Haunted: the Ghost of Efficiency

On how acorns are teaching me to savor

Sinking sun slants through oak tree branches at the edge of our park and casts my daughter and me in a goldenrod glow. My hand swallows her small one, and our steps dance in unison down the sidewalk. Dinner is tucked snugly in our bellies, and our walk is the final activity before bedtime rituals. 

Anne stops walking and bends down. 

“Mama, what are these flowers called?” she asks and points to ground flowers in the bed. Clusters of saffron petals surround a bright yellow center. 

“I’m not sure,” I tell her. I glance at my watch. We have exactly fifteen minutes unless I want to rush through bedtime. “Let’s keep moving, Anne.” 

A breeze passes behind my neck -- the Ghost of Efficiency -- so light I’m unsure if I imagined it. You’re going to be late, she whispers. It’s as if fingertips have grazed my exposed skin. Goosebumps prickle my forearms, the October evening suddenly cooler than I anticipated. 

Anne bends closer to the flowers and inhales audibly, her back expanding with air. “These are pretty, Mama. I think they’re called Sunshine Flowers.” Satisfied with her invented name, she stands up tall and takes my hand once more.

Anne looks to the horizon and gasps. “Mama, we’re almost out of light! Come on!” She takes off in a run, surprisingly fast for a not-quite-three-year-old. Blonde hair swings like a pendulum on her shoulders. I quicken my steps to keep up. Keep up this pace, the Ghost of Efficiency blows into my other ear.

Images of pajamas and teeth brushing jumble in my brain like socks in a dryer, and I almost run into Anne now crouched on the sidewalk. 

“Wow, Mama! Look at these acorns!” she exclaims and points upwards. “They came from these trees! Let’s count them,” she continues. Anne picks up each acorn one at a time with her right hand and places them into her left hand. “One, two, three, four, five.” She’s ruining your perfectly curated schedule, the Ghost of Efficiency snarls.

I crouch down next to Anne, and she presents me the acorns like an offering. Why are you stopping? the Ghost of Efficiency interrogates, You should be home already. The shiny brown underbelly reminds me of a seashell’s curve, and the jaunty hat resting on top makes me think of berets.

Anne is running again, and I leap up to join her. She stops fifteen feet ahead at the Juniper bushes. The evergreen spindly needle-like leaves are nearly bare of berries this time of year. Anne examines each branch until she finds her treasure. 

“I need juniper berries, Mama!” she declares. She plucks two and brings them to her nose to inhale their botanical perfume. 

“Can I smell?” I ask her. Anne finds another berry and hands it to me. Our brown eyes meet, and we smile at one another.

You won’t ignore me later this evening when you are rushing. This time you could have spent more productively will haunt you. You’ll regret this time you wasted on silly flowers, acorns, and berries, the Ghost of Efficiency huffs. Her sneakers scuff the sidewalk as she drags her feet, leaving us. 

Later that night after bedtime rituals are complete, I don’t regret the time I “wasted” savoring the last slices of sunlight on this Monday evening in October with my daughter.¹

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Haunted".

1. I just finished listening to Wild and Precious: A Celebration of Mary Oliver, and this essay was inspired by Mary Oliver’s poem “Black Oaks”.