The Amazing Spider-Man Lizard of NJ.

While out hiking the treacherous woods of NJ, Lizzy spotted something Amazing; Something Spectacular; Something so scary(in her mind) that she could barely believe her eyes. She blurted out on the trail, "Everyone step back, it's a Spider-Man Frog!".  Emily and I quickly pointed out, that if anything, it was a Spider-Man Lizard.

I had heard of the Spider-man frog that Lizzy referred to (a poisonous frog that lives in the Amazon Jungle) but never heard of the Spider-Man Lizard (Only found in Kenya) before writing this blog.  Thank you internet.

As I reached down to pick up this rare species, Lizzy shrieked in horror, “Don't touch it daddy, it's poisonous. I read about the Spider-Man Frog.”. The look on her face was serious so I did everything I could to keep from laughing.

I picked up the lizard by the tail and carefully inspected it.  Looking at Lizzy, I proclaimed, “Harmless !”, and threw the plastic toy back down where I found it.  Lizzy's wide eyes narrowed down to a subtle, face-palm, expression.  Emily and I tormented Lizzy for the rest of the hike. No, the irony of Lizzy wearing a Spider-Man shirt did not elude us.

Watch out, here come's the plastic Spider-Man Lizard!

All Things Deserve a Chance.

 

It was a sweltering hot morning in the neighborhood, Lizzy was over and as we went out back to play, a neighbor made us aware of a bird that had fallen out of it's nest. As we walked down the back alleyway, there it was, a young bluejay. It tried to fly but did not know how.   After watching it get to the shade, we were satisfied that it would be OK and made our way back to the yard. A half hour later and Lizzy was ready to go back inside. Another neighbor came out and hearing the news went down the alleyway with me to make sure the young bird was OK. The neighbor grabbed a small bowl and filled it with water for the scared little creature.

After some research on the net, I found out that young birds rely on their mother for food and drink. Going back to the bird with my neighbor, we sprayed water from a bottle to try and get the bird to drink. The bird eventually realized the trick and opened it's mouth for the oncoming water.

After fifteen minutes, we walked back to our houses. On the way back, I saw several cats in the area and made a command decision. I called the local humane society. In their normal, uncaring manner, they told me the welfare of small animals, “was not their concern.”. I realized I needed to call an organization that would be more responsible in rehabilitating the young, flightless bird. I called the local SPCA. The lady asked if I could bring the bird to them without injuring it. I was pretty sure I could.
 

I called to Lizzy to find a small box and in a short time we were standing in front of the frightened baby bird. With gloves on I reached down, gently scooped it up and placed it in the box.  Lizzy held the box while we drove to the SPCA. The bird stayed still on the ride.

When we arrived at the SPCA, a woman greeted us at the counter and explained that a handler would raise the bird until it was ready to survive in the wild, on it's own. We left a donation, walked through the animal adoption area and made our way back to the car.
 

I don't know what possessed me to help that little bird. Everyone who knows me understands my malcontent towards bluejays. When I looked at Lizzy's face on the way home though, I began to understand. I knew I had to show Lizzy that compassion had to be blind and nonjudgmental.

Waiting Repetitiously.

The kids and I went for another hike today. Lizzy saw a tick. When we got home she insisted I wash the clothes she wore, so that it would get rid of anything on them. Emily chimed in that she also had clothes that needed washing. We completely forgot to wash them earlier. Now I'll have to stay up until the dryer finishes.

As I sit here waiting for the dryer to stop, I realize there are so many things we wait for in life. Things completely beyond our control. The traffic light that doesn't seem to change from red to green, the person in front of you in the checkout line, the party you want to go to, etc.

The past few months, I've done so much. I've had so many blog worthy events in my life. I want to write about all of them tonight but as I sit in front of the laptop, all I can think to write about is the blasted dryer mocking me with the repetitious noise of clothes whirling around.

I could be writing about helping start the coolest frozen yogurt shop in the country. I could be writing about the museums and trails I hiked in SC. I could be writing about moving back to NJ. I could be writing about getting back on match.com. I could be writing about Lizzy's JV softball team winning the championship.  I could be writing about seeing the president in person.  I could be writing about accidentally getting backstage at a Bocelli concert. I could be writing about any number of things. Instead I'm listening to the dryer, waiting for it to complete it's cycle, so that I can go to bed.

I guess that leaves one more thing for you to wait for, that is beyond your control. The documenting of the many events that have transpired.

Broken Can Be Beautiful.

I finally got back to the Swimming River Preserve today. The last time I was there was the day after hurricane Sandy. The kids were with me and as we arrived, we realized our normal dirt parking spot had been obstructed by a small fallen tree. The landscape had changed dramatically from it's pre-storm form. So many trees did not survive and the ones that had, had taken on a mature, beaten look. The thinning of larger trees and shifting of land gave way for acorns to make a reach for the newly opened sky.

Once tall mighty trees now lie down, not in pain but in a strange dignity. In their decay new life was already spotting the landscape. We followed vaguely familiar trails that had changed in the course of water, wind and wear. I came upon a tree with a section broken out of it.

Looking at the peeled back bark and odd crack, I felt a certain empathy. This tree did not do well in the storm and yet there was a beauty in it's passing that called to me. I was this tree. I was broken. Not in body or in spirit but in life. I've spent so much time looking at all of the personal things I had fixed that I never spent the time seeing the cracks or the peeling back of the bark that was still so obvious.

As I snapped a few shots of the tree's open wound, I thought of my own brokenness. One thing that always seemed to make me feel whole has been writing. I've been through so much in the last six months, good and bad but hadn't been writing about it. I'd been holding it in. Now kneeling down at this altar of a fallen tree, I realized I had been missing the simple outpouring of feeling I hadn't had in such a long time.

My mind wandered as we took the trail back to the car. My shutter lay closed passing all of the relatively common sites. So much land shifted and yet, so much was still recognizable. I remembered the path. I had taken enough pictures along it to reconstruct it from a flawed memory. In the boredom of the normal, the thought of the broken tree brought on an acceptance that being broken could be beautiful.