Andrew Maslow nailed it with his hierarchy of needs. He proposes that our actions are motivated to achieve certain needs; our most basic ones being met first, which leads to the opportunity for us to meet our psychological needs. If we are successful in meeting those, then we can strive towards those higher needs of creativity and self-actualization.
Then, there is what I consider a hierarchy of frivolous wants. Picture the standard pyramid structure. At the bottom where the basic wants lie are the things I just don’t want to live without, like avocados, coffee, daily trail runs, shoulder massages, and Doc Martens. Then we get to the stuff that makes life easier, like unfettered access to high speed Internet, a giant chalkboard office wall, dry shampoo, and Google Maps. Next comes the stuff that enhances the quality of life and makes me smile: Persian rugs, old book-scented candles, Fever Tree tonic water, collecting rock and mineral specimens, and weekend trips to the mountains. Follow that up with the more elusive, yet attainable desires like peace and quiet and some alone time.
But what happens when you’ve wanted some little thing as far back as you can remember wanting it in those fuzzy early childhood memories, and then one day you finally get it and it’s not all how you imagined it would be like? What happens when you find one item from one level of the hierarchy throwing off all the other levels? How do we reckon with fulfillment’s consequences, responsibility? I know what I do. I go cuckoo, accept the cuckoo, and live with the cuckoo.
I was probably three years old in the hazy memory of me standing in my aunt and uncle’s Rochester kitchen, eyes fixated on the tiny wooden door atop the ornate wooden clock tick-tocking high on the wall. “Here it comes, Jeannie,” I’d be advised, probably by an older cousin. Then, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” Out came the cuckoo bird and a couple seconds later the door would shut, leaving me in utter fascination and wanting more.
All my life I’ve wanted a cuckoo clock of my own. But there was always something more important to throw my money at. Now and then, just for fun, I’d look up cuckoo clocks online and browse the Internet shops, scrolling through the various elaborate cuckoos with price tags proportionate with their detail and design. But I was never ready to hit that purchase button because it always just seemed so improvident to drop so many pretty pennies on something as impractical and useless as a cuckoo clock – until last month when I came face to face with the vintage refurbished, inexpensive and utterly enchanting genuine Black Forest cuckoo clock of my childhood dreams. True, I’ve lived my entire life without a cuckoo clock and, surely, I could survive remaining in a cuckoo-less state of cuckoo-longing, but why would I?
I couldn’t wait for the rest of the pack to get home so we could marvel at the magnificence of my latest unconventional acquisition together. It was a dream come true for young little Jeannie and, just as I did 39 years ago, I relished in the hourly alignment that would free the reclusive cuckoo from confinement and send my inner child squealing with delight.
“It’s a beauty,” my partner remarked. “And loud!”
“It has a switch here on the side so I can turn the sound off at night and turn it back on in the morning.”
“Cool, darling. Nice find!”
Oh, how pleasant were the days that followed with each waking hour punctuated by the call of the cuckoo as I went through the rounds of my daily tasks. Every single “cuckoo” amused me.
“Cuckoo!”
“Yay, it’s one o’ clock!”
“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”
“Woo-hoo, it’s two o’ clock!”
“Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo…”
“Hooray, it’s 10 o’clock, time for bed!”
“Cuckoo!” eleven times.
“Crap. Forgot to turn off the cuckoo.”
Oh, well. I’m already snuggled in bed, tired enough to sleep through it, probably.
“Cuckoo, cuckoo,” twelve times, “Cuckoo!”
“Honey …”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll go switch it off.”
I get up, go downstairs, slog across the house to the parlor, switch off the clock, and slog back up to bed.
Then it’s another day of cuckoo-clock joy, the cuckoo calling out during myriads of moments – “Cuckoo!” I’m having coffee. “Cuckoo!” I’m paying bills. “Cuckoo!” I’m sweating over deadlines. “Cuckoo!” I’m picking up a chewed-up Doc Marten after coming home and realizing I left the closet door open, a veritable buffet to my dog Ethel. “Cuckoo!” I’m watching the computer screen as the webpage won’t load and I’m late leaving for an appointment. “Cuckoo!” Darn it, I’m out of Fever Tree. “Cuckoo!” I’m in bed and I forgot to flip the cuckoo switch – again. And again. And the next night, again.
“Cuckoo!”
“Shut it, cuckoo!”
“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”
At first my new possession was peculiar and precious. But my cuckoo soon changed its tune, singing now like a mocking bird pointing out my most cuckoo moments, calling me out as she sees me. “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” It’s one constant and ironic reminder of that underlying force that unfolds the events of each day like cuckoo clockwork. It was Anais Nin who said, “We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” The way I see it now, my cuckoo tells it like it is.
I’ve got no right to complain, really. I bought the darn thing. I brought it home and chose to make it a fixture in my life. Finally getting what we want in life doesn’t end there, it comes with strings attached – responsibility – and, in my case, it came with long chains with heavy weighted metal pine cones attached that must be pulled daily to wind up the clock (or not pulled, depending on how cuckoo it drives me on whatever day it happens to be).
It’s been some time now, and I’m getting into the routine of switching off the noise at bedtime (with the exception of a couple nights here and there) and switching it back on in the morning, pulling the chains to wind it back up for another 24 hours of cuckoo every hour on the hour. Anyway, isn’t life a virtual cuckoo’s nest? And despite the inconvenience inherent along the path to the fulfillment of those higher needs, I must accept the cuckoo. Love the cuckoo. Be the cuckoo. Besides, I’m actually quite at home in my natural habitat. So cue that mother-cucking cuckoo.
This Imperfect Life
By Jean Perry