Instinct is a funny thing. Each species has its own unique version of it. Even us, whether we recognize it as such or not. And then we wonder: is it instinct or is it training? The debate over nature versus nurture has probably been going on longer than any of us realize.

            When I was younger, before I had children, I was convinced it was all in how you were raised. But now, after raising my own kids, I believe the scales tip more on the side of nature. I have to chuckle when I recall how sure I was on this matter, before coming to realize how very little I knew then—and now still. In our children, we can easily see the inherited physical characteristics, but also what comes blazing through are those annoying and, occasionally, not so annoying traits when they rear their unexpected faces. I think we’ve all seen them.

          But back to species’ instincts. Our eight-and-a-half-month-old Australian Shepherd/Border Collie is, by breed definition, a herding dog. And with this trait she’s almost constantly on the move—watching, tracking with her eyes and patrolling the area. She loves to run in circles around us, or the grandkids, or me pushing the wheel barrow… So along with regular obedience classes we’ve tried a couple sheep herding lessons.

            On our second time in with the sheep, as she circled around them, one escaped from the group. Even though we have yet to learn how to give and understand commands, she ran wide and brought it back to the group. That was instinct. Her training had nothing to do with it.

            So, what about us? What are our instincts as part of the human species? I’d like to think we have a few positive ones. And I believe we do. We seem to gravitate to community. As long as we “Play nice and try to get along,” this can work out well. That’s perhaps where the “nurture” part comes into play during our upbringing. But so often we, as a group, can become shortsighted and forget to make allowances which might encourage broader views.

            A large group often fractures into smaller segments where the like-minded find their tribe and their views narrow further. And this might be instinctive too. But aren’t we supposed to be smarter than that? You know—big-brained and all? But we set those brain cells to work on ways to keep us better than them.

            I read something recently that pertains to this. I’ll tell you what my takeaway on it was. Stories, such as Star Wars, based on the good guy/bad guy theme, encourage the taking of sides. Joining a cause can feel like a moral obligation which can make it seem legitimate, even though it’s often imbedded in a political vision. Consequently, it no longer feels necessary to deliberate or think deeply about the ramifications of our actions. A person is either on the good team or the bad team. This simple stance makes it much easier for us to rationalize bad behavior.

            Is there a way out of this? It’s gone on throughout history. We may be smart, and smarter than—but not smart enough. Not yet anyway. But I really hope we will be soon enough.

Chi Varnado has four newly published books. The Old House in the Country, women’s fiction; and three YA novels in The Dance Centre Presents series. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are also available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com. You can follow her on Instagram or on www.Facebook.com/dancecentrepresents

          Front porches are the best, aren’t they? They allow one to invite the outside world in while at the same time giving you a front row seat to what’s going on out yonder. Folks can visit with their neighbors across the way, as long as they’re outside at the same time. It also offers a quick check-in with the weather or a place to scope out some different sounding bird… I can hardly express all that it is for me. I don’t look out on any neighbors—just trees, shrubs, and a creek bed out front, with a multitude of birds, lizards, and other species of wildlife everywhere. So, naturally, I commune with them.

            This year, it seems as though I spend way more time than ever before napping on the little porch couch. It’s an old thing I picked up off the side of the road back in 2008 and delivered it directly to my dad’s new ‘temporary’ place where he lived the last few months of his life. After that, we re-homed it to the front porch of our log cabin where it is now adorned with an old bedsheet. I’m trying to preserve my comfy outdoor ‘day bed’ for as long as possible.

          My grandma in Mississippi had a wonderful front porch. When we were kids, my sister and I would crowd onto the porch swing with our Southern cousins and tell scary stories on those sultry summer evenings. It would groan at just the right times to send us shrieking back into the house. Sometimes we’d go visit our aunt and uncle for lunch. You had to walk through their screened-in porch to enter the house. Everybody there had a front porch. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone to have it any other way.

            I’ve often dreamed about clusters of small homes, all with front porches, built around a communal green area—all facing each other. This way, if you saw anybody out there that would mean they were up for socializing: a quick “hello”, an opportunity to return the borrowed bowl of sugar, or a chance to join a community happy hour—all from the comforts of one’s own front porch.

            Some of the best conversations are had on the front porches across America—threading through time. Snippets of literary genius can be heard while snapping beans, singing songs or simply sitting for a spell. I’ve always needed to snatch as much time outside as possible, every day, or I just don’t feel very well. I’m not sure if it’s the fresh air or the breeze or the nature surrounding us. Porches help make all that happen more easily.

            Hammocks are a pleasure as well. Many an afternoon I’ve wandered down to the creekbed and reclined into the crisscrossed rope web to read a book, stare up through the tops of the trees, and then doze off. Not much reading going on, I’m afraid. The dog seems to enjoy the soft sand beneath and closes her eyes as well.

            Back up to the porch—the rocking chair beckons. The squirrels run to and fro, chirping their warnings over there in Squirrel Town. In the meadow beyond the creekbed, their elaborate burrows and tunnels, beneath the desert bird of paradise bushes, house a good many of them. Their visible numbers have dwindled recently as they prepare, or have already begun, to hibernate. Underground they’ll sleep, with their body temperature lowering to match the cold in the burrow. Heart rates drop and breathing slows as they fall deeper and deeper into a sporadic winter’s nap. They awaken as the surroundings warm up and their internal temperatures begin to rise, and a few may surface temporarily. When spring arrives, there are scores of them everywhere.

            So, I stand up and nod to my front yard neighbors, at least those that remain to gather a few more acorns to hide, and often forget about. And here’s a wave to you, my neighbors across town—from my front porch to yours. Let’s be neighborly.

Chi Varnado has four newly published books. The Old House in the Country, women’s fiction; and three YA novels in The Dance Centre Presents series. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are also available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com. You can follow her on Instagram or on www.Facebook.com/dancecentrepresents.

            What? New Years already? I know it may sound strange, but that’s what this time is for me—and always has been. When I was a kid the final days of summer marked an end to my untethered happiness and freedom. The start of school threatened to undermine my sense of well-being as visions of long hours trapped indoors permeated every bone in my body—lowering a cold, dark veil of doom. I can’t help but think that my feelings of malaise, which tend to surface toward the end of each summer, might very well stem from these strong childhood emotions. Intellectually, I understand that this state is very confining and limiting, but it still takes a bit of an attitude adjustment to move past it.

Later, as an adult, this time of year had me preparing and beginning a new session of dance classes at the studio, along with the collaborative decision of what story ballet would be our focus that year. It was all so new and exciting each time, launching our whole family and so many wonderful Ramona dancers into another cohesive work of art, incorporating music, choreography, dramatics, gymnastics, costuming, dancing, backdrops… It developed a life of its own; one that I feel extremely grateful to have been able to enjoy for so many decades.

            This fall ushers in a new school year, and the weather begins to cool ever so slightly. The sun arcs across a lower part of the sky casting longer shadows and yellowing light. Vacations come to an end, extra-curricular activities fill children’s after-school hours, the holidays slide into view… And the thought of another year of not getting together (indoors) with relatives puts a damper on what we can safely look forward to.

            But as The New Year awakens, there are glimmers of hope out there. The deer are still going about their business here in the canyon and more are coming in closer for water and food. Rutting season is approaching—so there’s that. Something to look forward to? This past spring’s young, who still look so vulnerable, may not think so. But who knows? I certainly don’t.

            But this is the time of year when I reassess the things I’ve been doing: projects, writing, puttering, attaining or not attaining goals… and do some hard thinking about my priorities. Am I fulfilling my obligations to myself, family and community? Am I being productive enough to keep me satisfied? What can I reasonably look forward to for the coming year(s)? Not that I come up with all the answers—or even close. But for me, it beats frittering my time away without at least contemplating the alternatives.

            Sometimes one day can drag on as if it were five while others disappear in the blink of an eye. This year has flown by and I find myself trying to grab it by the tail and ride it into the next—hoping (beyond hope?) that we will come out of this pandemic intact and perhaps better for it.

            No matter what all this may mean for each of us—I wish you all A Happy New Year!

Chi Varnado has four newly published books. The Old House in the Country, women’s fiction; and three YA novels in The Dance Centre Presents series. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are also available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com. You can follow her on Instagram or on www.Facebook.com/dancecentrepresents.