The dragonfly, with translucent wings glistening blue neon in the sun, hovers just over the water’s surface, scrutinizing a skidding feather propelled by a gentle breeze. Nearby, three turtles nap atop a log, looking like large brown cobblestones placed according to size. The water below is clear. Tiny minnows dart amidst long tentacles of green algae. There, in the silent, liquid sanctuary of his domain, a bass glides by, dominant, aloof, and disdainful. He cares not whit about the turtles, the dragonfly, or the feather. Things above are beneath him. His every movement is carefully controlled, guided by the deft and barely noticeable swish of a fin.
The pond is small as bodies of waters go. It began as a man-made borrow pit relatively the same size as the nearby parking lot its earth helped build. It is a young pond, not more than ten years old, and it borders a business park in a newly developed area of downtown. Yet nature is so tenacious in this part of the world that what began as a hole in the ground has already evolved into a fertile, independent ecosystem.
A verdant and vigorous arrangement of vegetation now borders the pond. Cattails and clumps of duckweed join overhanging water oaks and thickets of myrtle in early spring green. Two young cypress trees have taken root—long-legged teenagers with bases only just beginning to thicken out and create knees. Tall flags of lavender water iris bring a dash of color and thoughts of Monet.
The wind stirs and, from the corner of my eye I discern a slight movement from the pond’s distant shore, a barely detectable swirl. A fish perhaps? Another turtle?
But no, the small head pops up, high and purposeful. The snake begins to scissor its way across the shallows, hugging the edge of the pond. It stops, raises its head as if to get its bearings, and continues on its way. It knows what it is doing. It sidles its way along the water’s edge until it has completed an almost circumference of the pond. It reached the floating duckweed in the shallows some eight feet below where I am standing, then glides onto the tangle of green and stops. It doesn’t move.
Then, as if from nowhere, another snake suddenly appears in the middle of the pond, slithering atop the water’s surface, also heading toward the duckweed at my feet. I spy another undulating ribbon moving amidst the cattails on the far bank, sliding into the water. I see yet another snake racing from the farthest shore across the top of the water with gathering speed.
Four snakes! A snake convention, I think, and stare at the sleek dark back of the snake below me, lying motionless on the duckweed. I can see the snake’s markings clearly. It is not a water moccasin. There is no broad, arrow shaped head. It is just a black water snake, nonpoisonous creature. It is long, about three feet, and its scales glisten in the watery sunlight.
For some reason, the other snakes have stopped their progress toward my bank and are now aimlessly darting across the pond’s surface. Have they seen me? Has my presence interfered with the primordial order of this natural habitat and stopped them, made them afraid to proceed? Or are they simply performing some rite of snakedom, a type of aquatic snake ballet? I am enchanted by this sudden influx of snakes. I am watching four snakes darting and slithering across a pond that is a stone’s throw of offices and computers and fax machines talking to other offices, computers, and fax machines in other countries.
I wonder if these pond residents have even been visible to any of the people working their eight plus hours in cubicles, or if anyone took the time as I am doing today, to eat their lunch in nature’s setting? At the same time, it crossed my mind how many people feel invisible outside their habitat like the creatures in this pond.
The realization came in my late fifties, I became invisible to men. I started to have to say “Hello” at the register to get the cashier’s attention. This is it, I thought, I’ve become invisible. I used to be visible. The attention I got ranged from appreciative smiles to flirting catcalls that often turned to anger when I didn’t react the way they wanted. It could be nice, until it wasn’t, and it was tricky to see the line until it had been crossed.
It's exhausting to be a woman in the world. It can still be scary, still requires constant vigilance. But I no longer feel that I am constantly evaluated, and it’s a huge relief. Much like those snakes in the pond that went about their snaky ways. When you’re not being watched, you have a little more space to observe. And what I saw was an enormous number of people whose opinions don’t matter in the least. Do I wish I looked the way I did at thirty? Well of course, I’m human. But it doesn’t torment me. It’s the mirror I please, not the marketplace.
Here's what I’ve learned: People who love you think you are beautiful. They care about your feelings. They’re interested in what you have to say. Those who ignore me don’t matter to me. Their opinions don’t count. I decide if I am relevant or interesting or valuable, not them.
At the seventy-year mark, I have simply ceased to care. Sure, there’s a little disappointment to feeling like I’m no longer interesting. But on balance it’s just a relief to walk down the street carelessly. I’m not braced for unwanted attention. No one invades my personal space.
Like the dragonfly, the sunning turtles, the lonely bass, and the four snakes, it turns out I like flying under the radar on any day unseen by judging spectators.