Garden Airplane Trap (1936), Max Ernst

I’m a fat rabbit, now, too heavy for the hawks to carry, so I’m finally safe. I can do whatever I want, traipse around the yard at my leisure, linger by the lingonberry bushes, stray around the strawberries, pass out in the passionfruit vines. My fears aren’t shaped like talons anymore, there is no rush of wings in my nightmares, there are no demon beaks curved like a sickle. And when I wake up in the morning, I can bask in the sunshine, relish the bright open air, wander across wide expanses instead of hiding in the shade, instead of squeezing under bushes, instead of smashing myself into dirty tunnels.

My speed never guaranteed my safety anyway. My wide open eyes and soft heart only made me look more delicious to ruthless strangers. Diligence and fortitude and paranoia only made it harder to get to sleep in my burrow, made it impossible to trust my friends, made it tough to smell the honeysuckle in the afternoon. What saved me was my enormous appetite.

I never said no and it set me free. I took my fill and didn’t apologize for it. I was ruled by my desires and they led me out of hell and into paradise.

Now I watch the little rabbits, so twitchy, always on edge, and I feel sorry for them. When they ask me what I did to get where I am, I tell them:

I followed a trail of breadcrumbs and they got bigger and bigger and I ate them all.

They didn’t lead to a witch’s cottage like all the fairy tales warned they would. Instead of hiding half the day I followed my nose to more ripe fruits. I wandered in pursuit of what I wanted and when I found it, I relished it without hesitation, without guilt, without shame, without remorse.

I figured I’d be punished for this but punishment never came. I wasn’t imperiled, I wasn’t ostracized, I wasn’t cursed or doomed.

Now I am too heavy to lift, much bigger than a hawk. I’m frightening to large cats and small dogs alike. I’m way too wide to stuff down a snake’s gullet. I’m louder and rounder and fluffier than ever, but these days no one seems to notice me at all.

It’s a big relief. I don’t feel lonely like I used to. I meander through my day. Nothing is missing. If anyone disapproves, they don’t dare say so. Maybe they’re too preoccupied, eyeing the sky for danger, nibbling on this or that in a big hurry, never fully satisfied, always cringing and flinching and ducking for cover, wondering who’s watching them, wishing they knew what would happen next.

Don’t live that way. Lift your nose to the air. What do you smell? Follow each promising waft of fruit wherever it leads.

***

I’m not pretending that this meandering lifestyle works for me every single day. My attention is constantly shifting. I was a fat rabbit this morning but now I’m just a disgruntled earthworm. I tried the fat rabbit trick and fried myself two eggs and ate it with the bread my husband makes every few days, which is delicious. One of the yolks broke. Tragic. While I was eating, I told Bill that when you move across the country, you pretty much have to accept that everyone you left behind will treat you like you died, except without any of the praise and fanfare. Some will find excuses to drop you immediately. Others will feign interest and slowly drop you over the course of several years. You can ask them to visit but they never will. That one friend who, upon hearing that you were moving, announced that he would never visit? He was the most honest and best friend you had back there. You hated his words at the time, but they were accurate.

It feels good to tell Bill all of this, but it doesn’t support my easygoing Chungus lifestyle. That’s the downside of having a spouse you can say anything to. You wind up in one impromptu therapy session after another, but there’s no real therapist there, just a human who is expected to cosplay concerned mental health professional while finishing the crossword on his phone.

Moving is hard on your ego, even five years later. Everyone looks indifferent from 3,000 miles away. On the other hand, I’ve spent several years waltzing around in my huge yard raving about how much I love the weather, all weather — rain, snow, sleet, sunshine, humidity, it’s all sublime! I’ve held forth on the glory of REAL seasons — each one is delightful in its own unique way! I’ve talked about how nice it is to be so close to my whole family: two siblings, their kids, their in-laws, my mother. I’ve started making pottery, swimming, taking voice lessons. I’ve made many new friends and I love them so much. Our house was dark and had tiny windows but we renovated it and now it looks beautiful. Who wants any of this news? Who could care from so far away?

I’ve also failed at a million things. The renovation was a success but the process was a kind of failure that had other failures trapped inside it — extremely expensive failures. Never renovate. Resist the urge. Hit yourself in the head with a mallet and set several large bills on fire instead. Now imagine doing that every single day for a year.

Obviously living near your family is no walk in the park. You can say “no way” and “wait a minute” and “seriously, what the fuck?” over and over, but these words get you nowhere. Family members don’t change. They do what they do. Accept it now or lose your mind forever.

Making new friends who are balanced and thoughtful is great but don’t start thinking you can be like them. You can’t. Your name is Chungus. On bad days: Chungus Worm. On worse days: Anxious Chungy Wormhole. You aren’t someone who’s lived in a smallish town for the past thirty years, like they have. You’re a psycho from LA now. The burning desert sun, the narcissism, the status anxiety lives inside your body now, even when you’re pulling weeds on your hands and knees in the buggy heat.

Is everything traumatizing as you get older, even the relatively easy shit? Or am I just exceptionally weak and wilty? Is this why I want to follow my desires wherever they lead instead of working very hard on that thing I started yesterday?

***

No. Hard work is overrated. Because when I wander out to the garden instead of working, I smell the wet air, I watch the cardinals diving and the hummingbirds chasing each other in wide circles, and I feel heavier and heavier in the best way. The earth pulls me closer. I’m not afraid anymore. It feels so good to be alive. There’s so much to look forward to: Lunch. Dinner. I’m too heavy for the hawks to carry away. I’m louder and rounder and fluffier than ever, but no one cares.

What did all of that speed get me anyway? Big, watery eyes, watching the sky for threats, preparing to dash away. Jittery heart, afraid of being left all alone, terrified of death, working so hard to make a mark, trying to matter.

I don’t matter. It feels heavy. I’m the same as everyone and everything else — the rabbits, the earthworms, my family, my friends, the indifferent clouds, the wide forgiving sky.

Too heavy to lift, too heavy to move. Safe at last.

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