Ignored.

I'm kid five of six. We're all stacked pretty close together and by the time I was born there was already a lot going on at our house. Being at the bottom of the stack had some perks, I learned to talk and read pretty early; and some disadvantages, nobody cared what I had to say. People would literally get up and walk away mid-sentence. It drove me nuts. I started talking to my hand, giving Hand the daily report of how I did on my spelling test, whether or not I'd beat Hector in Around the World, and complained that my sandwich bread was too dry and I didn't enough milk to get it down at lunch time. When I started talking to Hand my mom would turn away from what she was doing, push my hand down and say, "OK! OK! I'm listening! I'm listening." But she was only sort of listening. There was dinner to make, five other kids to mollify, and a phone to answer. Eventually, I just went outside.

Our yard was bounded by a pale dirt road around the front, and the Shoffner's fence in the back. The fence we shared with Mr. and Mrs. Shoffner jogged back and forth a few times, creating some interesting corners, most of which the previous owners of our property had filled with flowering shrubs or fruit trees. The section of fence that separated our fallow field with the Shoffner's abandoned horse pasture was pretty dilapidated and rickety. The two fence posts in the corner were still solid, but the rest of the wire and wood fence was a saggy, rusty mess. It was one of my favorite corners. The wire fence was covered in a vine called Virginia Creeper. I loved Virginia Creeper because it had a strange-sounding girl's name, blue berries that "could kill people" and leaves that turned blood red in the fall. It was mysterious and lovely. A nearby honey locust served double duty as both an intricate ant highway system and shade. Its tiny yellow-green leaves created a finely dappled shade that had a sort of sparkly feel to it. From the top of the fence I could see the canal my siblings and I referred to as Hidden Valley. A pair of nesting great blue herons lived there, and I loved to watch them come and go. There were little song birds in the trees and scrub nearby, and no end of entertainment along the ant highway. The fence post was only wide enough to rest one leg at a time, so sitting was awkward and uncomfortable. I loved the view, though, so I persisted, moving from one numb leg to the other. One day I climbed to the top of the fence post to find a board had been nailed to the two corner posts creating a tiny bench. It was perfect! It never occurred to me to wonder who had put the board there or why, I just climbed up and watched the wide world unfold.

As an adult I learned that my mom had put the board across the top of the fence post. She could see my perch from the kitchen window and while making dinner or doing dishes she'd watched me stare wordless into the horizon, or talk non-stop to no one in particular. One day while I was at school she hammered a bit of scrap wood to the top of the fence post and smiled when I found it later that afternoon.

Occasionally for lunch I walk across the street from work to a grocery store with a salad and hot food bar. It's pretty good food, and I like the patio out front. There are trees, flowers, and a small fountain where people-tolerant song birds splash and play. Often there's a homeless man sitting or napping on one of the benches there. He's a thin man, not very tall, probably in his sixties. If he's awake, I say hello. The grocery store is a sort of fancy-pants one, and most of its clientele seem uncomfortable with a homeless man sitting or sleeping on a bench. Most avoid eye contact and pretend not to hear him, even when all he's said is "good afternoon." A few weeks ago he asked if I had money I could give him for lunch. I almost never have cash, and said so. I wanted him to have lunch, though, so I said if he'd tell me what he wanted to eat  I'd go back inside and pick it up with my debit card. He smiled wide and said, in his deep southern accent, "They've got this fried chicken..." After a few minutes I came back with his hopeful order: Chicken, collard greens, and macaroni salad. He thanked me, ate his lunch, and promptly fell asleep. I had a lot on my mind; I sat absent-mindedly watching a bird beg for crumbs at my table.  I don't feed wild animals people food. It kills them. But the bird couldn't know that. It hopped close, cheeped, looked at me through one small black eye and cheeped again. I watched the bird, the bird watched me. After a few foraging checks at specks on the table it flew away without lunch. While I had been watching the bird my human lunch mate had woken up and had been watching me. He pronounced his diagnosis, "You worried 'bout somfin, honey." I admitted that I was, and that I had some things on my mind I didn't know how to resolve. "Don't worry, honey, God's gotchu. It's gonna be fine." For some reason the statement caught me off guard and I almost started to cry. Did He? Did God have me? Does He even know or care? Does He even really exist? My lunch mate smiled his winning fried chicken smile and said, "I see it! There's the trouble! Ya. He gotchu, honey. He gotchu." Then, with his smiling face to the sky, and palms turned upwards he said, "Honey, if He got me, He got you!" Eventually I had to excuse myself and get back to work, he said, "Stop by and talk any time, honey. Any time." I smiled, waved, and headed back to my office.

Right now I'm sitting in my sister's back yard looking at the struggling grass and the thriving tomatoes, thinking about the rotating neglect that has shaped the yard over the years. I'm remembering seasons when I could contribute, others, like now, when I couldn't.  I'm thinking about friendships I've had over the years and the different phases of neglect and care those have endured, or not endured. I'm wondering at my relationship with Deity and considering potential fence post benches I might be overlooking. Maybe that man was right. Maybe God has got me. Whether He does or not, I'm glad I can still just go outside.

Mariposa Lake in Lassen Volcanic National Park