I interrupted my morning writing routine when a pop-up ad drew my attention away from Dictionary.com.
Hemingwrite.

Clever name. What’s that about? A click opened an article describing an invention for writers that was being funded on Kickstarter. A word-processor without an internet browser, it looked like a flattened-out typewriter with a postcard-sized screen. What a godsend for people like me, easily seduced by online curiosities, tempted to peek at Facebook or open one more email. This might work. Just sit and type while it backs up my work to the cloud, and that’s good, because … well let’s see how much it costs.

The cursor blinked over the link to the Kickstarter campaign. I studied the donation levels, weighed my options, read the backstory of the invention.

I was well into stalking the people who’d already donated, when a cartoon lightning bolt zapped my head.
My eyeballs sproinged from their sockets.

A singed dreadlock plopped onto the keyboard.

Sigh.

Here I sit, consumed by a website about a device designed to prevent me from being consumed by websites.

Once again stuck on its treadmill, my frantic mind races toward solutions to problems it’s busy creating.
It’s not my job to find a solution to the problem of my distraction. My job is to notice I’m distracted and then observe how that feels. Nothing more.

Life works out. It always has. The details are above my pay grade.

While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.
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“There is no story that is not true.”
———Chinua Achebe

--——Things Fall Apart

I moan to the nurse that my prescription has skyrocketed to $600.00. “Can you believe it,” I say. “Sixty dollars a pill.”

“Oh no, you’re in the stupid donut hole. Try the manufacturer’s website for a discount coupon.” I’d vaguely heard about the donut hole. Now it’s my life. On my way out the door, she hands me six free samples.

I navigate the website until my eyes cross, only to discover the manufacturer won’t provide its discount to Medicare clients. I’d vaguely heard about the Sophie’s choice of medicine versus food. Now it’s my life.

I dip into my retirement account to cover the cost.

The pharmacy cashier says, “Oh dear, do you realize this is 600.00? You can get a discount coupon from their website.”

I shake my head. “Not if you’re on Medicare.”

A fleeting expression crosses her face, which I interpret as total disgust with the system. When I get home, I discover six free samples stuffed into the bag with my prescription.

My story is: The system’s so unjust, I’m infuriated.
My story is: People are so kind, I’m delighted.

I slow my pace as I round a curve into a densely shaded section of the nature trail. Even though it’s a suburban walking path only a block from my house, I always steel myself at this particular juncture, because it feels like the forest primeval is closing in. Mature maples and oaks muffle the grinding gears of UPS trucks. The canopy dims greens to shades of gray. I square my shoulders and advance into the shadows.

A stab of sunlight bounces off shiny colors at the base of an oak tree. Glass rocks from Michael’s are sprinkled on the ground, like spilled Skittles. I lean closer. Nestled in the crook of the trunk is a surprise. Someone has constructed a fairy land tableau. Two miniature houses. (Victorian, I’d say.) Gold foil-wrapped coins form a walkway. A fairy with dragonfly wings sits regally on a mushroom (a repurposed thread spool).
I cringe, but wanting to be a better person, reach for a positive attitude.

The scene is creative. It’s a surprise of happy colors here in the shade. And I have to admire the engineering required to construct a six-inch Victorian.

I feel lighter, having shed the weight of negativity.

I continue my stroll and reverse course for home. Directly across from fairyland number one, facing the direction I’m now headed, lies another miniature scene. Fairyland number two is a condo-plex on the ground at the base of the tree. A couple of clotheslines tacked waist-high on the trunk, with miniature shirts and dresses hanging there. Ladders running from the condos up to the laundry. Tiny path lights.

The fairies have gone too far.

The nerve of these pixies. They think the aesthetic of oak trees needs improvement. They decide these trees now belong to them, to use as they please. They sail in here all Christopher Columbus and stake a claim on somebody else’s land.

Indigenous civilizations already reside in the underbrush: Ants, worms, centipedes, spiders, beetles, mice, and other creepy-crawlies that I’m normally opposed to. After a night of foraging, they discover the plastic pixie on their front stoop, its dragonfly wings becalmed.

Centipede: Hey. What the hell is that? You think it’s dead?

Mouse: Nah. If it were dead, it would smell better.

Pixieland is a pile of glue, plastic, and dyes, as useful in the natural landscape as styrofoam cups. The cute Victorian houses will be reduced to rubble by marauding raccoons. The path lights will succumb to the ravages of ill-mannered cockapoos. The poisons in the adorable clotheslines will end up in the tiny bellies of spiders that were minding their own business. Will the fairies come back to clean up the mess their colony leaves behind?

I’m not used to sticking up for nature. Nature and I are not friends. But fairies should hang their laundry in their own backyard.