The Jolly Eel.

The title of this post may have you thinking of a cozy pub somewhere, but it actually refers to me. I am the jolly eel. You may have noticed the blog has been very quiet lately, dead almost, but I assure you that we are all alive and kicking up here. I have just been so disillusioned over current affairs lately, that I have chosen to hide away in my little cave, just like a jolly eel. I have mostly been enjoying my garden, the beautiful weather, and my children.

I’ve faced a bit of critique from friends and acquaintances over my withdrawal from the world at large, but what did they expect from someone who, quite literally, ran for the hills years ago? Everywhere I look, people are bickering about one thing or another. I was at the receiving end of a string of drunk, belligerent text messages from a friend a few weeks ago, at 1 AM on a Tuesday. I was in bed, finishing a chapter of a very exciting book when the assault hit. I know she wasn’t really angry with me; she was angry over the racial injustice in this country, but it was a very unpleasant experience for me none the less. Even in my own bed I could not escape the toxic side effects of the social unrest our society is experiencing. But there is one place where none of that can touch me, and that is my garden. Can you blame me for spending most of my time there?

My garden is my eel cave; my sanctuary. There are no riots in my garden. There are no people fighting over whether they should wear a mask or not in my garden. There are no police or racists or racist police in my garden. There are only flowers, vegetables, spiders, and bees.

There are orchids, baby chicks, and four leaved clovers in my garden.

There are mushrooms and happy children in my garden.

Now tell me true, why wouldn’t I hide away here like an eel in his cave?

Maybe some day, when the world has stopped going mad, I’ll open a pub called the Jolly Eel. And we’ll play Octopus’s Garden at least once an evening.