Last year about this time — late February — I was sitting outside on the steps. It was morning, a few hours past sunrise. In my peripheral vision came tiny movement. I glanced that way and was startled to see a lacewing struggling across the snowy slope of the snowbank to my right, a mountain of snow that is the result of snow coming off the second story roof immediately above.
“What are you doing, emerging right now?” I wondered aloud.
I reached over and nabbed the struggling creature who was somehow functional despite it being below freezing. I stuffed “her” under the cantilevered kitchen overhang where, not trusting the heat tapes alone to protect the plumbing from our vicious winter north winds, I had wrapped and insulated it for winter, stuffing a heat lamp under there just for good measure. It’s warm under there all winter — well above freezing. If she was to have any chance at all, it would be there.
Never thought another thing about it. It was a fluke, I figured.
Sunday morning, Feb 25th, 2018, a full year later, a couple hours past sunrise, I was again sitting on the porch steps, sipping a cuppa to take a break from chores and demands for attention by animals and humans. And what do I spy in my peripheral vision? Yep. A lacewing struggling across the snowy slope of the snowbank …again.
Obviously, it was not the same lacewing. But, considering the timing, I’ll bet she’s a close relative. Nabbed her and stuck her under the cantilevered overhang, down where things stay warm and cozy till the weather moderates. Hope she makes it. More, I wish they’d fix their emergence clock. Obviously, it’s not timed properly for North Idaho.
Turning my head from primarily working my graphic arts biz (see zentao.com if curious, though that’s not the half of it, not even) to writing as my focus makes me even more aware of how much work I was doing helping others with their projects while ignoring mine. It’s a real eye-opener. To suddenly focus on me is all but a completely new experience. In fact, it is a completely new experience. There’s a sense of utter joy, deeply felt to almost overwhelming, but there’s also this odd sense of guilt–a sense that I’m neglecting something that’s crucial. So I’m going to compromise just a little. I won’t say no to everyone who asks for assistance, just the most presumptive.