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.”

After waking up to a cloudy morning on Sunday, I deliberated for a few minutes about what kind of image I wanted on my digital art display. I chose a photo from the online library showing a garden path through a window, with flowers blooming on both sides. The shade from a wooded area in the background went well with the ambient light in my house on this overcast day.

Something about this cozy, refreshing view of a garden in bloom reminded me of the illustrations I had used for blog posts about imaginary conversations with my future self Fannie. This image didn’t look at all like the view from Fannie’s futuristic townhouse, however. I came back to look at it again in the afternoon, still not sure what kinds of associations my subconscious mind had made.

“I take it you don’t think of visiting with me as cozy and refreshing? Now I’m feeling slighted.”

The voice in my mind came from Kass, another version of my future self, who—at age 76—was both younger and snarkier than Fannie. Instead of her usual T-shirt with jeans or shorts, Kass was wearing a plain, modest, long-sleeved burgundy dress befitting an elderly lady welcoming a guest for tea and—could that enticing aroma be fresh-baked blueberry scones?

Conversations with Kass could always be counted on to prove interesting, but cozy and refreshing—not so much. I decided to ignore her trolling and greet her as if this really had been a friendly social visit.

“How lovely to see you again, Kass. Your garden looks beautiful. Shall we go for a stroll before tea?”

“Not today. It’s about to start raining, any minute now.” Right on cue, thunder rumbled in the distance.

I turned away from the window and surveyed what looked like a comfortable, old-fashioned parlor. A long oval table of dark wood, with chairs upholstered in forest green, held the tea service and scones. Ornate floor lamps stood sentinel on either side of the room, burning dimly. A parrot in a gilded cage squawked something that sounded like, “In the world!”

Kass poured the tea while I settled into one of the comfortable dining chairs. She had chosen Earl Grey instead of my usual vanilla caramel. I reached for a scone from a generously filled platter.

“You know, I never meant that you couldn’t do cozy,” I said, as Kass took a seat across from me. “It’s just that whenever you show up, except for now, you’re always outdoors and doing something active.”

Rain spattered on the window, and lightning flashed.

“Maybe you should think about why you see me that way,” Kass suggested.

“Just because I’ve spent more time working on my fitness, probably. I haven’t had as many cozy afternoons.” I took a bite of my scone, which, in all fairness, was delicious. “And this scenario is a bit of a stereotype, wouldn’t you say? A little old lady sitting quietly in the parlor, looking out the window at her flower garden and waiting for a guest to arrive. The only thing it needs is a cat, or several.”

“Herbert would be very unhappy if I had a cat.” Kass gestured toward the parrot. “He would much prefer that there be no cats anywhere in the world.”

Bobbing his head and echoing, “In the world,” the parrot hopped from one wooden bar to another in the cage. He kept looking at the scone that Kass had put on her plate, evidently hoping for a treat.

“Let’s unpack some of those assumptions,” Kass continued, leaving her scone untouched for now. “Why do you feel that coziness has to be such a major production that it can’t fit into an active life?”

I pondered that question as thunder sounded, not far away. Meanwhile, in real life, the sky had brightened a little, and I had finished my tea (vanilla caramel, with a healthy whole-wheat muffin). Putting this post aside for the time being, I decided that I’d write the rest of it later when I came up with a good answer.

Kass showed up again on Thursday, while I was standing in the kitchen.

“So, have you thought of anything more to say about coziness? Not to nag, but the storm outside my window has blown over, and your tea and scones have gotten cold.”

“No, I’ve been too busy with work and rowing,” I admitted. “And that, of course, is the problem. Cozy afternoons and rushing from one activity to another just don’t go together. I wouldn’t really say that coziness has to be a major production, but it does need a reasonable amount of unscheduled time.”

“Do you need to rush off and do anything right now?”

“Well, sort of. This is a regular workday, and I am on the clock. I just came into the kitchen for a minute to get some water.”

Kass tilted her head slightly. “Tell me what you see.”

I followed her gaze, wondering what she was up to. “Not much. Sunlight coming through the blinds.”

“Stand in it for a moment, and just breathe.”

Feeling a bit silly, I took a step to the side. The sun-warmed linoleum felt comfortable under my feet. I took a deep breath and let it out again just as slowly.

“There, doesn’t that feel better?” Kass smiled encouragingly. “I don’t disagree that rushing, when you do it all the time, is indeed a problem—but coziness can be found in small moments.”

I shelved a potential post in February about a future me acting as a guardian angel to my present-day self because my first attempt to imagine that scenario didn’t go as planned. Instead of a refreshing visit with my wise and kindly 119-year-old future self Fannie, I caught a glimpse of a smirking Kass in fake wings, obviously getting ready for a snarkfest. Although Kass, also an older and wiser me, generally has had good intentions, I wasn’t in a mood to deal with her satirical version of my future.

After letting the idea percolate for a while, I circled back around to it, this time holding an image of Fannie more clearly in mind. I pictured myself sitting across a glass table from Fannie on the sunny balcony of her townhouse. Birds chirped at a feeder, water burbled in a fountain, and pink climbing roses bloomed all along the balcony rail.

The breakfast table was set for two, with coffee cups and small plates. Steam rose from the full cups, along with an enticing mocha caramel aroma, and a box of assorted donuts occupied the center of the table. They looked delicious: glazed twist, chocolate-topped custard…

“Hey, wait a minute, this isn’t right.” Instead of giving in to the temptation to load up my plate, I gave Fannie an accusing glare across the table. “How can you eat a box of donuts if you’re a future me? I gave up the bad habit of donuts for breakfast many years ago—they’re so unhealthy. If you are my guardian angel, then you ought to have the table set with something that’s good for me. What happened to the food I really eat, like fresh fruit and multigrain toast?”

Fannie calmly brushed back an unruly strand of hair, which was purple today, a soft lilac hue that suited the gentle spring breeze. In a mild tone, she answered my question with another.

“What have we always said about assumptions?”

“That it’s best to avoid them.” I picked up my coffee cup and took a sip, enjoying the flavor while I tried to make sense of where this scene was going.

“And leave space for improvement.” Fannie smiled as she reached for a donut. “Yum, cinnamon almond crunch. You know, nutritional science has improved a lot since your primitive times. Donuts nowadays are made with a healthy mix of grains, just like your toast, and baked with good oils. They have natural flavors and no added sugar. Recipes can be adjusted to suit each customer’s individual needs, as determined by genetic testing. Basically, these are prescription donuts, designed to enhance my longevity. Because you are a younger version of me, they’ll be very healthy for you too. Go ahead, take one.”

A small bird hopped down from the feeder and took a few steps across the smooth floor of the balcony, tilting its head to one side and gazing up at me. Hoping for crumbs, I supposed.

I picked up the glazed twist donut and looked at it dubiously. It appeared to be just an ordinary donut, as far as I could tell. But then again, this was a scenario in which my future self was still alive and healthy at a very advanced age. Fountain-of-youth donuts made about as much sense as any other explanation.

Fannie sipped her coffee quietly as I bit into the glazed twist. It tasted like a regular donut and had the soft texture of one.

“Avoid assumptions,” I said, speaking mostly to myself.

The bird, perhaps disappointed that there were no tasty crumbs to be found, took wing. After watching it fly out of sight, Fannie spoke again. “What do you imagine I have been doing as your guardian angel?”

“Rescuing me from danger, I suppose, and from bad or unlucky situations generally. Isn’t that what a guardian angel is supposed to do?”

“Well, sort of. Danger and bad luck often are a matter of perspective, however. From my perspective at more than twice your age, in many ways you are still a baby. I don’t mean that in an insulting way—you are navigating a very confusing, often-changing world as best you can.” Fannie gestured expansively toward the blue sky beyond the roses. “Now, let’s think for a moment about how a baby learns to walk. At first, standing up feels scary and dangerous. The baby wants to be rescued and kept safe. But the parents—and the baby’s guardian angel—know that learning to walk calls for practice and, occasionally, a few well-timed words of encouragement.”

“So, when we’ve had these conversations,” I clarified, “you have been acting as a guardian angel by encouraging me to stand tall, rather than swooping down to save me from my circumstances.”

“That’s part of it, yes. Of course, a baby first has to become aware that the possibility of walking exists. When we tell stories about our past and future selves, we are keeping space open for possibilities that we are only just starting to imagine—or, put another way, holding the future lightly.”

Even on bright mornings with sunlight streaming through my windows and a forecast calling for a clear, warm afternoon, I haven’t looked for summer landscapes recently when I’ve been choosing images for my digital art display. Maybe it’s the angle of the sun or the crisp blue of the sky that makes plain it is autumn, however unseasonably warm. So I’ve been picking autumn images with a little haze or fog, even if they don’t quite match the ambient light in my house.

This forest image wasn’t new; it was one that I had displayed about two years ago. When I pictured myself standing under the trees and breathing the cool, still air, I remembered how different the world had felt two years ago. Same image, but a very different strand of time.

Imaginary twigs crackled, disrupting the quiet scene. I glanced to the right and saw my future self Kass ambling up to me. She was dressed for a casual hike in faded jeans, a plain green V-neck top, and matching green cross-training shoes with thick soles.

“You called?” Kass stretched lazily, brushing a stray strand of moss from her jeans.

“Not that I’m aware of.” Taking a step down from the rock where I’d been standing, I heard another twig snap underfoot. “What I had in mind just now was the past, not the future. So I’m not sure how I could have been calling a future self.”

“Time isn’t always linear, as we both know. It’s full of unexpected twists and turns. Often when we think about the past, we’re really looking for insights on how to frame our experience of the world going forward.”

We walked companionably together under the trees until the bare, stony soil gave way to grass and brush. The canopy thinned, allowing glimpses of blue sky and high clouds. I stopped there, looking for a path, but I saw no signs of human passage. Cobwebs gleaming with dew stretched across tall brambles.

“You’ve been here before.” Kass spoke in a calm, reassuring tone as she walked on farther, through tiny white asters dotting the grass. “The landscape of imagination changes from one day to another, but it never becomes impassable.”

Just around a fallen tree, the sound of trickling water became louder. A stream came into view, with plenty of open space along its banks and a trail that looked familiar, although I couldn’t quite recall where I had seen it before. Kass took a step toward it and then turned back to smile at me.

“Paths are always a matter of perspective.”

Sunshine on Wednesday morning left me feeling cheerful, especially after I went outside to get the mail around noon. The air felt warmer, and the sun was noticeably getting higher in the sky and farther north. Spring didn’t seem that far away, even though the calendar clearly says winter is not nearly over.

Of course, we’ve also had our share of cloudy mornings. Still, I feel much better than last year, when a long string of dark winter days left me so blah that I ordered a sparkly sleeveless top from a catalog to cheer myself up (much to my daughter’s amusement). This year, the winter blues have mostly stayed away. To match a hopeful mood, I chose an image of a peaceful landscape for my art display, showing trees with leaf buds opening at winter’s end.

For whatever reason, though, I couldn’t manage to shake off a persistent feeling that my energy level is not where it should be. I have to confess, I started ruminating about how long it might take me to improve it (which, of course, broke my New Year’s resolution to stifle my unhelpful mental chatter).

“Do you really want an answer to that question?”

Oh, great—my snarky future self Kass had chosen that moment to pop out of my subconscious mind and lecture me on my lack of mental discipline. I sighed.

“I have a feeling I’ll get one regardless.”

Kass grinned cheerfully in response. I pictured her wearing faded jeans and a matching denim jacket, ambling lazily along beside the stream in the art display image.

“Not necessarily. If you told me no, you didn’t want to hear it, then I would leave you alone. But, of course, you are a past me, which means you wouldn’t be that much of a wuss. So, I can feel confident that you do want an answer—right?”

After mentally unpacking the various parts of that statement, I sighed once more and grudgingly told her, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Okay. Well, since you’re expecting to get criticism, and life has a way of giving us what we expect to get, I’ll start by saying that you asked the wrong question. Energy level isn’t something that stays constant until you improve it. Rather, it changes all the time because it’s a reflection of everything coming into, and going out of, your life. It’s sort of like water level,” and Kass gestured toward the stream, “which can go up or down very quickly, depending on how much rain falls upstream and whatever happens downstream. So, what you really want to consider is flow, rather than level. Does that make sense?”

“Sort of.” I looked at the quiet little stream, which didn’t seem to be moving at all. “When I row on the river, a low water level isn’t necessarily a problem if there is enough flow to prevent weeds from clogging the riverbed. And when there is heavy rain, the water level can go from low to high in a matter of hours.”

“Yes, exactly—it’s those pesky weeds that are the problem.” Kass snapped off a long blade of dry brown grass and tossed it into the stream, where it sank very slowly. “Weeds in the mind are all those distractions that interfere with the flow. Such as, wasting your time worrying about expectations and whether you measure up to them. Just do something fun, rather than feeding the weeds. It really is that simple.”

“Thanks.” Just to troll her a little in return for her unsolicited criticism, even though I had to admit to myself it was helpful, I asked, “Are you something fun, or are you a weed?”

Kass laughed out loud. “Either or both, of course!”