Squeaking behind the fridge. Running across the kitchen. Droppings in the foyer, along the edge of the bathtub, under the kitchen table.
Just over 400 square feet, my daughter and I live in two rooms. These mice are inescapable. Cute from a distance, I do not love (living with) mice. I respect their robust resilience and ability to fit through a 1/4 inch space. I do not want them as roommates. It’s not quite a phobia; it’s a strong distaste. Despite my eight-year-old pleas for a hamster via notes left under my mother’s pillow, I am not a rodent person.
Graeme, the gentle pest control man, kindly smiles and nods when I tell him about being on the phone with a friend and how she could hear the squeaking. He puts glue pads upstairs, where my father and stepmother live. They are away on vacation. I agree to check the pads and dispose of what I find. “No thank you, Graeme,” I say when he asks if I would like a couple of these pads in my tiny apartment.
“It’s the worst year for mice I’ve ever seen,” Graeme says, putting bait in a new heavy duty box along the side of the house. “I’ve been in the business since 1973.”
“Do you think it’s climate change?” I ask.
“Let’s blame it on COVID. Everyone blames everything on COVID,” Graeme follows me in the front door. I’m not sure who is blaming what on COVID, but I don’t ask further questions. We’ve got a job to do.
I’m re-reading Pema Chödrön’s When Things Fall Apart. One of the most referenced books on my shelf, I return to this slim volume when I feel “groundless”, when I can’t fix my eyes on a steady horizon.
I’m three months in to concussion recovery. It has undone the agility of my mind, the dependability of my capacity, the possibility of overriding any shape of too muchness. I spend a lot of time falling apart. “Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth,” Chödrön writes. I scrawl this on a yellow post-it note, and stick it on my fridge beside photographs of far-away friends and kid paintings. Struck by how often I feel afraid right now (for and of the human species, for and of my health, for and of my long-tailed uninvited guests), I’m unsure where truth is, or what it actually looks like. The weight of it. I’m pretty sure that the truth isn’t located in my clenched jaw, or to be found in the profound worry about how loud the birthday party might be.
Two days after Graeme’s visit, it’s time to check the glue pads. I put it off until the last possible moment, with fifteen minutes left before I need to pick L. up from school. I put on a bright purple N95 mask, prescription sunglasses, gardening gloves, running shoes, and my favourite baseball hat. I say a prayer - “moving closer to the truth” - and march up the stairs. Breathing deeply, as I round the corner into the kitchen, I let out an anticipatory shriek.
The glue pads in my parent’s kitchen are empty. Undisturbed. Exactly where Graeme left them.
There are six more to check: under radiators, in closets. I can’t do this. Would it be so bad if I just left them? I don’t want to do this! I’m a grown-up. Get it together. Okay, so you’re scared. Walk towards the cliff. You can do this. You are doing this. I strike a power pose, catching a glimpse of myself in the dining room mirror. I look absurd. I laugh, and trudge on.
I do find a dead mouse on a glue pad, on the third floor. Tears spring to my eyes. But it’s not because I’m terrified, it’s because I’m in proximity to death. This small, still, grey body. A body. My racing heart sinks into my guts. Culpable.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, as I fold the glue pad over on itself, slide the creature into a white plastic bag, sunglasses fogging, mask damp.
“Most of the time, warding off death is our biggest motivation. We habitually ward off any sense of problem. We’re always trying to deny that it’s a natural occurrence that things change, that the sand is slipping through our fingers. Time is passing. It’s as natural as the seasons changing and day turning into night. But getting old, getting sick, losing what we love—we don’t see those events as natural occurrences. We want to ward off that sense of death no matter what.”1
A meeting with living, and dying. A meditation on the wildness of the world, where, no matter what, we meet what skitters and slithers. “They are getting in through the holes in the furnace room, crawling up through the walls. They really are intrepid and resourceful little things,” Graeme had said, shining his flashlight under my bathroom sink.
As I peel off my armour, wipe my cheeks, I recall a story Chödrön shares in the first chapter of the book:
“Once there was a young warrior. Her teacher told her that she had to do battle with fear. She didn’t want to do that. It seemed too aggressive; it was scary; it seemed unfriendly. But the teacher said she had to do it and gave her the instructions for the battle. The day arrived. The student warrior stood on one side, and fear stood on the other. The warrior was feeling very small, and fear was looking big and wrathful. They both had their weapons. The young warrior roused herself and went toward fear, prostrated three times, and asked, “May I have permission to go into battle with you?”
Fear said, “Thank you for showing me so much respect that you ask permission.” Then the young warrior said, “How can I defeat you?” Fear replied, “My weapons are that I talk fast, and I get very close to your face. Then you get completely unnerved, and you do whatever I say. If you don’t do what I tell you, I have no power. You can listen to me, and you can have respect for me. You can even be convinced by me. But if you don’t do what I say, I have no power.” In that way, the student warrior learned how to defeat fear.”2
September’s five things
Reading: Li-Young Lee’s poem, Persimmons.
Remembering: September 30th is The National Day for Truth and Reconciliation in (so called) Canada. I’ll be at the powwow at Dufferin Grove, and am taking time to reflect on what it is to be a settler, listening, learning, and offering reparations to Indigenous communities.
Watching: Jeremy Dutcher’s cover of Feist’s Graveyard.
Listening: Tressie McMillan Cottom guest-hosts a stellar episode of The Ezra Klein Show, with Emily Drabinski, the president of the American Library Association, on the rise of book bans.
Making: Other than crisp mornings and jean jackets, the arrival of autumn means soup. This Lemon Lentil deliciousness is one of my go-to favourites that is easy and satisfying, freezes well, and honestly never disappoints.
Thank you for reading. If you enjoy five things, it would mean a lot to me if you could drop a heart, comment on a post that speaks to you, or share it with a friend. I want to keep growing this special space, and your support really makes a difference. 🌹
Chödrön, Pema. 2002. When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times. Boston, Shambhala.
Chödrön, Pema. 2002. When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times. Boston, Shambhala.