In my mother's backyard, there is a tall wooden post, upon which sits a bat house. For anyone not familiar with this particular habitat, a bat house is similar to a butterfly house or a bird house (for which I hold a particular affinity, anyway). Many years ago, my future ex-husband and I installed this residence with the hope of attracting some of the local flying fauna to our yard so that we could observe them. Our usual backyard Nature Channel includes chipmunks, lighting bugs in the fall, rambunctious squirrels, and a variety of birds, including a lone red-tailed hawk that flies through whenever the mood strikes him (e.g., whenever we have a surplus of the aforementioned chipmunks).
During the installation of the bat house, FEH decided to set the post in quick dry cement. He dug a large hole in the yard, mixed the cement, and set the four by four post. While the cement was drying, he took the opportunity to gather several small twigs from the yard and place them in such a fashion as to communicate a message to me and the world.
The post was actually never tall enough to entice the bats to roost, but it was a good effort. The bat house has finally fallen apart from years of disuse and abuse from the weather. I am now faced with the daunting task of removing the dilapidated house, the post, and the block of concrete (which I will joyously send to the local landfill, along with its sentiment). After that exercise, however, I will be faced with one more dilemma: how to fill the hole.
There is no loose dirt in the backyard. Of course, in my part of Georgia, it's extraordinarily difficult to find accessible loose dirt anywhere unless it's been hauled in from another location. No, our terra is primarily red mud based, quite fixed in its location, and permeated with small rocks.
If I use peat, there will be a large, soft, dark spot in the yard. If I use mulch, I will run the risk of our resident chipmunks carrying it off for nesting purposes, which they are prone to do; termites, ants, and other creepy-crawlies are also a concern.
I could dig a hole further back in the yard and use that mud to fill the first, more visible hole. But then all I've done is moved the hole, which doesn't make a lot of sense. Intuition tells me that I must fill in the hole or I will doom myself to step into it blindly one day and break an ankle.
I think what I will do is transplant a cutting from one of mother's hydrangeas and plant it in the hole in some good potting soil. It will take a few years to grow, but they are very hardy and will double in size each year thereafter. That way, I can turn the scarred earth into something beautiful.
I find this task to have many parallels with my current situation. We all have a void that we are trying to fill; some voids are just larger than others. Some people fill theirs with meaningless and rapidly deteriorating relationships (which must always be replenished); others fill theirs with sustainable friendships and enduring love. Some fill them with families, careers, hobbies, volunteerism, or social engagements. Some even go so far as to tell so many lies that it appears to others there isn't a void there at all – but the moment someone else steps into the camouflage, they fall into the hole and become trapped in deceit. I think this void is the most dangerous, because it consumes and consumes and can never be filled, but the imprisoned party never realizes it before a substantial investment, either emotional or pecuniary, is made.
We fill our voids not only because they can pose a danger to ourselves and others, but because they are generally indicative of a certain incompleteness. We use whatever materials we are comfortable with, or materials that are readily accessible; however, our selection may not always be the best alternative. Still, it's our choice how we fill them. I think I prefer to fill mine with hydrangeas.
As I begin to strategize the demolition of the bat house, I am learning that though nothing is permanent, everything has the capacity to leave a void, a scar, of some kind. I find myself wondering which is more meaningful . . . the scar itself, how it was earned, or how we wear it for the world.
