The Castle

“Hi!” Sarah stood at the edge of the park’s sandbox and peered at the boy making a sandcastle. She noticed some pink flowers behind him and momentarily considered picking one or two. They matched her flip flops. But no, she wanted to play with the sandcastle more.

The boy didn’t seem to notice her. Sarah tried again. “Hellooo.” She put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot dramatically, like Mom did when annoyed with Dad, or with Jimmy, their Labrador.

“Hi,” mumbled the boy, nervously.

Sarah evaluated his technique. The boy's castle was only two tiny lumps side by side. He must be in preschool, because everyone in kindergarten knew that sandcastles were at least two big lumps side by side.

“You should put more on top,” she declared. “I can help.”

The boy kept his eyes on the castle. He said nothing, but took his finger and began creating a moat. Boys are so stupid, Sarah thought. She climbed in the sandbox, picked up a handful of sand, and dumped it on top of the first mound. The boy quivered, and a tiny groan came out of his mouth.

Oh no, Sarah thought.

The groan turned into a wail, and Sarah sat, dumbfounded, empty hand still outstretched over the top of the castle. Idiot, she thought. It looks so much better.

Sarah’s mom hurriedly walked over, and a much rounder grownup lady scuttled close behind. “…not sure, but you know how kids are,” she heard her mother toss over her shoulder with a laugh. The other woman seemed not amused, and huffed her way over to the sandbox. Her pudgy arms reached into the fortress and plucked out the boy, tut tutting all the while. She set the boy on the ground and began brushing off his blue and white overalls.

“What happened, Sarah?” asked her mother.

“We were playing sandcastle, and I was helping,” Sarah announced matter-of-factly.

“Are you alright, Jimmy?” cooed the pudgy lady.

Jimmy? Sarah thought. He’s like my dog!

“You see, they were just playing sandcastle. No harm done,” her mother offered. “Sarah, remember to play nicely. Say sorry to Jimmy for making him cry.”

Jimmy is acting like a two-year-old, but he can’t help it. He’s just a puppy, Sarah decided. I'll be gentle. “Sorry Jimmy,” she sang, and presented him with a small grin, front left tooth missing. Impulsively, Sarah hopped up, dashed over to the pink flowers, picked the prettiest one she could find, and ran back with flower in outstretched hand. Horrified, Jimmy buried his face in his mother’s gaudy plaid skirt.

“Well,” sputtered Mrs. Pudge, taking the flower on Jimmy’s behalf, “that was very considerate. Jimmy, will you play nicely with…”

“Sarah,” her mother inserted.

“…Sarah?” Mrs. Pudge finished. “Look, she brought you this pretty flower.” Jimmy eyed the flower cautiously. There was a tiny ant crawling in the middle of it. He liked ants. His fortress could become Ant Castle if he put the flower in its middle.

He took the flower from Mrs. Pudge, crawled back into the sandbox, stuck his finger in the one undefiled lump and plopped the stem into the hole he created. Ant Castle! Maybe this Sarah wasn’t completely evil after all. Jimmy looked up at the three intimidating women with a shy smile.

“Pretty!” Sarah exclaimed. She ran over, picked another flower, ran back, and plunked it in the better sized lump. Flower Castle! Jimmy isn’t so dumb after all.

Sarah and Jimmy glanced at each other. Jimmy quickly looked down, restarted his moat, and then cautiously looked back at Sarah.

“I’ll help?” Sarah asked. Jimmy smiled and went back to work, with Sarah plunging in right beside him.

The ladies looked on approvingly. Sarah’s mom turned to Mrs. Pudge and exclaimed, “But my, where did you find that gorgeous skirt?” They wandered back to the nearby park bench, leaving the two architects to continue building the castle.

Bedroom Feng Shui vs. Water

Two months ago, I rearranged my room, but before I did, I looked up the laws of feng shui. Many of them made sense, such as reducing electromagnetic fields (i.e., turn off your damn computer), placing your bed so you can see the doorway (a command position in case of attempted ninja attack), and creating a peaceful color scheme (no multi-colored polka dots). However, I was startled by the following commandment:

Remove any water images from the bedroom.

I found this funny, because I am drawn to paintings that include bodies of water. The first painting I ever bought, I discovered while perusing the wares of a street vendor in Rome. It was tucked away amid dusty old books and cracked vinyl records. What is this? I thought, noticing a corner of painted canvas. Pulling it out, I was met by a red sky at night (sailor’s delight), casting a fading stream of warm light over otherwise dark waters. In the foreground, two large rocks peep out of the placid ocean, hinting at land a little further inward. In the background, three boats sail off into the ocean, toward the just-set sun. I don’t know what other people see when they look at this obviously amateur acrylic, but I see an adventure, not of turbulence accompanied by those attempting new feats of bravery, like Jason in Argonautica, but of the kind born out of an instinctual human need to connect to something bigger than oneself, like The Old Man and the Sea. And in this connection, my water image, bought in the most unlikely of places and transported back to America in my own quiet adventure, sets me at rest.

Since then, I have bought others paintings—one of an ocean wave crashing against a rock, and another of a cottage nestled in the woods by a winding river. In each scene, this water brings life and power that it shares with me, but that I cannot and should not attempt to control. It is a gift, a moment in which I may partake, but which existed in itself before I arrived and will remain after I am gone.

So, feng shui, will these water images cool the fires of passion that should be raging in my boudoir? I hope not. Most of the time, they are busy bringing me joys of their own. I would hate to throw the babies out with the waters, if you catch my drift.