Meg Evans

Since last year’s unfortunate demise of my digital art display, which was no longer supported after the manufacturer went out of business, I sometimes feel as if part of my creative energy went with it. In particular, I haven’t felt motivated to blog about my assortment of future selves and younger selves, who made a lively menagerie in previous years. Back when I changed the picture on the art display every morning, its imaginary “window” gave me inspiration by showing a fresh view of the world.

Getting my real windows replaced last month made my house brighter and more cheerful, but unfortunately there’s not much to see in my backyard at present. Climate change has mostly killed the willow hedge along the back property line. In the spring, I’m going to have a landscaping company remove what’s left of it and plant a long strip of native wildflowers, including milkweed to support the monarch butterfly migration. I’m also visualizing some taller shrubs in the corner that faces my home office window, with a path leading into them. Although the path would go nowhere, the neighbors have tall and healthy trees behind that area, and I want to create an impression that I could step outside and go for a walk in the woods.

Browsing through images of butterfly gardens online, I saw a photo of a natural prairie area on the grounds of an elementary school. It wouldn’t have been suitable for a suburban backyard, but it gave me pleasant memories of long rambles through flowering meadows as a child.

The piano music from the “Peanuts” television cartoons floated into the scene in my thoughts. I didn’t see Snoopy dancing, but a glance to my left revealed Lucy’s psychiatric help booth on a sidewalk next to the children’s butterfly garden. “The Doctor Is In,” the sign proclaimed, with the usual price of five cents. Charlie Brown wasn’t the patient this time, however. Inside the booth, my 76-year-old future self Kass, who had arranged her hair to look like Lucy, was cheerfully waving me over.

Apropos of the setting, I could only mutter “Good grief!” as I stepped onto the imaginary sidewalk.

Kass opened her hands wide and smiled up at me from the wooden crate she sat on. “Well, you were saying that you had lost motivation to write about your future selves, and I thought you might appreciate a little help with that problem.”

Another crate, longer and narrower, had been set up on the sidewalk to serve as the patient’s couch. A large black ant was making its way slowly across one of the slats on top.

I looked up at Kass again. “Okay, I guess I did say something like that. I wouldn’t have thought of it as asking for psychiatric help, though. I just want to replace the art display so I can feel more creative.”

“You didn’t have the art display until 2015,” Kass pointed out, “and you didn’t travel as much in real life before then, either. Still, you wrote plenty of stories and blog posts. Now you’re older and can afford to travel and see more of the country, but you’re feeling low on creativity despite visiting new places, and you wonder why. Would you say that’s a fair assessment?”

Brushing off the ant, I arranged myself on the narrow crate, using a denim jacket for a pillow. The clouds above the butterfly garden formed a vaguely castle-like shape.

“I kind of know why. The past few years have been emotionally draining, with so much weird stuff going on—the pandemic, and all the craziness going on in politics and the world. My workout plan is much more demanding than any exercise I ever did before, and although it has made me healthier, it often leaves me feeling tired. And then, of course, there’s everything that has been lost—from simple things like the art display and the willow hedge, to pleasantly cool summer evenings that don’t often happen anymore, to people in my life who have grown old and died.”

“In other words,” Kass summed up, resting her chin in her hand like Lucy trying to look serious, “good grief!”

The castle in the sky began to crumble, its ramparts falling away as one gray cloud drifted to the east.

“Well, yeah. Something like that.”

“Or, maybe, not-so-good grief,” Kass suggested. “You have to give yourself time and space for grief, you know. That is why people all over the world have rituals. Anything can help; it doesn’t have to be a fancy ceremony. You could, for instance, go into the backyard and say a few words of gratitude as a memorial service for the willows on the day before the landscapers come to replace them. If you did more to acknowledge your feelings of loss, you might not feel as overwhelmed. That, my dear, is my professional advice. Five cents, please.”

I visualized a dusty old buffalo nickel from the metal coin drawer in my mom’s antique slot machine. Sitting up, I gave it to Kass.

“That might actually make some sense, I have to admit. Thanks for your help, Doctor Kass.”

“My pleasure.”