A little girl in our extended family is in third grade this year, stirring up deep feelings in me. How did she get so big? It’s wonderful how much she’s grown and learned. Even so, I find myself fervently wishing that I could protect her from the perils of this world.

You see, third grade was when I lost the golden ball.

In Iron John: A Book about Men, the poet Robert Bly writes of the innocence of a young boy as symbolized by a golden ball. The boy plays with this ball, enjoys it—and one day loses it. I’m summarizing wildly here, but you get the idea.

I first heard of Bly’s work when we were newly married and living in Atlanta. Jeff was reading a copy of Iron John and finding it deeply meaningful. “It explains so much!” he said, talking about Bly’s golden ball theory.

“Wait a sec,” I said. What made him think girls don’t go through something similar?

He looked a little sheepish, my feminist guy. Well, he admitted, it’s possible they do. But Bly was writing from a strictly male perspective. “Maybe it’s different for girls,” Jeff said. “Maybe there isn’t a single moment when it happens.”

So I told him my story.

The morning light in our living room was sweet and clear, although the windows through which it poured were thickly coated with salt. Jeff and I sat looking at each other across the room, trying to come to terms.

            “This is what we both want,” he insisted. And indeed, it was.

            “This” was to stay right where we were, in our little wind-beaten rental house on fragile Hatteras Island. For 18 months we’d been living in the village of Rodanthe, just south of the wide, unspoiled beaches of the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge. We’d moved to Hatteras so I could write a book, my first. Now the book was finished, but I was having trouble moving on. We’d just learned that this house was being put up for sale. It could be ours.

            There is so much to love about Hatteras Island and the rest of the Outer Banks: the long, sandy beaches, the marshes filled with birds. The lovely blue-green surf. The storms, which redraw the islands’ contours and serve as a constant reminder of who’s in charge (not us). I’ve never felt so close to nature as during my time on Hatteras.

But there is also much to fear in a landscape designed to wander and remake itself. If you were to imagine living on the back of a writhing dragon, you wouldn’t be far from the truth.

I’ve noticed recently that folks have been grouchier than usual—not just people I know, but the population in general. Fewer people are smiling, and often they seem impatient. These are not what I’d call the best of times.

I’ve been feeling it a bit myself—more tense, more irritable, something like the housewife in the old, “Mother please! I’d rather do it myself!” Anacin TV commercials. I was a kid when those came out, and my older brother and I used to tease our mother mercilessly about them. In time I came to feel a nearly boundless empathy for the woman stirring the soup that perhaps needed a little more salt.

Fortunately, years ago I stumbled on a sure-fire mood lifter for when my own pot threatens to boil over:

I retreat to a corner or a room where I’m alone and can move completely freely—nothing close by that I might hit. And then I begin to rage.

With my feet wide apart, often a little bent over, I clench my fists and swing my arms up and down in frustration, silently screaming why why why?, or whatever phrase best captures the complaint of the moment. This is generally interlaced with words that would have spurred my mother to wash out my mouth with soap. All of this is in silence (except on the very worst days—and even then, only when no one’s around).

It takes about 45 seconds before my anger and energy are spent, though it can seem much longer. Utterly worn out, I flop into a chair. Am I finished? Can I get up, go out, and face the world with equanimity? No? I rage again until I can.

I stumbled on the value of these solitary tantrums years ago, when my mom was still alive. Much of the caring for her fell on me, even though I lived seven hours away.

His given name was not Chick, of course. It was Charles. But I never met anyone who called him that. Maybe the IRS, if they ever had reason to contact him, which I seriously doubt. Maybe God, although it’s hard to imagine that would be the case. His friends and anybody who had ever volunteered alongside him knew him as Chick.

            He worked extensively with the poor and homeless. He helped open a center where they could be welcomed and warmed. Perhaps all this came from a troubled past of his own; I’m not sure. And he smiled, eyes crinkling. That was, I think, the main thing he did in life. It was a kind smile, and a little jesting, and above all, loving. It instantly said, “Hello! I see you. Welcome into my life!” Each time I met him, I went away feeling—better, yes, but more than that. It was as if I’d just brushed against someone who exuded all I wanted to nurture within myself. For a while afterwards, I’d make an effort to see the people around me, and to connect with them in some positive way.

            One beautiful late season afternoon in 2020, in the heart of the pandemic, Jeff and I hiked up to an open ridge overlooking the vast forests on the north side of Baxter State Park. We’d been in Maine a bit less than two years, and this was our first trip into the famed North Woods. We’d come off season; no one else was around. Seated on a rock with an abundance of time to relax and gaze, I could scarcely believe what I was seeing:
            Nothing but forests stretching into Canada. There were a couple of distant antennas, one to the north, one west, but otherwise we could see only nature. Spiky firs and spruces, round-topped oaks and maples, ashes and birches and scattered others, all spread across the undulating hills and mountains.
            What was it like deep within them, these forests so eloquently described by Thoreau? I wanted to explore them, to come to know them well, to learn about their histories and the plants and animals they sheltered, and maybe the people they helped support.
            As I would soon discover, it is not a pretty story.