would surely remember, even faintly. No. What is interesting is that I remember only one afternoon of this scenario. What is even more interesting is that I sat at my dad’s end of the table, opposite the end I normally sat at to eat. I played at that table nearly every day. That is the only memory I have of not being in my own spot.

Perhaps my sister simply does not remember, though she is the one who remembers every single student from first grade to her last year at university. Perhaps a therapist could extrapolate for hours on images of angels and hand-held, god-like figures. It is, I am certain, quite revealing and probably in many ways very much in line with the circumstances of my childhood. Perhaps I simply had vivid dreams.

However, this does not explain the vivid dreams of later years, where entire scenes unfolded in a different time and place, scenes I returned to night after night, in locations I later visited in wake time and perfectly recognized. This does not explain meeting two men on a street in Scotland with my husband and in a flash “seeing” an entire massacre the ancestors of one of them, precisely that one, had taken part in and in a flash knowing his clan name, which was correct. History books later confirmed my knowledge. I feel the pain of the violent encounter, back in the sixteen hundreds, as I feel that warm breeze on my face, that day, as I walked up to the woman with the apple, and as I feel my intense fascination with the android on the board of knowledge and as I feel the keyboard under my fingers this very moment.

I recently took part in a fascinating conversation with friends regarding the existence, or non-existence depending on one’s point of view, of time and space. All agreed that time exists and is measurable. All agreed that though measurable it was relative. All agreed that measuring devices were entirely man-contrived and not applicable to all cultures. All agreed that time implies space and movement. Most concluded, at some level, that we could not be certain after all and that any discussion about time would go on, well, indefinitely.

The appearance of Buddhist Baba’s in foreign parts of the world as they meditate in their own dwellings has been documented. Could a dream state somehow slip into absolute meditation, even for a moment? I can doze off on Roderick’s shoulder, for but a minute, and experience an entire morning of events in a distant dream world. Some researchers and theorists hold that all is mere consciousness. On occasion, we may accidentally slip into our awareness of other worlds, or tap into the awareness of others. Some researchers believe cellular memory is a more accurate explanation. Yet others believe in reincarnation. Perhaps this is much like the search for an absolute deity or creative mind. Not all cultures share the same views on what this creator might be, not all religions agree, but all contain some measure of evidence or truth.

What is true for me is not true for everyone, and vice versa. Therefore, by asking what is real, we also seek to define truth. The ultimate answer or explanation may lie in the overall tapestry of all beliefs. Indeed, perhaps the ultimate answer lies in our ability to accept and embrace the diversity of views and experiences, whether scientifically verified or utterly personal. Perhaps that moment of non-resistance in accepting all points of view is the turning point where questions are no longer necessary. All is as it is, experienced in personal ways, scientifically clear and perfect or indefinitely mysterious and expanding, or both.

Slainte!

My husband, Roderick, and I were sitting at dinner, sharing light conversation. Our house sits very close to the street, in an otherwise quiet village, except during work commute. We could hear the beat of hoofs in the distance. This was not unusual since a neighbor has a horse she periodically rides around town. What was unusual was that this horse was distinctly approaching at a rapid pace. The most peculiar spectacle unfolded before us the moment we shifted our attention from our conversation in order to stare out the window.

Atop the horse in question sat a young, barefoot, female rider who wore nothing but jeans and, quite distinctly, a regular upper undergarment. As a Victoria’s Secret advertisement event in full motion, they whisked by our house and continued all the way to the north end of the street, turned around, raced by in the opposite direction and disappeared around the curve at the south end of the village. I immediately sought to confirm with Roderick that he had seen what I had seen. A couple had driven by and observed the spectacle or at least I am certain they did, judging from the look on their faces. Neither horse, nor rider, was ever seen again.

I imagine a group on teenage cousins, visiting at a nearby house up the road and sending one of their own off on a dare to embark on this courageous galloping journey. She returned to them having done the deed and reporting on the puzzled faces encountered along the way. They had a good laugh. In that moment, the only reality was the feeling of freedom, courage and youth. It will be remembered by all who shared this moment in any measure.

Another incident takes place more frequently. We have lived here for almost nine years. I have gone on morning walks around the village daily for as long as we have been here. As a child, I often sat in front of my house to wait for the neighborhood cats to congregate around me, which they did within moments. Now, several decades later, a neighborhood cat ran to me every single morning when I walked by her house. I always stopped to greet her. The first time she did this, she had no way of knowing I would volunteer any attention. I assumed she treated every passer-by the same way. She did not.

I have come to cherish this brief, daily encounter. More so since my own cat passed away, last September. I had not seen my feline neighbor for several weeks and assumed her people had gone away for a while. However, she ran to me the day after my Vladimir died; only it was different this time. As I crouched down to greet her, she placed her front paws on my lap, reached up gently to kiss me, turned around and left. I did not see her again for eight months.

A famous French Canadian author wrote a novel, long ago, in which one of the main characters is a big, old cat who sits on a windowsill and witnesses the daily tribulations of human life. A grandmother and her grandson are the only ones who see him. I sometimes catch myself questioning whether I am the only one who sees the friendly neighborhood cat after all. She does not seem to come to me, or is nowhere to be seen, when other people are nearby, except a man she shares a house with, who occasionally stands in the doorway, watching. Is he puzzled by the fact that I, too, see a cat everyone else tells him does not exist?

Roderick took our dog Mathias for their daily father-and-son walk this afternoon. I always ask if he met anyone interesting on the path. By this, I am referring to either human or animal encounters. The same faces usually turn up, but not today. As they prepared to walk up the trail, they met a young man wearing a Utilikilt. This is a modern, plaid-less, version of a Scottish kilt. He also wore knee-high, laced, black boots, the type one might wear with a Utilikilt. He wore no shirt. An eccentric character? A Celtic musician on a refreshing stroll after practice? Had he been wearing a traditional kilt and boots, we would certainly entertain the possibility of a time warp.

I have had my fair share of incongruous encounters that are so unlike anything else in my daily routine that, occasionally at least, I cannot help but question the reality of it all. I believe there is much more to this world than our normal senses can perceive and I do not need an explanation for everything I do not understand. Sometimes, there is a very logical explanation; things simply do not line up in a very logical way, so the edges of reality appear fuzzy.

That these experiences occur but once may be a clue. More importantly, the fact that they stand out and leave such a lasting impression on the memory may be a blessing. In some instances, they project us outside of our daily routine. As a beam of light suddenly reveals a flower that had been there all along, hidden in the shadows, these moments remind us to look around and see with new eyes. At other times, these mysterious occurrences bring levity to an otherwise ordinary moment or spark our emotions in such a way that, without fail, we perceive a blessing at a time we need it most.

Slainte!