Squirrel.
Right brain
If you've ever had a conversation with me, you've probably watched my brain take a hard left turn without using a blinker.
We'll be talking about cameras.
Which reminds me of privacy.
Which reminds me of Carpenter v. United States.
Which reminds me of Flock.
Which reminds me I need to update Horn Rapids Files.
Which reminds me I still have Patagonia jackets to list.
Which reminds me...
Where the hell is my phone?
It's in my damn hand.
Squirrel.
People think my brain is a disaster.
They're probably not wrong.
For years I thought something was wrong with me.
Why couldn't I stay on one subject?
Why did I always have six projects going?
Why could I remember a random conversation from 1998 but spend twenty minutes looking for the scissors I literally had five minutes ago?
The older I get...
The less interested I am in fixing my brain.
Because I don't actually think it's broken.
It's just... loud.
Imagine 200 TVs.
Every one of them is on.
None of them are muted.
Every show is interesting.
Every five minutes somebody wheels another TV into the room.
Then some sweet soul says,
"Jessica... you just need to focus."
Bless your heart.
People love putting everyone into little boxes.
Creative.
Analytical.
Logical.
Artistic.
Apparently my brain never got that memo.
Mine wants to build something...
Figure out how it works...
Find the flaws...
Make it prettier...
Tell a story about it...
Then chase an entirely different rabbit hole before the first one's finished.
It's exhausting.
It's also kind of hilarious.
Every morning I sit in my sewing room working on patches while my Bird Buddy starts sending me notifications.
Some people check the stock market.
Some people watch the morning news.
I watch organized crime unfold at my bird feeder.
Most people see a couple of house finches.
I see Carl and Karen.
Karen runs the neighborhood.
Carl is... well... Carl.
He's doing his best.
I told Karen she needed better security.
I suggested Spike.
Spike sounded intimidating.
Professional.
The kind of bird that doesn't ask questions.
Karen ignored me.
She hired Bubbles.
Bubbles is a dove.
Worst security hire in recorded history.
Bubbles doesn't bounce shit.
He parks his fluffy butt on top of the picnic table feeder and eats all damn day while everybody else comes and goes.
At first I thought he was just lazy.
Then I realized...
Bubbles isn't the bouncer.
He's the mob boss.
He doesn't have to chase anybody away.
Everybody already knows who controls the sunflower seed distribution.
As for Karen...
Let's just say she pays Bubbles in bird feet pics.
Don't judge.
It's a tough economy.
Carl has absolutely no clue what's happening.
He's just happy to be invited to the meeting.
See?
Most people watch birds.
My brain writes an HBO series.
That's what it does.
Everything becomes a story.
Everything gets a personality.
Everything has a backstory.
Everything connects.
The funny part?
It's exactly how I see people, too.
People ask me all the time,
"How did you know?"
Honestly?
Most of the time I can't explain it.
I just know.
No, I'm not psychic.
I don't have magical powers.
I just notice things.
Tiny things.
The pause before you answer.
The words you carefully chose.
The words you carefully avoided.
The fake smile.
The forced laugh.
The glance across the room.
The person who suddenly gets defensive over a question nobody accused them of.
I don't read minds.
I read patterns.
Maybe that's twenty-five years in law enforcement.
Maybe I was born this way.
Either way, I've learned to trust my gut.
Not because it's always right.
Because it's been right often enough that I'd be stupid to ignore it.
The downside?
While my brain is busy solving everybody else's mysteries...
It has absolutely no freaking idea where I left my tape measure.
Or my coffee.
Or my glasses.
Or the scissors.
Future Jess spends an embarrassing amount of time investigating crimes committed by Past Jess.
Past Jess remains the prime suspect.
Then there are the animals.
They're not "just animals" to me.
Never have been.
My dogs are family.
Harlie wasn't "just a cat."
She deserved every specialist, every surgery, every mile we drove because she mattered.
I don't spray pesticides.
The bees didn't ask to live in a toxic neighborhood.
They've got their own little bee cup because when it's 100 degrees outside, everybody deserves a drink.
Some people see weeds.
I see pollinators.
Some people see pests.
I see little lives just trying to make it through another day.
Maybe that's why I have such a low tolerance for unnecessary cruelty.
Kindness isn't complicated.
Pay attention.
Help when you can.
Question things.
Take care of the things that depend on you.
Whether it's your dog...
Your neighbor...
A stranger...
Or a thirsty bee.
People tell me I overthink everything.
Maybe.
Or maybe I simply notice things other people don't.
I don't struggle making decisions.
Hell, I make them fast.
Sometimes too fast.
My problem isn't choosing.
My problem is deciding which of the fifty fascinating rabbit holes deserves today's attention.
Ideas don't politely stand in line.
They kick the damn door open yelling,
"PICK ME!"
It's loud.
It's chaotic.
It's messy.
But it's also the same brain that built businesses after retirement.
The same brain that creates art with hidden stories.
The same brain that chases truth even when it's inconvenient.
The same brain that can turn a couple of backyard birds into a full-blown crime family.
I've spent a lot of years wishing my brain worked like everybody else's.
Not anymore.
This brain loses the phone that's literally in my hand.
But it also sees beauty where other people see ordinary.
It finds stories where other people see birds.
It notices the forgotten.
It asks uncomfortable questions.
It cares... probably more than it should.
And honestly?
I think the world could use a few more people who pay attention.
Now if you'll excuse me...
Karen's probably negotiating another feet pic contract...
Bubbles is collecting protection money in sunflower seeds...
Carl still has no idea what's going on...
...and I've got a front-row seat from my sewing room.
Squirrel.
