Epiphany, 2012

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A picture from the Boston Globe -- dozens of men, arms in arm, in a cold January European river, awaiting the priest to toss in the golden cross; they will dive and scramble to find the cross and the man who finds it will be blessed with health this year.
Believers sing and dance in the river Tundzha, as they celebrate Epiphany day in the town of Kalofer, Bulgaria Friday, Jan. 6, 2012. Traditionally, an Eastern Orthodox priest throws a cross in the river and it is believed that the one who retrieves it will be healthy through the year. 

I'm in my living room, reading a review of Didion's new book -- about as vicarious as one can be -- and note her descriptions of cucumber and watercress sandwiches at her daughter's wedding. I'm not sure what a cucumber sandwich really is. I know it would be easy enough to look it up, but since that's not really part of my life experience, isn't it something to just go on in a mysterious awe of people and events that consume cucumber and watercress sandwiches? I could never, for example, serve cucumber and watercress sandwiches to my family, so why pretend it would be something I could pull off?

Her descriptions are alien to me. And I think about alien-ness and -ation. 

It's the sixth of January and my two housemates, from Pennsylvania, are still asleep after ten o'clock. That's alien to me -- I don't think there has ever been a day in my life when I've slept that late. I couldn't do that. On the other hand, for them, a 70° day in the first week of January is equally alien, which is why they're here -- to play golf on green turf when their home courses are covered in white. But outside my living room window, which is open through the night this week, the finches are eating the seed I've put down. They are in undeclared competition with the squirrel, who always gets there first, is always there once the birds go away, and is less afraid of my presence when I stand and watch. He is alien to them and they to him; I am alien to the finches and they are alien to me. 


Animals stare at us, waiting to flee. They have this zone of protection, knowing that most often they're faster than us. The squirrel would allow me to come within six feet or so before he scampers (how often can we use a great verb like "scamper"?) up the pine trunk, across a branch, leap effortlessly to another pine, another branch, then fly off to a neighbor's tree, and onto a house roof. I feed these little rodents and they still flee. The finches have a larger zone, though they're faster -- I can be behind the window, across the room, but if they see my shadow, they leap into the air, the flutter of their wings beating their sound panic and escape. I feed these birds and they still flee. 

The squirrel left a few minutes ago. I haven't moved from my reading chair, but he left for some personal errand. He's back now, watching me while his little paws hold the seed to his little teeth, teeth that would split my hand if it ever got too close. The pik-pik sound he makes as he eats, the flutter of the finches, their song in the trees a few yards away -- all these are as alien as cucumber and watercress sandwiches, and men diving for golden crosses in cold January rivers.

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