Rabbits

There is a worn path in my yard, starting in the grass and exiting under the fence, where an overgrown rosemary bush provides some cover. The path is beautiful to me, and I know the culprits. Their small, furry, warm bodies, rushing through time and time again, to make a track through the lawn so pronounced, I can spot it from the house. I imagine a rabbit scrambling through, crouching down and making itself as small as possible, ears back, eyes closed, aerodynamic for a hasty escape. A Jeopardy question asks for the group containing rabbits, hares, and pikas. Lagomorphs.

I think about my days in terms of pathways I carve; back and forth to the grocery store, an even deeper groove leading to the best spot to watch the sunset. From up above, the aerial view shows tracks across my life - the walk home from elementary school, the drive to Port Townsend I can do instinctively, the aisles between treasures at the Dearborn goodwill. My mental map holds the beauty of small details, too. Strong old trees, colorful homes with wide porches, the spot in the lake where I first swam. Sometimes the memories are less idyllic, or sometimes a place so deeply engrained in my bones has yielded to brand new condos or a parking lot, carrying the weight of change.

I’ve often felt ashamed of growing roots in just one place, but lately I’ve let it reframe as a privilege. I notice little actions that have built community, the grounding I could have if I just succumb to it. I watch women’s basketball in the same spot I did as a kid. My friend and her mother show up at my place of work unexpectedly. Things unfold in more than three dimensions as the stacks of memories reveal themselves, new ones adding on top. Our sunset walk reveals bats, but it took hundreds of strolls for me to see them flitting amongst the trees at twilight.

My partner and I eat sushi at a place I went growing up. The chef says I look like my mother, and feeds us one of the rarest cuts on a tuna. The bliss in my eyes as it melts in my mouth, rich and meaty, is the same as when I was little. I share places that have built me, share their stories, and watch those around me receive them with care, hold them gently. I visit the places I grew up frequenting and am proud to do so. I build new furrows, routines. They weave amongst and in between the ones already made.

Sometimes the frantic zig-zag of life seems to mimic that of the creatures in my yard. I talk with friends about the dichotomy of seeking the next thing while wanting to settle in. Building a life while wanting to make the most of it. After living in my home for over a year and a half, I still have pictures waiting be put up on the wall. I talk about moving somewhere else, traveling more, switching careers. How much easier is it to just run away, how much safer? Would it be nice to not have memories come up everywhere I go? I dip a toe into being present, feeling alright simply existing, being held in these spaces. Nothing bites.

The other day my partner asked, “what are we waiting for”? We have always known we’d get a dog at some point. At some point we’d be more responsible, life would be simpler, we’d have more time. I look around and realize we have settled in. We buy things in bulk, we make plans for the garden, I know the bus lines. We love trips but are also eager to come home. I admire the squished blades of grass, admire the burrow we’ve made. It’s warm and soft. I suppose if we get a dog, though, we’d have to get used to seeing fewer rabbits.