This week is the winter solstice - a time to mark the returning of the light, the lengthening of the days and the shortening of the nights. But you wouldn't think that to look outside; it is 3:45 p.m. and the afternoon light fades by the minute, giving way to that winter dusk-light that blends the earth and sky into one band of white. Still, we trust that after today's shortest period of light, we will have more sun and less darkness from here until mid-summer. Sometimes what you can see with your eyes is not the only truth.
That's an important lesson for me to remember at this time of the year. I am in the last week of holiday preparations, worrying about which gifts haven't arrived, about how lean the budget looks, about how to maintain family peace when difficult relatives visit this weekend, about how to balance my work and family obligations with the added expectations of Christmas. Any woman who "does" Christmas at her house knows the tune I sing; her verses might differ from mine, but we can all chime in on the chorus. This time of year raises more stress and guilt among women than any other that I'm aware of. But, the do-it-all-with-good-cheer stress does not have to be our only reality. Behind the busyness and the anxiety lies the true reason we fret: we love our families and dearly want to bring them joy this season. The packages we wrap and hide are but symbols of the gifts we are really trying to give: love, joy, peace, and wonder. This can be our Reality if we let it.
There is another truth behind this season, another invisibilty that merits remembering. Many of us mourn loved ones who are no longer with us; this time of year can be particularly hard if it is the first Christmas without someone we miss. I personally know three people who have lost parents this year, and tomorrow my daughter and husband will attend a memorial service for a high-school boy who died ten days ago. To experience such sorrow in the midst of twinkiling lights and merry carolers is to experience a true disconnect from reality. Believing that the spirits of the people we have lost are still with us -- that the Incarnation we are celebrating truly means that death no longer can separate us from one another -- requires such a leap of faith. It requires us to have the same belief in a world we cannot see as we have in the solstice and the return of light. We must believe that the truth we see with our eyes is not the only truth.
Of course I know the history about why the early Church decided on this time of year to commemorate the birth of Christ. Of course I know that no actual birth record exists, that Jesus could have easily been born in April or August, not December. Of course I realize that the holy-day that I'm preparing to celebrate was scheduled largely to coincide with the pagan celebration of the solstice, to maintain the familiarity and importance of a mid-winter holiday for early Christian converts.
But I don't care. That the first Christmas is celebrated at this time of the year rings right and true to me, even though I know intellectually that it could be celebrated at any time. That we first notice the returning of the light in the natural world, and then, just a few days later, celebrate the return of spiritual light into our own darkened lives seems the perfect blending of nature and humanity, a blending that, like mid-winter dusk, blurs the boundaries between our visible reality, and our Reality.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Counter-Cultural
Early this Sunday morning, after mixing some batter for quick bread and sorting through the last week's stack of mail and school papers, I ventured down into the basement to retrieve our Advent wreath. Today marks the first Sunday of Advent, a period -- not of 25 days -- but of four weeks before Christmas, a time intended to be set aside for reflection and good works. My intentions were to take out the entire box of Advent decorations; each season, the first things I put up are our Nativity set and collection of angel statues. But as I first walked through the rooms of the Allison, still decorated for Thanksgiving, I couldn't quite make myself take down all the pumpkins and turkeys to segue into the Christmas season -- yet.
I realize how counter-cultural I am in this; many of my friends have already said goodbye to autumn and hello to the season of wreaths and tinsel, gift-buying and carol-singing. And as much as I love that season, I'm not ready to enter into it. I spent Black Friday - a day of frenzied shopping -- here at the ranch, taking pictures of some horses we have for sale and mixing up a batch of my grandma's monkey-face cookies, because I hadn't had a chance all fall to taste them. Yesterday, I did travel into town to do some shopping, but it was a lovely, leisurely afternoon: I dropped my kids off at the salon for haircuts in preparation for Christmas programs and concerts, then walked through the downtown, buying just three gifts at our local toy store, and two kuchen from a food shop specializing in authentic German cuisine. The toys are for our three youngest; the kuchen are for me, for my birthday supper this evening.
Perhaps it is because my birthday falls at the end of November that I am reluctant every year to let go of the season of the harvest. Throughout my life, harvest has symbolized fullness, abundance, completion; these are the spiritual gifts I want to reflect on as I turn another year older. It is more than that, however: before I begin buying and decorating, feeling that there is never enough time or money, I want to spend one last weekend remembering that, in the words of author Sarah Ban Breathnach, "all we have is all we need." Truthfully, despite some great deals on Black Friday, my kids don't need another thing. Neither do I. What I do need, and really want, is a sense of purpose and gratitude, a realization that my life is so full that I am one of the luckiest women in the world.
Being counter-cultural comes fairly natural to me: at nearly 41, I don't own a home, don't have an impressive investment portfolio (though I do have investments and savings -- I'm not that naive). I have six kids; that fact alone marks me as unusual in a world where raising more than three children seems a badge of honor, or insanity, depending on who you talk to. I live in a renovated 100-year-old house where strange noises and creaks still wake me up at night, and where I have to be careful about how many showers are taken in a row, or how many appliances are plugged into the upstairs outlets. I spend my free time -- when I have it -- tromping through the pastures with my dogs or trying to capture profundity here at the computer. My husband isn't the "Marlboro Man"; he is a simple cowboy who smells like horses and diesel fuel, and who doesn't own a suit.
My life, however, feels so right to me. I struggle sometimes, trying to keep current professionally and socially, while still living on a ranch that hasn't changed much in 100 years. Since I started this blog, I've acquired a Facebook page and a Google reader account. I carry a cell phone, use the computer the way my husband uses a lariat, and travel to conferences and meetings where I am considered a valued colleague. My children are active in the local schools, and I spend many, many hours behind the wheel of my car, traveling to work, basketball games and concerts. In many ways, my life is not that different from that of an woman in any city, striving to work and raise a family the best way she can.
But this morning on my tromp with the dogs, a bald eagle watched me from the nude branches of a cottonwood tree by the river. The hired man's pup sniffed at a carcass of a deer, drug up from the river bank by coyotes, picked clean by that same eagle, no doubt. That eagle, that carcass, those coyotes -- they could have been here 100 years ago, could have been here long before humans parceled off this place, named it the Allison, and began to raise cattle and sheep. This morning, away from phones and computers, down by the river, I could have been a true pioneer woman, a Native woman, any woman. Allison reminds me nearly every day that despite my rushing and trying to stay connected to a world that just goes faster and faster, my true connections are here, to the land, the animals, and the people I share this place with. These are the connections that color my world this Thanksgiving weekend.
And so, I returned from the basement with only the Advent wreath. For now, its purple and pink candles nestle incongruously with the orange and russet decorations. Tonight, we'll light just one candle, reminding ourselves that, although salvation, and Chrismas, are on their way, they aren't here just yet. For now, pumpkin pecan bread in the oven and bald eagles in the pasture are enough to keep us satisfied; for now, our thankfulness is all we need.
I realize how counter-cultural I am in this; many of my friends have already said goodbye to autumn and hello to the season of wreaths and tinsel, gift-buying and carol-singing. And as much as I love that season, I'm not ready to enter into it. I spent Black Friday - a day of frenzied shopping -- here at the ranch, taking pictures of some horses we have for sale and mixing up a batch of my grandma's monkey-face cookies, because I hadn't had a chance all fall to taste them. Yesterday, I did travel into town to do some shopping, but it was a lovely, leisurely afternoon: I dropped my kids off at the salon for haircuts in preparation for Christmas programs and concerts, then walked through the downtown, buying just three gifts at our local toy store, and two kuchen from a food shop specializing in authentic German cuisine. The toys are for our three youngest; the kuchen are for me, for my birthday supper this evening.
Perhaps it is because my birthday falls at the end of November that I am reluctant every year to let go of the season of the harvest. Throughout my life, harvest has symbolized fullness, abundance, completion; these are the spiritual gifts I want to reflect on as I turn another year older. It is more than that, however: before I begin buying and decorating, feeling that there is never enough time or money, I want to spend one last weekend remembering that, in the words of author Sarah Ban Breathnach, "all we have is all we need." Truthfully, despite some great deals on Black Friday, my kids don't need another thing. Neither do I. What I do need, and really want, is a sense of purpose and gratitude, a realization that my life is so full that I am one of the luckiest women in the world.
Being counter-cultural comes fairly natural to me: at nearly 41, I don't own a home, don't have an impressive investment portfolio (though I do have investments and savings -- I'm not that naive). I have six kids; that fact alone marks me as unusual in a world where raising more than three children seems a badge of honor, or insanity, depending on who you talk to. I live in a renovated 100-year-old house where strange noises and creaks still wake me up at night, and where I have to be careful about how many showers are taken in a row, or how many appliances are plugged into the upstairs outlets. I spend my free time -- when I have it -- tromping through the pastures with my dogs or trying to capture profundity here at the computer. My husband isn't the "Marlboro Man"; he is a simple cowboy who smells like horses and diesel fuel, and who doesn't own a suit.
My life, however, feels so right to me. I struggle sometimes, trying to keep current professionally and socially, while still living on a ranch that hasn't changed much in 100 years. Since I started this blog, I've acquired a Facebook page and a Google reader account. I carry a cell phone, use the computer the way my husband uses a lariat, and travel to conferences and meetings where I am considered a valued colleague. My children are active in the local schools, and I spend many, many hours behind the wheel of my car, traveling to work, basketball games and concerts. In many ways, my life is not that different from that of an woman in any city, striving to work and raise a family the best way she can.
But this morning on my tromp with the dogs, a bald eagle watched me from the nude branches of a cottonwood tree by the river. The hired man's pup sniffed at a carcass of a deer, drug up from the river bank by coyotes, picked clean by that same eagle, no doubt. That eagle, that carcass, those coyotes -- they could have been here 100 years ago, could have been here long before humans parceled off this place, named it the Allison, and began to raise cattle and sheep. This morning, away from phones and computers, down by the river, I could have been a true pioneer woman, a Native woman, any woman. Allison reminds me nearly every day that despite my rushing and trying to stay connected to a world that just goes faster and faster, my true connections are here, to the land, the animals, and the people I share this place with. These are the connections that color my world this Thanksgiving weekend.
And so, I returned from the basement with only the Advent wreath. For now, its purple and pink candles nestle incongruously with the orange and russet decorations. Tonight, we'll light just one candle, reminding ourselves that, although salvation, and Chrismas, are on their way, they aren't here just yet. For now, pumpkin pecan bread in the oven and bald eagles in the pasture are enough to keep us satisfied; for now, our thankfulness is all we need.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Boys
Three little boys died in our state this weekend. One only lived two weeks; the other two lived longer, but certainly not long enough by our mortal standards. I don't know why the baby died -- have only heard about his death through a Facebook reference, and am uncertain whether it was due to a birth-related illness or to prematurity. It doesn't matter. My Cody arrived prematurely; I have been in that spot where every breath becomes a prayer for that tiny child's survival. I cannot imagine the crushing despair when that prayer is not answered. Does that baby's mother still have the strength to believe in God? I don't know if I would.
The other two deaths were the results of accidents. In other words, a simple moment -- a terrible, reversible, simple moment -- stole these two boys from their families. These are the deaths that will keep me awake tonight. These are the deaths that chill me, even though I faced Cody's death daily when he was born nine years ago. It is one thing to anticipate a death, even when your soul cries out against it. It is another thing to assume your child is safe and healthy, only to have death snatch him from you in the time it takes to turn your head.
Cody is nine now; at one time in his life, he could have been that baby. Now, he could have been either of those two older boys. One died in a freak ranching accident -- the kind of thing that is so rare, one doesn't even think about taking precautions against it. The other died in a dangerous experiment, unattended. He was 12 -- old enough to be left alone for a while.
Again, I don't know if I would have the strength of spirit to be those parents. From what I understand, none of them can be blamed for negligence or for allowing their child to indulge in risky behavior. From what I understand, one family had to make the decision to turn off the life-support equipment and allow their son to die. I barely managed to heal from this decision when my 62-year-old father's death was the result; this was a 10-year-old boy.
From what I understand, the other boy was discovered by his sister; her heart is broken, I'm sure.
Living here in the country, we are well-attuned to the risks inherent in this life. Shawn and I take any reasonable precaution to prevent the accidents we can foresee. Cody doesn't drive the four-wheeler or shoot a shotgun; he is allowed to play with his B.B. gun only with permission and supervision. The horses he rides meet Shawn's high standards for reliability and safety. I've carefully outlined the boundaries where he and his sisters can play outside, and rehearsed what to do if they encounter a snake. There is a list of emergency telephone numbers posted by the phone, and he knows how to dial 911. On the days I work in town, his dad makes sure to meet the bus after school and stay around the ranch yard until an older sister is home to babysit. We use seatbelts, sunscreen, and riding helmets. And yet . . . . in any moment, an illness can strike, an accident can happen, and every precaution we take will not be enough to save our children.
My Cody's weekend was filled with chores, homework, church, errands, and even a wonderful surprise and dinner with good friends. Tonight he attended his first 4-H meeting. His life is full to overflowing, and he fills our lives, too. I don't know why I have my son with me, and three other mothers are mourning theirs. There is much that I don't know.
What I do know is that life is not fair. I know that, here on the ranch or anywhere, we are just not in charge. I know that the only time I have for sure is right now. And I know that, right now, I just want to hold my Cody, to thank God for my boy . . . and to pray for the three boys who are with God right now.
The other two deaths were the results of accidents. In other words, a simple moment -- a terrible, reversible, simple moment -- stole these two boys from their families. These are the deaths that will keep me awake tonight. These are the deaths that chill me, even though I faced Cody's death daily when he was born nine years ago. It is one thing to anticipate a death, even when your soul cries out against it. It is another thing to assume your child is safe and healthy, only to have death snatch him from you in the time it takes to turn your head.
Cody is nine now; at one time in his life, he could have been that baby. Now, he could have been either of those two older boys. One died in a freak ranching accident -- the kind of thing that is so rare, one doesn't even think about taking precautions against it. The other died in a dangerous experiment, unattended. He was 12 -- old enough to be left alone for a while.
Again, I don't know if I would have the strength of spirit to be those parents. From what I understand, none of them can be blamed for negligence or for allowing their child to indulge in risky behavior. From what I understand, one family had to make the decision to turn off the life-support equipment and allow their son to die. I barely managed to heal from this decision when my 62-year-old father's death was the result; this was a 10-year-old boy.
From what I understand, the other boy was discovered by his sister; her heart is broken, I'm sure.
Living here in the country, we are well-attuned to the risks inherent in this life. Shawn and I take any reasonable precaution to prevent the accidents we can foresee. Cody doesn't drive the four-wheeler or shoot a shotgun; he is allowed to play with his B.B. gun only with permission and supervision. The horses he rides meet Shawn's high standards for reliability and safety. I've carefully outlined the boundaries where he and his sisters can play outside, and rehearsed what to do if they encounter a snake. There is a list of emergency telephone numbers posted by the phone, and he knows how to dial 911. On the days I work in town, his dad makes sure to meet the bus after school and stay around the ranch yard until an older sister is home to babysit. We use seatbelts, sunscreen, and riding helmets. And yet . . . . in any moment, an illness can strike, an accident can happen, and every precaution we take will not be enough to save our children.
My Cody's weekend was filled with chores, homework, church, errands, and even a wonderful surprise and dinner with good friends. Tonight he attended his first 4-H meeting. His life is full to overflowing, and he fills our lives, too. I don't know why I have my son with me, and three other mothers are mourning theirs. There is much that I don't know.
What I do know is that life is not fair. I know that, here on the ranch or anywhere, we are just not in charge. I know that the only time I have for sure is right now. And I know that, right now, I just want to hold my Cody, to thank God for my boy . . . and to pray for the three boys who are with God right now.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
September's Perfect Imperfection
The four o'clocks are blooming today, though the morning temperature barely clears 45 degrees. In other places, other gardens, my four o'clocks bloomed in the height of summer, opening to scent the air only when evening breezes cooled the air a bit. In that sense, I suppose it's natural for them to bloom in the chill of the early fall morning. The fuchsia and butter-yellow flowers sparkle amid a few golden cosmos, a lone russet marigold, and the dying greenery of some tiger lilies. The flower bed, encircling an old cottonwood tree, is spotty and quite amateurish . . .and to me, beautiful all the same. Even the fact that those flowers didn't bloom until just now, a few weeks before frost, doesn't bother me. Actually, several spots of late-season pinks, purples and golds brighten the yard as I shuffle my children off to school and load my work bag into the car. Our summer warmed so slowly this year, and offered only about six weeks of heat and humidity; I'm grateful that I have flowers at all.
The Japanese have a philosophy -- wabi-sabi -- that celebrates the beauty of imperfection. My front yard, littered with a red wagon, some branches of fallen cottonwood leaves, and several bikes and scooters, would never merit a picture in a magazine. The flower beds bloom haphazardly, and sometimes the blue flax threatens to take over everything. I have roughly the same amount of grass as I have of weeds, and the entire space lacks the green uniformity of a manicured city lawn.
But as I arrive home after a long day, my eyes don't see the yellow spots, or the weeds growing along the fence: my eyes take in the moss roses that have finally spilled over the edge of the hanging baskets, framing the front door in color. I see Emily and Katie spilling out of that front door, eager to tell me about their spelling tests and who played with who at recess. I see Shawn circling a colt in the round pen, and the horse's smooth chocolate-bay coat shimmers in the early evening light.
September for so much of my life has been about success: pursuing perfection in school and on my job, to the point of reaching such stress I miss the beauty of the season. And yet, September is my favorite month, because the natural world reaches a fullness, a peak of achievement that perches for a few short weeks before the letting go, the decline into a natural death. The achievement, like the late blooming of the four o'clocks, does not necessarily reach perfection; and yet, it is enough.
I'm questioning myself professionally and personally this month, wondering if I'll ever reach that point of feeling worthy to celebrate my accomplishments; wondering if I'll ever feel my work is worthy to put into public. But it seems silly to question all my efforts, to hide my foibles and flaws, when all around me the world is celebrating itself just as it is. Those four o'clocks didn't realize that their prescribed bloom time should have been a month ago; they are showing themselves off nevertheless, for as long as they have.
Would that I could do the same.
The Japanese have a philosophy -- wabi-sabi -- that celebrates the beauty of imperfection. My front yard, littered with a red wagon, some branches of fallen cottonwood leaves, and several bikes and scooters, would never merit a picture in a magazine. The flower beds bloom haphazardly, and sometimes the blue flax threatens to take over everything. I have roughly the same amount of grass as I have of weeds, and the entire space lacks the green uniformity of a manicured city lawn.
But as I arrive home after a long day, my eyes don't see the yellow spots, or the weeds growing along the fence: my eyes take in the moss roses that have finally spilled over the edge of the hanging baskets, framing the front door in color. I see Emily and Katie spilling out of that front door, eager to tell me about their spelling tests and who played with who at recess. I see Shawn circling a colt in the round pen, and the horse's smooth chocolate-bay coat shimmers in the early evening light.
September for so much of my life has been about success: pursuing perfection in school and on my job, to the point of reaching such stress I miss the beauty of the season. And yet, September is my favorite month, because the natural world reaches a fullness, a peak of achievement that perches for a few short weeks before the letting go, the decline into a natural death. The achievement, like the late blooming of the four o'clocks, does not necessarily reach perfection; and yet, it is enough.
I'm questioning myself professionally and personally this month, wondering if I'll ever reach that point of feeling worthy to celebrate my accomplishments; wondering if I'll ever feel my work is worthy to put into public. But it seems silly to question all my efforts, to hide my foibles and flaws, when all around me the world is celebrating itself just as it is. Those four o'clocks didn't realize that their prescribed bloom time should have been a month ago; they are showing themselves off nevertheless, for as long as they have.
Would that I could do the same.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Slow Down
This month's quote on my calendar: "There is more to Life than increasing its speed." -- Ghandi
I know this because I just turned the calendar today, 13 days into this month. What have I been doing that I haven't even turned a calendar page yet? Take your pick: watching the kids at county fair with all their projects; battling the weeds in my garden and back yard before they go to seed and make the problem worse next year; catching up on all the little jobs at work that got pushed aside by the demands of a summer reading program; trying to get six kids ready for school to start this month, plus celebrate two of their birthdays; and attempting to do all the daily things that make a house, family and job run smoothly.
I read the calendar quote feeling this paradox of both agreeing with the wisdom of Ghandi's thought, and wondering how the hell I am supposed to slow anything down. Lately it seems that the magazine articles, devotionals, and even novels I've been reading have been written on a dfferent planet, one on which August is simply a month to drift in the pool, sipping lemonade. Do people really live that way?
In my community, August is simply the break between the craziness of haying and the rush of fall work. August means fire watching, equipment repairing, hay stacking, and grain harvesting. August brings bumper crops of zuchinni to put up, and bumper costs of school supply lists to fill. Even the creatures are busy; early this morning, as I pulled weeds from the rudebekia, a honeybee buzzed from brown-eye to brown-eye, busily gathering pollen.
So, what to do? For despite my frustration at the impracticality of this quote, I am drawn to its truth. There is more to life than getting it all done; there must be, because "it all" is never completely finished. I know that if I wait until my to-do list is all checked of to relax, I will simply never relax. For most of my life, I've simply tried harder: made better lists, thought through the organization of my days, worked harder and more efficiently. And all that efficiency and hard work has given me . . . more jobs to do, more obligations to fulfill, more impossible demands -- mostly self-inflicted.
This week, in my perusing of the Internet for book review site, I stumbled upon a reference to "Slow Family Online." Its Facebook mission states that it is devoted to bringing back "lost arts" and it encourages us to "Trade frenzy for fun." The Facebook postings are mostly referrals to events and activities that force one to slow down; after all, a blueberry buckle takes a while to bake and cool, and then to eat. Whoever authors this site, thank you. Such simple ideas for really finding joy in simplicity and slowness.
And the site, the quote, the wisdom of this place, remind me that it all comes down to choice. For 40 years, my choice has been more -- more work, more house, more activity. Could slowing down be as simple as just choosing differently? My choice could be "less" or "slow" or even "good enough."
What if? What if, every day, I did take some time to just stop for a minute? What if, instead of jumping up from my morning coffee to reset the sprinker. I just let the sprinker run a little longer, until I finished my cup? What if, when Shawn asks if I'd like to look at my horses, I actually walked out into the corral and stroked them, instead of looking through the gate for all of three minutes? What if, instead of getting one more load of laundry folded or one more room cleaned, I baked cookies with Katie and Emily when they ask? What if, instead of reviewing more book catalogs, deciding more purchases, I just sat and read one of those novels for an afternoon?
Who knows? Perhaps one day, if I choose carefully, you might even find me floating in a pool, sipping on some lemonade and living the August I dream about . . . if only for a few hours.
I know this because I just turned the calendar today, 13 days into this month. What have I been doing that I haven't even turned a calendar page yet? Take your pick: watching the kids at county fair with all their projects; battling the weeds in my garden and back yard before they go to seed and make the problem worse next year; catching up on all the little jobs at work that got pushed aside by the demands of a summer reading program; trying to get six kids ready for school to start this month, plus celebrate two of their birthdays; and attempting to do all the daily things that make a house, family and job run smoothly.
I read the calendar quote feeling this paradox of both agreeing with the wisdom of Ghandi's thought, and wondering how the hell I am supposed to slow anything down. Lately it seems that the magazine articles, devotionals, and even novels I've been reading have been written on a dfferent planet, one on which August is simply a month to drift in the pool, sipping lemonade. Do people really live that way?
In my community, August is simply the break between the craziness of haying and the rush of fall work. August means fire watching, equipment repairing, hay stacking, and grain harvesting. August brings bumper crops of zuchinni to put up, and bumper costs of school supply lists to fill. Even the creatures are busy; early this morning, as I pulled weeds from the rudebekia, a honeybee buzzed from brown-eye to brown-eye, busily gathering pollen.
So, what to do? For despite my frustration at the impracticality of this quote, I am drawn to its truth. There is more to life than getting it all done; there must be, because "it all" is never completely finished. I know that if I wait until my to-do list is all checked of to relax, I will simply never relax. For most of my life, I've simply tried harder: made better lists, thought through the organization of my days, worked harder and more efficiently. And all that efficiency and hard work has given me . . . more jobs to do, more obligations to fulfill, more impossible demands -- mostly self-inflicted.
This week, in my perusing of the Internet for book review site, I stumbled upon a reference to "Slow Family Online." Its Facebook mission states that it is devoted to bringing back "lost arts" and it encourages us to "Trade frenzy for fun." The Facebook postings are mostly referrals to events and activities that force one to slow down; after all, a blueberry buckle takes a while to bake and cool, and then to eat. Whoever authors this site, thank you. Such simple ideas for really finding joy in simplicity and slowness.
And the site, the quote, the wisdom of this place, remind me that it all comes down to choice. For 40 years, my choice has been more -- more work, more house, more activity. Could slowing down be as simple as just choosing differently? My choice could be "less" or "slow" or even "good enough."
What if? What if, every day, I did take some time to just stop for a minute? What if, instead of jumping up from my morning coffee to reset the sprinker. I just let the sprinker run a little longer, until I finished my cup? What if, when Shawn asks if I'd like to look at my horses, I actually walked out into the corral and stroked them, instead of looking through the gate for all of three minutes? What if, instead of getting one more load of laundry folded or one more room cleaned, I baked cookies with Katie and Emily when they ask? What if, instead of reviewing more book catalogs, deciding more purchases, I just sat and read one of those novels for an afternoon?
Who knows? Perhaps one day, if I choose carefully, you might even find me floating in a pool, sipping on some lemonade and living the August I dream about . . . if only for a few hours.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Dragonfly on the Clothesline
Part of my summer morning routine, along with watering the lawn and garden, is to hang out at least one load of laundry before I go to work. I like to think I'm at least doing my part for the earth . . . or at least, that hanging out these loads somewhat offsets the other damages I do with my large family. This morning, as I reach up to hang another pair of jeans, a dragonfly lands on the line. Events like this deserve mention: we live far enough from the creek to not often see dragonflies, and it was still early morning, not yet the heat of the day. Nonetheless, there it was . . making me smile and remember.
Years ago, when Maria was not yet one year old, I attended a writing retreat at the South Dakota ranch home of my friend and mentor, Linda. While I was there, I stayed in a small, cheery room named the "Dragonfly." Linda, ever passionate about the prairie surrounding her ranch/retreat, had named each room for a creature of the earth surrounding us. As I left the retreat, changed in my view of myself and my writing in ways that live with me still, I decided that a dragonfly would become my personal totem.
The Native Americans who lived on this high prairie, both where Linda's retreat home lies, and where our ranch stands, would understand about totems. A totem was, and is, a personal symbol of a higher life. A young man with a bear totem would be reminded to be courageous and strong . . . both qualities a bear might represent. A young woman with a lioness as totem would try to live her life with both the extreme tenderness and the protective ferocity of that animal.
My totem, however, doesn't work in the traditional way. I don't know that dragonflies necessarily possess any qualities I want to emulate. Instead, seeing a dragonfly reminds me not to let my dream of writing and publishing become buried under the daily-ness of life. Seeing a dragonfly, for me, is the Universe's push to get back to the desk, to the computer, back to myself and my thoughts, and to spend time trying to capture them on the page. Seeing a dragonfly tells me that the woman who attended that writing retreat, who took time out of a busy life even back then to write and talk and read, still lives inside me.
This morning started off like any other Monday morning: I was up and doing before I was fully awake, trying to cram too many things into too few hours. But summer only lasts a few short months, and dragonflies only happen to land on the clothesline on rare occasions. The ideas in my head buzz in and out like an elusive insect, beautiful and sparkling, but gone in a breath's time. I can only hope that they keep landing in my life.
Years ago, when Maria was not yet one year old, I attended a writing retreat at the South Dakota ranch home of my friend and mentor, Linda. While I was there, I stayed in a small, cheery room named the "Dragonfly." Linda, ever passionate about the prairie surrounding her ranch/retreat, had named each room for a creature of the earth surrounding us. As I left the retreat, changed in my view of myself and my writing in ways that live with me still, I decided that a dragonfly would become my personal totem.
The Native Americans who lived on this high prairie, both where Linda's retreat home lies, and where our ranch stands, would understand about totems. A totem was, and is, a personal symbol of a higher life. A young man with a bear totem would be reminded to be courageous and strong . . . both qualities a bear might represent. A young woman with a lioness as totem would try to live her life with both the extreme tenderness and the protective ferocity of that animal.
My totem, however, doesn't work in the traditional way. I don't know that dragonflies necessarily possess any qualities I want to emulate. Instead, seeing a dragonfly reminds me not to let my dream of writing and publishing become buried under the daily-ness of life. Seeing a dragonfly, for me, is the Universe's push to get back to the desk, to the computer, back to myself and my thoughts, and to spend time trying to capture them on the page. Seeing a dragonfly tells me that the woman who attended that writing retreat, who took time out of a busy life even back then to write and talk and read, still lives inside me.
This morning started off like any other Monday morning: I was up and doing before I was fully awake, trying to cram too many things into too few hours. But summer only lasts a few short months, and dragonflies only happen to land on the clothesline on rare occasions. The ideas in my head buzz in and out like an elusive insect, beautiful and sparkling, but gone in a breath's time. I can only hope that they keep landing in my life.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Blooming
This morning I weeded the lily bed near the back door of my ranch house. Somehow, the bluegrass, dandelions, and thistles that compete with the daylilies and irises in this bed hold on to the soil more tenaciously, gripping with long, tough roots that often end up breaking off instead of pulling out. This means I revisit this bed, and probably pull the same weeds, several times during the summer. We dug this bed the first year we moved here, not having lived through a full cycle of seasons to observe the vegetation patterns. Now we know that there are spots in this ranch yard, particularly near the house, where the amount of bentonite in the soil hardens the ground so much that roots are practically glued in. Conversely, the compaction of the soil slows and limits the growth of any plant, weed or flower.
So, as I weed, I feel sorry for the lilies and irises there. Despite being in this ground four years, the daylilies have yet to reach a mature size for their species. The irises, transplanted from a deserted homestead on the north end of the ranch, have done better, but still have not spread and filled the bed as I'd hoped. This isn't good ground for these plants; their natural affinities incline to more arable, rich soil.
As I weed, I notice my seven-year-old, Emily, has gone into the house and returned in jeans, with a crumpled up old cowboy hat on her head and stick horse between her legs. With a whoop, she gallops around the old ranch house, circling her imaginary herd with joy. Last week, she asked every day if she could ride Ginger, the Welsh-Quarter Horse pony that the kids share. Every day, there was a reason why she couldn't: I was at work, her dad was in the field, there was bad weather or older sisters' activities that kept the family too busy. She hasn't asked today, and seems content with her pretend play. My natural inclination is to continue to pull weeds, and keep on working on the laundry, yard work and housework that I had planned for my day off.
I'm not a cowgirl; in many ways, life on this ranch challenges me the same way that clay soil challenges my plants. Particularly in the summer, when the kids are home and the outside work begins, the multiple jobs that compete for my attention drain my energy, leaving me feeling like I, too, have yellow leaves from not enough nutrients. I am not naturally talented with animals the way my husband and some of my children are; working in the barn, corral or pasture stretches my limits and forces me to grow in ground that is not my natural environment. Working in a classroom, library, garden or kitchen comes more naturally and successfully to me.
And yet, Emily hardly ever asks much of me. More than many of my children, she is a natural helper, bending over now to pick up spilled clothespins as she and her horse circle by the clothesline. So, I leave the lily bed three-quarters weeded, ask Carmen's help in catching and saddling Ginger, and spend the rest of my morning in the round pen. Of course, I can't expect Cody and Katie to let Emily ride alone, so I have two ponies in the round pen, and three young children taking turns on them.
As I watch, help and offer instructions, I surprise myself with what I know. Cody struggles with the pony he is riding, and when Shawn comes in from the field and offers advice, I'm gratified to hear that his suggestions are the same as mine have been. Katie needs to work on her balance on a horse, and I remember many of the exercises Shawn and I put our older daughters through when they were learning to ride. And Emily, whose confidence has been shaky, rides Ginger at a trot around and around the pen, the same way I rode my pony, Misty, when I was her age, looking so pleased and proud of herself that I cannot possibly regret leaving my other work undone. I'm not a cowgirl, and will never flourish as naturally on this ranch as another, different type of woman might; but, I've still grown here and our lifestyle enriches me in ways I could not have planned.
I return to the yard just before lunch, and gather up the jacket and water bottle I've left lying by the flower bed. As I bend down, my eye catches a fat swelling at the base of one of the daylilies. It's the beginning of a bloom, a first for this particular plant. This isn't good soil for this flower, andyet, despite struggles for space, nutrition and water, it is blooming. Sometimes, good just takes a while to grow.
So, as I weed, I feel sorry for the lilies and irises there. Despite being in this ground four years, the daylilies have yet to reach a mature size for their species. The irises, transplanted from a deserted homestead on the north end of the ranch, have done better, but still have not spread and filled the bed as I'd hoped. This isn't good ground for these plants; their natural affinities incline to more arable, rich soil.
As I weed, I notice my seven-year-old, Emily, has gone into the house and returned in jeans, with a crumpled up old cowboy hat on her head and stick horse between her legs. With a whoop, she gallops around the old ranch house, circling her imaginary herd with joy. Last week, she asked every day if she could ride Ginger, the Welsh-Quarter Horse pony that the kids share. Every day, there was a reason why she couldn't: I was at work, her dad was in the field, there was bad weather or older sisters' activities that kept the family too busy. She hasn't asked today, and seems content with her pretend play. My natural inclination is to continue to pull weeds, and keep on working on the laundry, yard work and housework that I had planned for my day off.
I'm not a cowgirl; in many ways, life on this ranch challenges me the same way that clay soil challenges my plants. Particularly in the summer, when the kids are home and the outside work begins, the multiple jobs that compete for my attention drain my energy, leaving me feeling like I, too, have yellow leaves from not enough nutrients. I am not naturally talented with animals the way my husband and some of my children are; working in the barn, corral or pasture stretches my limits and forces me to grow in ground that is not my natural environment. Working in a classroom, library, garden or kitchen comes more naturally and successfully to me.
And yet, Emily hardly ever asks much of me. More than many of my children, she is a natural helper, bending over now to pick up spilled clothespins as she and her horse circle by the clothesline. So, I leave the lily bed three-quarters weeded, ask Carmen's help in catching and saddling Ginger, and spend the rest of my morning in the round pen. Of course, I can't expect Cody and Katie to let Emily ride alone, so I have two ponies in the round pen, and three young children taking turns on them.
As I watch, help and offer instructions, I surprise myself with what I know. Cody struggles with the pony he is riding, and when Shawn comes in from the field and offers advice, I'm gratified to hear that his suggestions are the same as mine have been. Katie needs to work on her balance on a horse, and I remember many of the exercises Shawn and I put our older daughters through when they were learning to ride. And Emily, whose confidence has been shaky, rides Ginger at a trot around and around the pen, the same way I rode my pony, Misty, when I was her age, looking so pleased and proud of herself that I cannot possibly regret leaving my other work undone. I'm not a cowgirl, and will never flourish as naturally on this ranch as another, different type of woman might; but, I've still grown here and our lifestyle enriches me in ways I could not have planned.
I return to the yard just before lunch, and gather up the jacket and water bottle I've left lying by the flower bed. As I bend down, my eye catches a fat swelling at the base of one of the daylilies. It's the beginning of a bloom, a first for this particular plant. This isn't good soil for this flower, andyet, despite struggles for space, nutrition and water, it is blooming. Sometimes, good just takes a while to grow.
Monday, May 17, 2010
For Jake
Rushing around before work this morning, I realized that I needed to "put away" my five dogs -- meaning kennel four of them, and tie our old blind dog, Max, into his stall in the barn. Shawn was gone for the day, and we try not to leave the dogs unattended, free to roam up onto the highway or chase the odd fuel truck that might drive into the yard. Just as I clipped the chain to Max's collar, Shawn's barn radio -- something he never remembers to turn off -- began playing an old country song. In that moment, the song remembered for me another barn, another dog. It was an old Pirates of the Mississippi piece titled "Feed Jake." When we were first married, we both liked the song so much that we named one of our first dogs Jake; we were lucky enough to have him in our lives for seven years, and his sister, called simply Sis, lived fourteen years as my companion. The tulips on her grave are just today beginning to bloom.
I write much about the importance of pets in my life: both the lessons they've taught me, and the consolation I receive from them. Yet, this morning, I was so busy with my list of tasks to accomplish before work that I considered not taking time to put the dogs away. That's how it is, with my life, at least: ideology meets practicality head-on most days, and most days, practicality wins.
So what a gift it was to hear those lyrics, to be transported back to a time when I didn't have so many tasks, when I spent hours just sitting on our front step with Jake, just enjoying the warmth of his black and white fur. One summer, when he broke his hip falling out of a pickup truck, I nursed him for an hour twice a day, exercising his leg until he was able to walk with only a slight limp. Would I, in my current incarnation, even be able to find two hours a day for a dog?
". . . What we are and what we ain't; what we can and what we can't --
Does it really matter?
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I die before I wake, feed Jake;
He's been a good dog.
My best friend, right through it all --
If I die before I wake,
Feed Jake."
Hearing those words, suddenly being 23 again, living in a run-down trailer house outside of Boulder, Montana, I remembered one of the rules I promised myself I would live by this 40th year: Take care of the living first. I accomplished a lot this morning: some jobs, like gardening and making a salad for supper, were pleasurable. Some, namely paying bills, were not. Most were about what I am and what I'm not, what I can and what I can't. But of all, perhaps the most important, though minute, action I took this morning was to snap that chain onto my old dog's collar, tying him safely into the barn stall, away from vehicles that he can only see with one eye.
Take care of the living first. I don't know who first introduced this rule to me, but it must have been either a mother or a rancher. Take care of the living: hug your kids, water your plants, feed your dog. So much of what we do is not about the living. Bills, houses, cars, even the books I love so much . . . .these are inanimate objects. Yes, they do require attention, and too much neglect of these will lead to negative effects on the living. Yet, taking care of the basics, the most critical tasks for the people, animals and land we love, should take precedence.
If I die tomorrow -- or tonight -- I don't care if my projects at work are incomplete. I don't care that I didn't get the living room vacuumed, or touch up that trim in the dining room that I've been meaning to. My spirit will care, however, that my kids are comforted and nurtured, that my flowers get water, and that somebody remembers to feed Max, and all his companions.
I write much about the importance of pets in my life: both the lessons they've taught me, and the consolation I receive from them. Yet, this morning, I was so busy with my list of tasks to accomplish before work that I considered not taking time to put the dogs away. That's how it is, with my life, at least: ideology meets practicality head-on most days, and most days, practicality wins.
So what a gift it was to hear those lyrics, to be transported back to a time when I didn't have so many tasks, when I spent hours just sitting on our front step with Jake, just enjoying the warmth of his black and white fur. One summer, when he broke his hip falling out of a pickup truck, I nursed him for an hour twice a day, exercising his leg until he was able to walk with only a slight limp. Would I, in my current incarnation, even be able to find two hours a day for a dog?
". . . What we are and what we ain't; what we can and what we can't --
Does it really matter?
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I die before I wake, feed Jake;
He's been a good dog.
My best friend, right through it all --
If I die before I wake,
Feed Jake."
Hearing those words, suddenly being 23 again, living in a run-down trailer house outside of Boulder, Montana, I remembered one of the rules I promised myself I would live by this 40th year: Take care of the living first. I accomplished a lot this morning: some jobs, like gardening and making a salad for supper, were pleasurable. Some, namely paying bills, were not. Most were about what I am and what I'm not, what I can and what I can't. But of all, perhaps the most important, though minute, action I took this morning was to snap that chain onto my old dog's collar, tying him safely into the barn stall, away from vehicles that he can only see with one eye.
Take care of the living first. I don't know who first introduced this rule to me, but it must have been either a mother or a rancher. Take care of the living: hug your kids, water your plants, feed your dog. So much of what we do is not about the living. Bills, houses, cars, even the books I love so much . . . .these are inanimate objects. Yes, they do require attention, and too much neglect of these will lead to negative effects on the living. Yet, taking care of the basics, the most critical tasks for the people, animals and land we love, should take precedence.
If I die tomorrow -- or tonight -- I don't care if my projects at work are incomplete. I don't care that I didn't get the living room vacuumed, or touch up that trim in the dining room that I've been meaning to. My spirit will care, however, that my kids are comforted and nurtured, that my flowers get water, and that somebody remembers to feed Max, and all his companions.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Planting
The sun shone this morning, first in several days here. We try not to complain about rain -- in fact, could have used more -- but seeing the sunshine causes a visceral reaction after long, gloomy days. I considered taking the day off work ... but instead, I planted a few rows of potatoes.
Gardening here differs so much from gardening in South Dakota, where I grew up. Rather than planting an acre or more of potatoes -- enough to feed a family through the winter -- I dig up a small plot, enough to have new potatoes steamed or fried to go with burgers on the grill later this summer. Enough to dig up a few, rub off the dirt, and eat raw baby potatoes.
In gardening, as in life, this ranch teaches me always to let go of my expectations, to let the ranch show me another possibility. I grew up among gardeners -- aunts, grandmothers, grandfathers, and my own mom -- for whom growing vegetables was a perennial duty, a source of pride and worth. I also love to garden, but I have not managed raising vegetables in the hard clay soil of northeastern Wyoming. When we first moved to Allison, we tilled and planted the large, somewhat depleted garden plot that we'd inherited from the previous tenants. And then, for two entire summers, we battled too-many weeds and not-enough water. Finally, three springs ago, I seeded most of that plot back to a grass and wildflower mix, with only small beds left open for seeding. Among those spaces and several raised beds that Shawn built, I rotate the crops that my family enjoys, growing only what we will eat with our summer meals. Even that amount requires a good deal of work.
I wish I grew enough tomatoes to can quarts and quarts of salsa; wish cucumbers did well enough to make jars of pickles; wish my ear corn grew as tall as it did when I once lived at Ucross, only about eighty miles from here. I come back from visits to South Dakota, or from my recent trip to Portland, with serious cases of garden envy. I've even considered that, once Shawn and I retire, I will choose our future home based not on the community, nor the proximity to my work or children, but on the quality of the soil.
Today is the seventeenth anniversary of my dad's death, on an early May day in 1993. Dad farmed the soil enough to learn that it, almost more than sun and rain, dictates the success and failure of crops. In Dad's terms, if a place had "good ground" - meaning rich, black soil -- then it was a good place. Good soil means everything to a farmer.
Good soil means everything to me, too. Today I thank God that I come from good soil; from parents who taught me to value the land, and the life that comes from it. I thank God that I was raised to appreciate the simple joy of a sunny, spring day and the smell of wet earth. I know myself well enough to realize that they haven't seen the harvest of everything they planted; but I also think that what you plant, if you put it in good soil and give it enough attention, will eventually grow. Today I found onions, coming back from several that went unharvested last year. Sometimes it takes more than one growing season to raise a crop. I hope that what my parents planted in me -- and what I'm trying to plant in my own children -- will grow to fruition someday.
In the meantime, I'll plant my small plots of vegetables, let the nutrients from the grass and the earthworms work their magic, and learn to appreciate the gifts the ranch gives me right now. As I walked through the garden plot, I noticed sprouts where gallardia and blue flax will color my summer. Perhaps one day that garden plot will have been amended enough to grow those crops of tomatoes and cucumbers; for now, I'll grow a few potatoes and wait for the black-eyed Susans to come.
Gardening here differs so much from gardening in South Dakota, where I grew up. Rather than planting an acre or more of potatoes -- enough to feed a family through the winter -- I dig up a small plot, enough to have new potatoes steamed or fried to go with burgers on the grill later this summer. Enough to dig up a few, rub off the dirt, and eat raw baby potatoes.
In gardening, as in life, this ranch teaches me always to let go of my expectations, to let the ranch show me another possibility. I grew up among gardeners -- aunts, grandmothers, grandfathers, and my own mom -- for whom growing vegetables was a perennial duty, a source of pride and worth. I also love to garden, but I have not managed raising vegetables in the hard clay soil of northeastern Wyoming. When we first moved to Allison, we tilled and planted the large, somewhat depleted garden plot that we'd inherited from the previous tenants. And then, for two entire summers, we battled too-many weeds and not-enough water. Finally, three springs ago, I seeded most of that plot back to a grass and wildflower mix, with only small beds left open for seeding. Among those spaces and several raised beds that Shawn built, I rotate the crops that my family enjoys, growing only what we will eat with our summer meals. Even that amount requires a good deal of work.
I wish I grew enough tomatoes to can quarts and quarts of salsa; wish cucumbers did well enough to make jars of pickles; wish my ear corn grew as tall as it did when I once lived at Ucross, only about eighty miles from here. I come back from visits to South Dakota, or from my recent trip to Portland, with serious cases of garden envy. I've even considered that, once Shawn and I retire, I will choose our future home based not on the community, nor the proximity to my work or children, but on the quality of the soil.
Today is the seventeenth anniversary of my dad's death, on an early May day in 1993. Dad farmed the soil enough to learn that it, almost more than sun and rain, dictates the success and failure of crops. In Dad's terms, if a place had "good ground" - meaning rich, black soil -- then it was a good place. Good soil means everything to a farmer.
Good soil means everything to me, too. Today I thank God that I come from good soil; from parents who taught me to value the land, and the life that comes from it. I thank God that I was raised to appreciate the simple joy of a sunny, spring day and the smell of wet earth. I know myself well enough to realize that they haven't seen the harvest of everything they planted; but I also think that what you plant, if you put it in good soil and give it enough attention, will eventually grow. Today I found onions, coming back from several that went unharvested last year. Sometimes it takes more than one growing season to raise a crop. I hope that what my parents planted in me -- and what I'm trying to plant in my own children -- will grow to fruition someday.
In the meantime, I'll plant my small plots of vegetables, let the nutrients from the grass and the earthworms work their magic, and learn to appreciate the gifts the ranch gives me right now. As I walked through the garden plot, I noticed sprouts where gallardia and blue flax will color my summer. Perhaps one day that garden plot will have been amended enough to grow those crops of tomatoes and cucumbers; for now, I'll grow a few potatoes and wait for the black-eyed Susans to come.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Goodbyes
This morning I happened to look out the window of my back porch just in time to see Shawn driving out of the yard, the body of a Hereford calf in the bed of his truck. When he returned from the "bone pile" a while later, I asked -- already knowing the answer -- if it was one of the bum calves our daughter Maria had been tending. It was.
So, now, one of us will have to tell Maria that the calf died. Point of clarification -- this was the smaller, less healthy of two bums, so Shawn actually took it away from Maria a couple days ago, attempting to graft it onto a cow that had lost her calf . . . a last-ditch effort to save its life. I don't know, really, how attached Maria had become, or if she'd already let go; still, the goodbye now has a finality it didn't before.
It's funny, the rules we make for our kids in an attempt to cushion them from hurt. We tell them not to get too attached to . . .most everything. The bum calves, because they begin life at such a disadvantage. The 4-H steers, because they are destined for the butchering plant. The colts out of their broodmares, because they are "for sale." And I know, from a lifetime of living around ranchers, that Shawn and I are not at all unique. There exists a whole body of folk wisdom about not letting kids cultivate those emotional connections with animals: "Don't name it." "Don't pet it." "Tell yourself that it's just a project."
Really. Has there ever been a ranch kid to follow this kind of stupid advice? Because I wasn't one. My husband wasn't one. And we haven't managed, yet, to raise one.
And thank goodness for that. Thank goodness that our children, at least, have the emotional innocence to not shelter themselves. Thank goodness they make connections; they teach us how. And whether those connections are with an animal, a place, or another child, they enlarge their spirits. Perhaps adults are drawn to children not only because of their playfulness, or their wonder, but also because of their unabashed courage in the face of meeting another living thing. Watch a one-year-old smile at a stranger. There is the face of God -- fearless, accepting, completely without selfishness or self-consciousness.
So, our children are going to get hurt. As much as we parents would like to control that, to manage the pain, to somehow protect them. . . that won't happen. Animals die. Neighbors move away. Grandparents age and pass on.
I guess we could protect them, if we didn't allow them to own pets. Or make friends. Or love.
Maria will be OK. She might cry, and she will certainly feel sadness the next time she feeds the other calf, remembering. Likewise, next winter when we would like to hitch up the team, our whole family will mourn Jill, the draft horse mare who died in March. Each time my girls mow our backyard this summer, they will pass the graves of Sis, Red, Callie and Angel . . . and they will remember those pets, and miss them. When they go to school, they will think of the friends who once lived here, the friends who have moved away, and they will feel loneliness.
Of course I don't like to see their pain; that doesn't mean that the pain doesn't have value. All I can do is help my children to say goodbye. When a pet dies, I can read "The Tenth Good Thing about Barney;" even though, after all these years and all those pets, I still can't finish without crying. When a horse sells, I can hug and mourn with them, and bite my tongue at the "he's going to a good home" platitudes. When someone they love leaves - the community or this world - I can tell stories, listen to their questions, do my best to nurse their broken hearts until they heal, scarred but stronger.
Above all, I can honor their tears, not try to wipe them away.
So, now, one of us will have to tell Maria that the calf died. Point of clarification -- this was the smaller, less healthy of two bums, so Shawn actually took it away from Maria a couple days ago, attempting to graft it onto a cow that had lost her calf . . . a last-ditch effort to save its life. I don't know, really, how attached Maria had become, or if she'd already let go; still, the goodbye now has a finality it didn't before.
It's funny, the rules we make for our kids in an attempt to cushion them from hurt. We tell them not to get too attached to . . .most everything. The bum calves, because they begin life at such a disadvantage. The 4-H steers, because they are destined for the butchering plant. The colts out of their broodmares, because they are "for sale." And I know, from a lifetime of living around ranchers, that Shawn and I are not at all unique. There exists a whole body of folk wisdom about not letting kids cultivate those emotional connections with animals: "Don't name it." "Don't pet it." "Tell yourself that it's just a project."
Really. Has there ever been a ranch kid to follow this kind of stupid advice? Because I wasn't one. My husband wasn't one. And we haven't managed, yet, to raise one.
And thank goodness for that. Thank goodness that our children, at least, have the emotional innocence to not shelter themselves. Thank goodness they make connections; they teach us how. And whether those connections are with an animal, a place, or another child, they enlarge their spirits. Perhaps adults are drawn to children not only because of their playfulness, or their wonder, but also because of their unabashed courage in the face of meeting another living thing. Watch a one-year-old smile at a stranger. There is the face of God -- fearless, accepting, completely without selfishness or self-consciousness.
So, our children are going to get hurt. As much as we parents would like to control that, to manage the pain, to somehow protect them. . . that won't happen. Animals die. Neighbors move away. Grandparents age and pass on.
I guess we could protect them, if we didn't allow them to own pets. Or make friends. Or love.
Maria will be OK. She might cry, and she will certainly feel sadness the next time she feeds the other calf, remembering. Likewise, next winter when we would like to hitch up the team, our whole family will mourn Jill, the draft horse mare who died in March. Each time my girls mow our backyard this summer, they will pass the graves of Sis, Red, Callie and Angel . . . and they will remember those pets, and miss them. When they go to school, they will think of the friends who once lived here, the friends who have moved away, and they will feel loneliness.
Of course I don't like to see their pain; that doesn't mean that the pain doesn't have value. All I can do is help my children to say goodbye. When a pet dies, I can read "The Tenth Good Thing about Barney;" even though, after all these years and all those pets, I still can't finish without crying. When a horse sells, I can hug and mourn with them, and bite my tongue at the "he's going to a good home" platitudes. When someone they love leaves - the community or this world - I can tell stories, listen to their questions, do my best to nurse their broken hearts until they heal, scarred but stronger.
Above all, I can honor their tears, not try to wipe them away.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Wind
"Those who dwell among the beauties and mysteries of the Earth are never alone or weary of life."
- Rachel Carson
What a beautiful sentiment, but I wonder if Ms. Carson, for all her exploration and investigation, experienced WIND the way we have been here on the edge of the high plains. If she did, would she say the same thing? Because I dwell among the beauties of Earth, and its mysteries surround me daily . . . but I'm a little bit weary now, if not of life, then at least of the wind that's been scouring this valley for the last several weeks.
Those of you who are my neighbors know the wind I am talking about . . . but in case you don't, let me try to capture it for you. Wind that tore the door off an abandoned upright freezer that was standing in the yard, waiting to be hauled to the dump. Wind that carries trash from who-knows-where to land along the riverbank. Wind that has prevented us from flying the kites the kids got for Easter -- two weeks ago -- because it will destroy them. Wind that, just a while ago, made me think someone was walking around upstairs, when it was just a gale rattling this old house. Wind that made me take in the laundry I had hung out this morning, because it is so fierce it will tear the cloth.
Once, I attended an Episcopalian churh service, and the minister tried to re-frame our perspective on the wind by reminding us that, in the Bible, the Holy Spirit arrives that way. So . . . what does that say about our world, then, if lately the Holy Spirit is arriving with such violent force?
It's difficult, when wind can cause so much destruction, to view it as a gift. I know intellectually that the gusts blow away pollution, spread pollen to propagate growth, scrub away dead leaves and grass to make room for new. I know that these are good things, both for the Earth and for my soul; yet this kind of not-so-gentle change is a difficult gift to receive, a present I don't really want to open.
The best way, then, for me to remember the wind as a gift, albeit an overwhelming one, is to remember an incident from last Sunday morning. Emily, Cody and I set out on a walk with the dogs, down into the meadow -- Emily and I walking, Cody riding ahead on his bike. The morning was cool and clear, but not yet windy. About half way to our turn-around point, a breeze started up. Suddenly, bumping along on the air currents was a black balloon, probably escaped from someone's 40th birthday party. It was too high, and traveling too fast, for us to reach, but Emily and I chased after it anyway. Just as I thought we'd lost it, a downdraft pushed it closer to the ground, and the balloon seemed to slow -- and Emily, standing on tiptoes, was just able to grasp the string in her fingers.
The rest of the walk was filled with chatter as we tried to imagine where the balloon had come from, how far it had traveled, what it had seen. Emily was proud that she had caught it herself, and that she had saved a bird or animal from swallowing a piece of it. She took it home, and the wind gifted her with a story to fill the rest of the day.
In the natural world, rarely is anything purely good or purely bad. A coyote kills baby calves . . and also helps control the deer and prairie dog populaions. A rattlesnake threatens with venom . . .and eats its fair share of those same prairie dogs, and the mice that scrurry around the haystacks. Even though my dad taught me to "never cuss the rain," I've seen deluges wash away inches of precious topsoil in a matter of minutes. The wind too, then, can be a force for destruction, but also a force for good, positive change.
Would that I can remember this during these "gentle spring zephyrs" we are having!
- Rachel Carson
What a beautiful sentiment, but I wonder if Ms. Carson, for all her exploration and investigation, experienced WIND the way we have been here on the edge of the high plains. If she did, would she say the same thing? Because I dwell among the beauties of Earth, and its mysteries surround me daily . . . but I'm a little bit weary now, if not of life, then at least of the wind that's been scouring this valley for the last several weeks.
Those of you who are my neighbors know the wind I am talking about . . . but in case you don't, let me try to capture it for you. Wind that tore the door off an abandoned upright freezer that was standing in the yard, waiting to be hauled to the dump. Wind that carries trash from who-knows-where to land along the riverbank. Wind that has prevented us from flying the kites the kids got for Easter -- two weeks ago -- because it will destroy them. Wind that, just a while ago, made me think someone was walking around upstairs, when it was just a gale rattling this old house. Wind that made me take in the laundry I had hung out this morning, because it is so fierce it will tear the cloth.
Once, I attended an Episcopalian churh service, and the minister tried to re-frame our perspective on the wind by reminding us that, in the Bible, the Holy Spirit arrives that way. So . . . what does that say about our world, then, if lately the Holy Spirit is arriving with such violent force?
It's difficult, when wind can cause so much destruction, to view it as a gift. I know intellectually that the gusts blow away pollution, spread pollen to propagate growth, scrub away dead leaves and grass to make room for new. I know that these are good things, both for the Earth and for my soul; yet this kind of not-so-gentle change is a difficult gift to receive, a present I don't really want to open.
The best way, then, for me to remember the wind as a gift, albeit an overwhelming one, is to remember an incident from last Sunday morning. Emily, Cody and I set out on a walk with the dogs, down into the meadow -- Emily and I walking, Cody riding ahead on his bike. The morning was cool and clear, but not yet windy. About half way to our turn-around point, a breeze started up. Suddenly, bumping along on the air currents was a black balloon, probably escaped from someone's 40th birthday party. It was too high, and traveling too fast, for us to reach, but Emily and I chased after it anyway. Just as I thought we'd lost it, a downdraft pushed it closer to the ground, and the balloon seemed to slow -- and Emily, standing on tiptoes, was just able to grasp the string in her fingers.
The rest of the walk was filled with chatter as we tried to imagine where the balloon had come from, how far it had traveled, what it had seen. Emily was proud that she had caught it herself, and that she had saved a bird or animal from swallowing a piece of it. She took it home, and the wind gifted her with a story to fill the rest of the day.
In the natural world, rarely is anything purely good or purely bad. A coyote kills baby calves . . and also helps control the deer and prairie dog populaions. A rattlesnake threatens with venom . . .and eats its fair share of those same prairie dogs, and the mice that scrurry around the haystacks. Even though my dad taught me to "never cuss the rain," I've seen deluges wash away inches of precious topsoil in a matter of minutes. The wind too, then, can be a force for destruction, but also a force for good, positive change.
Would that I can remember this during these "gentle spring zephyrs" we are having!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Community
Spring teases us this week, luring us with buds on the lilac bushes, the tips of tulips peeking out, a perceptible greening of the pastures, even as storm clouds build in the north and more snow is predicted for tomorrow. Perhaps it is the release of winter's pent-up energy and emotion; perhaps it is that change shimmers in the air; but for whatever reason, this seems to also be a season of conflicting needs, wants and opinions.
I am so bad with conflict. You would think, after all my years dealing with students, patrons, and my own children, I would know how to deal with issues between adults. But, I botch it up regularly.
For years, I've avoided confrontations, particularly the kinds that arise on the ranch. I might bitch to my husband and friends, but then put on a smiling face while I serve dinner to branding crews or chat with the wives. I've been supremely dishonest, both with myself and others: in fear of being perceived as anything negative, I've pretended to be something I am not. Guess what, community? I'm not a "great gal," the kind of ranch wife who always has an open door and a full cookie jar. I'm not that "sweetheart" who lives down the road, willing to watch your kids at a moment's notice or serve you a meal when you "just happen" to show up at dinnertime.
What I am, though, I'm learning to not be ashamed of. I am the kind of neighbor who brings you a casserole when you've had a baby or a surgery. I am the type of woman who checks in with our aging bachelor neighbor to be sure he hasn't fallen in the corral or been run over by a heifer. I am the kind of mom who throws big, simple birthday parties for my kids, and makes sure your kids are safe and happy while they are here. I might not watch your kids when I've just arrived home from work and need to tend to my own. . .but if you are honest with me, and tell me you need a break or a date night, I'll do what I can.
The expectations of community can weigh hugely on women, no matter where they live. I've just returned from a week in Portland: what a beautiful city, and what a huge amount of responsibility to build and maintain community. In some ways, however, building community, in a way that respects everyone's needs, is just as difficut in this remote, isolated place . . . . perhaps more. We know the person behind each face we see, and are obliged to find a way to live peacefully with them, for however long we are neighors. When I was in Portland, I fell into my longtime habit of just whisperng a quck prayer for each face I saw on the bus, by the street corner, in the restaurant. I do this as often as I can for my neighbors, too: it's my way of making up for being an introvert, someone who values privacy very highly. I may not always talk and sit down for coffee, but at least I've thought of you, and tried to send good energy your way.
Still, trouble arises, despite best intentions. I wish we women could deal with conflct the way our broodmares do: if one of them gets too greedy over the feed, or steps out of the group's boundaries, another will bare her teeth, kick, even bite to get her message across. Within ten minutes, those two mares are again grazing side by side, moving with the band, tending the young, the conflict dealt with and forgotten.
These days, I tend to bare my teeth a little too frequently, and say what I feel without remembering that the other woman brings her own experiences to the table, and may not appreciate my blunt honesty. I've gone from swallowing conflict to broadcasting it loud and clear, through my words, my body language, my eyes. Somehow, the broodmare approach to conflict resolution isn't catching on, even in this ranching community. And somehow, I need to learn to take care of my own needs, advocate for my family, and still tend to the neighbors God has given me as best I can.
It's Holy Week -- and sprngtime -- and time when we remember that life can always begin anew. Good thing -- I need to.
I am so bad with conflict. You would think, after all my years dealing with students, patrons, and my own children, I would know how to deal with issues between adults. But, I botch it up regularly.
For years, I've avoided confrontations, particularly the kinds that arise on the ranch. I might bitch to my husband and friends, but then put on a smiling face while I serve dinner to branding crews or chat with the wives. I've been supremely dishonest, both with myself and others: in fear of being perceived as anything negative, I've pretended to be something I am not. Guess what, community? I'm not a "great gal," the kind of ranch wife who always has an open door and a full cookie jar. I'm not that "sweetheart" who lives down the road, willing to watch your kids at a moment's notice or serve you a meal when you "just happen" to show up at dinnertime.
What I am, though, I'm learning to not be ashamed of. I am the kind of neighbor who brings you a casserole when you've had a baby or a surgery. I am the type of woman who checks in with our aging bachelor neighbor to be sure he hasn't fallen in the corral or been run over by a heifer. I am the kind of mom who throws big, simple birthday parties for my kids, and makes sure your kids are safe and happy while they are here. I might not watch your kids when I've just arrived home from work and need to tend to my own. . .but if you are honest with me, and tell me you need a break or a date night, I'll do what I can.
The expectations of community can weigh hugely on women, no matter where they live. I've just returned from a week in Portland: what a beautiful city, and what a huge amount of responsibility to build and maintain community. In some ways, however, building community, in a way that respects everyone's needs, is just as difficut in this remote, isolated place . . . . perhaps more. We know the person behind each face we see, and are obliged to find a way to live peacefully with them, for however long we are neighors. When I was in Portland, I fell into my longtime habit of just whisperng a quck prayer for each face I saw on the bus, by the street corner, in the restaurant. I do this as often as I can for my neighbors, too: it's my way of making up for being an introvert, someone who values privacy very highly. I may not always talk and sit down for coffee, but at least I've thought of you, and tried to send good energy your way.
Still, trouble arises, despite best intentions. I wish we women could deal with conflct the way our broodmares do: if one of them gets too greedy over the feed, or steps out of the group's boundaries, another will bare her teeth, kick, even bite to get her message across. Within ten minutes, those two mares are again grazing side by side, moving with the band, tending the young, the conflict dealt with and forgotten.
These days, I tend to bare my teeth a little too frequently, and say what I feel without remembering that the other woman brings her own experiences to the table, and may not appreciate my blunt honesty. I've gone from swallowing conflict to broadcasting it loud and clear, through my words, my body language, my eyes. Somehow, the broodmare approach to conflict resolution isn't catching on, even in this ranching community. And somehow, I need to learn to take care of my own needs, advocate for my family, and still tend to the neighbors God has given me as best I can.
It's Holy Week -- and sprngtime -- and time when we remember that life can always begin anew. Good thing -- I need to.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Empty
Last week, walking with the dogs, I came upon the carcass of one of our weaned calves. It had a red chalk mark across its face, indicating that Shawn or the hired man had "doctored" it for some illness, but unsuccessfully.
Today, just a week later, my walk took me to the same part of the meadow, just below the treeline on what is left of an old irrigation dike. At first, I didn't see the carcass, so assumed that Shawn had drug it off somewhere. Then, several yards from where I expected to find the calf stood an empty ribcage, a few thigh bones, and some skin . . . the only indicators that there had been a complete animal lying here just seven days ago.
That empty ribcage struck me . . . how quickly life can disappear. If a calf, grazing the meadow one day, dead the next, can be nearly nonexistent within a week -- can have all physical traces of its presence on earth wiped out -- then what is to prevent that from happening to any of us?
Of course, I hope there won't be coyotes, bald eagles, hawks, owls and other small scavengers picking away at my ribcage. I hope I will be mourned and remembered by the people I love, the people I share my life with. I hope some traces of the way I've lived these last forty years -- or however many more -- will outlive my physical body.
Death bluntly reminds me, however, that there are no guarantees. I may work hard to create a legacy, to ensure my survival beyond my death . . . and I may still be forgotten. There is, after all, only this day that is sure. Only this day to fill up, to celebrate that I haven't yet become an empty ribcage standing sentinel on the prairie. Only this day to live . . .
Today, just a week later, my walk took me to the same part of the meadow, just below the treeline on what is left of an old irrigation dike. At first, I didn't see the carcass, so assumed that Shawn had drug it off somewhere. Then, several yards from where I expected to find the calf stood an empty ribcage, a few thigh bones, and some skin . . . the only indicators that there had been a complete animal lying here just seven days ago.
That empty ribcage struck me . . . how quickly life can disappear. If a calf, grazing the meadow one day, dead the next, can be nearly nonexistent within a week -- can have all physical traces of its presence on earth wiped out -- then what is to prevent that from happening to any of us?
Of course, I hope there won't be coyotes, bald eagles, hawks, owls and other small scavengers picking away at my ribcage. I hope I will be mourned and remembered by the people I love, the people I share my life with. I hope some traces of the way I've lived these last forty years -- or however many more -- will outlive my physical body.
Death bluntly reminds me, however, that there are no guarantees. I may work hard to create a legacy, to ensure my survival beyond my death . . . and I may still be forgotten. There is, after all, only this day that is sure. Only this day to fill up, to celebrate that I haven't yet become an empty ribcage standing sentinel on the prairie. Only this day to live . . .
Monday, February 15, 2010
Winter
Alone at the ranch today . . . I have a holiday for Presidents' Day, but my kids are in school and Shawn is over at the neighbors', helping to sort and vaccinate calves.
Yesterday, we sold horses at a bull sale in North Dakota. It was the culmination of several months of work on Shawn's part, training and riding these horses, as well as just struggling to keep them healthy through the winter months prior to the sale. We've had so much ice this year --- the snow will melt just enough, and then the temperature will drop so that the melted snow becomes ice. Then more snow, more melting, more icing up . . . a cycle that only spring will break. The last two years have been particularly bad.
Not that we are the only people struggling with the weather; this winter has beaten down so many people across the nation that I feel silly complaining about ice. Yesterday, my brother from South Dakota didn't even bring the two horses he was supposed to sell, because the roads and weather were too bad for traveling.
And as I watch weather reports of major snowstorms hitting the northeast in the last few weeks, I know we are just not alone in this battle. Not that it is much of a battle: weather, Mother Nature, whatever you want to call it, will always win. All we as humans can do is try to be careful, take care of the livestock, and wait it out.
I think this powerlessness is what makes major storms such a perenially big story for news channels. As humans, we are so accustomed to making our lives work out a certain way . . .when a storm hits and shuts down our lives for days or weeks, we are as devastated by the reminder that we aren't in charge as we are by the physical hardships we have.
Here at the ranch, we learn, as our ancestors did, to expect bad weather, to prepare for it, to try to live with it. Winter always comes, and with it, snow, ice, and cold wind. Likewise, we will cycle through heavy spring snows and rains, parching summer days, violent lightning and hailstorms. We know these things will come; if we are in tune to the world around us, we even begin to recognize, like the animals, the certain look of the clouds and smell of the air.
And it is in caring for the animals, watching them, noticing how they behave, that we learn to deal with the weather. It is in going back to what is animalistic, primitive, and basic in us that we survive . . . and perhaps even then have an opportunity to thrive. Our horses and cattle don't exert themselves any more than necessary in frigid weather. Instead, they huddle in groups, taking in what weak rays of sun there are, and absorbing body heat from the animals around them. Our dogs curl up, back against a wall or a bush, to wait out the bitter winds. Our cats hide, coming out only when they hear the barn door open and know somebody is there to feed them.
Only we humans attempt to carry on as usual, driving the same speeds, using the same amount of electricity, continuing our endless cycles of go-go work and play. We could take a lesson from the animals. We could slow down a bit, and then perhaps we wouldn't remember this winter as being so difficult . . . or at least we wouldn't compound the difficulty with traffic accidents, cold and flu epidemics, and stories of homeless people freezing to death on the streets. Winter weather is a reminder to us all that we should focus most on caring for ourselves and our neighbors, on getting proper rest and nutrition, on staying close to our companions, on enjoying the sun when it shines.
Mother Nature is trying to tell us something: we have our priorties wrong. She's trying to reorder them for us, and she will do it, one way or another. The earth teaches us multitudes of lessons, daily, monthly, seasonally. We humans just need to learn how to listen.
Yesterday, we sold horses at a bull sale in North Dakota. It was the culmination of several months of work on Shawn's part, training and riding these horses, as well as just struggling to keep them healthy through the winter months prior to the sale. We've had so much ice this year --- the snow will melt just enough, and then the temperature will drop so that the melted snow becomes ice. Then more snow, more melting, more icing up . . . a cycle that only spring will break. The last two years have been particularly bad.
Not that we are the only people struggling with the weather; this winter has beaten down so many people across the nation that I feel silly complaining about ice. Yesterday, my brother from South Dakota didn't even bring the two horses he was supposed to sell, because the roads and weather were too bad for traveling.
And as I watch weather reports of major snowstorms hitting the northeast in the last few weeks, I know we are just not alone in this battle. Not that it is much of a battle: weather, Mother Nature, whatever you want to call it, will always win. All we as humans can do is try to be careful, take care of the livestock, and wait it out.
I think this powerlessness is what makes major storms such a perenially big story for news channels. As humans, we are so accustomed to making our lives work out a certain way . . .when a storm hits and shuts down our lives for days or weeks, we are as devastated by the reminder that we aren't in charge as we are by the physical hardships we have.
Here at the ranch, we learn, as our ancestors did, to expect bad weather, to prepare for it, to try to live with it. Winter always comes, and with it, snow, ice, and cold wind. Likewise, we will cycle through heavy spring snows and rains, parching summer days, violent lightning and hailstorms. We know these things will come; if we are in tune to the world around us, we even begin to recognize, like the animals, the certain look of the clouds and smell of the air.
And it is in caring for the animals, watching them, noticing how they behave, that we learn to deal with the weather. It is in going back to what is animalistic, primitive, and basic in us that we survive . . . and perhaps even then have an opportunity to thrive. Our horses and cattle don't exert themselves any more than necessary in frigid weather. Instead, they huddle in groups, taking in what weak rays of sun there are, and absorbing body heat from the animals around them. Our dogs curl up, back against a wall or a bush, to wait out the bitter winds. Our cats hide, coming out only when they hear the barn door open and know somebody is there to feed them.
Only we humans attempt to carry on as usual, driving the same speeds, using the same amount of electricity, continuing our endless cycles of go-go work and play. We could take a lesson from the animals. We could slow down a bit, and then perhaps we wouldn't remember this winter as being so difficult . . . or at least we wouldn't compound the difficulty with traffic accidents, cold and flu epidemics, and stories of homeless people freezing to death on the streets. Winter weather is a reminder to us all that we should focus most on caring for ourselves and our neighbors, on getting proper rest and nutrition, on staying close to our companions, on enjoying the sun when it shines.
Mother Nature is trying to tell us something: we have our priorties wrong. She's trying to reorder them for us, and she will do it, one way or another. The earth teaches us multitudes of lessons, daily, monthly, seasonally. We humans just need to learn how to listen.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Saturday at the Ranch
Today is the first Saturday I've spent at the ranch in several weeks, and of course my to-do list is longer than the length of the day. Already I've spent several hours helping my younger kids clean their rooms; done several loads of laundry; made lunch; laid out meat for supper and baking ingredients for making dessert. Other chores clamor for my attention -- the horse paperwork stacked on the side of this desk; the mending pile that whispers to me every time I walk upstairs; the sacks of castoff clothes and toys in the basement that need to be sorted to take to the emergency closet in town.
So it is with guilt that I sit down at this computer, to attempt a few minutes of creative effort. Already my focus is diverted by the children, arguing in the bedroom next to the office. Already I hear Shawn drive the tractor through the yard and wonder how he'll react if he finds out I'm writing instead of tackling those horse papers. Already I struggle to write anything of "meaning" -- time spent at this computer should, after all, yield profundity, or at least some practical advice.
Haven't I already taken enough time for myself today? Early this morning I spent a luxurious hour in bed after Shawn had gone out and before the kids woke up, reading magazines and sipping coffee. Just before lunch, I left the kids to finish their chores, and set off tromping through crusty snow with the dogs, enjoying the simple joy of breathing air that wasn't, for once, cold enough to burn my lungs. Those minutes should be enough, the list maker in my head chastises me. There are so many projects awaiting my attention that this one, which yields no tangible benefit, should not be my focus now.
But then I stop, and remind myself of the purpose of this blog: to explore different choices for these 40 years than the ones I made in the first 40, to take my lessons from the world around me and try to achieve a level of satisfaction and authenticity that has so far eluded me.
In my first 40 years, I've been the ultimate achiever. My house has rarely been dirty; my children are well-fed and well-educated; I've managed careers, started small businesses, lost baby weight six times. I've written a book, made nine houses into homes, and managed to build a marriage that's relatively healthy. I'm proud of what I've done, but I also mourn what I haven't . . . there have been too many Saturdays filled from daylight to dark with work, too many walks not taken, too many words that floated in and out of my head before being captured on the page.
Choices are choices, and one rarely has the opportunity to make them over. I have only one last Saturday of January, 2010 -- only one non-frigid weekend between winter storms to enjoy being outside -- only one precious (sort of ) uninterrrupted hour to write and reflect on the life I've built, the one I'm now supposed to be nurturing.
Outside, the world is slower, more peaceful. One of my daughters commented about how "quiet" the ranch is today -- because it's winter, and other than the occasional coyote howl, or the sound of the feeding tractor, there isn't a lot of noise. We all need periods of dormancy, times when we don't accomplish as much on the outer plane, but we build an inner life that will carry through the clamorous, busy times to come. For me, on this last Saturday of January, now is that time.
So it is with guilt that I sit down at this computer, to attempt a few minutes of creative effort. Already my focus is diverted by the children, arguing in the bedroom next to the office. Already I hear Shawn drive the tractor through the yard and wonder how he'll react if he finds out I'm writing instead of tackling those horse papers. Already I struggle to write anything of "meaning" -- time spent at this computer should, after all, yield profundity, or at least some practical advice.
Haven't I already taken enough time for myself today? Early this morning I spent a luxurious hour in bed after Shawn had gone out and before the kids woke up, reading magazines and sipping coffee. Just before lunch, I left the kids to finish their chores, and set off tromping through crusty snow with the dogs, enjoying the simple joy of breathing air that wasn't, for once, cold enough to burn my lungs. Those minutes should be enough, the list maker in my head chastises me. There are so many projects awaiting my attention that this one, which yields no tangible benefit, should not be my focus now.
But then I stop, and remind myself of the purpose of this blog: to explore different choices for these 40 years than the ones I made in the first 40, to take my lessons from the world around me and try to achieve a level of satisfaction and authenticity that has so far eluded me.
In my first 40 years, I've been the ultimate achiever. My house has rarely been dirty; my children are well-fed and well-educated; I've managed careers, started small businesses, lost baby weight six times. I've written a book, made nine houses into homes, and managed to build a marriage that's relatively healthy. I'm proud of what I've done, but I also mourn what I haven't . . . there have been too many Saturdays filled from daylight to dark with work, too many walks not taken, too many words that floated in and out of my head before being captured on the page.
Choices are choices, and one rarely has the opportunity to make them over. I have only one last Saturday of January, 2010 -- only one non-frigid weekend between winter storms to enjoy being outside -- only one precious (sort of ) uninterrrupted hour to write and reflect on the life I've built, the one I'm now supposed to be nurturing.
Outside, the world is slower, more peaceful. One of my daughters commented about how "quiet" the ranch is today -- because it's winter, and other than the occasional coyote howl, or the sound of the feeding tractor, there isn't a lot of noise. We all need periods of dormancy, times when we don't accomplish as much on the outer plane, but we build an inner life that will carry through the clamorous, busy times to come. For me, on this last Saturday of January, now is that time.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Dog Walker
Another morning walk with my dogs today . . . one of the gifts of a day off, since I don't have to leave the ranch right after putting my kids on the school bus. Just before I went out, while I was eating my cereal, I flipped through a popular women's magazine. In an article about maintaining a fitness routine, the author suggested finding a walking partner -- a friend to keep you motivated through the long months of winter.
I've always walked with dogs. Today, there are five who share my life; in other times, other places, only two or three. But always a dog. This morning, as I watched the five of them tumble over each other, wrestling out the kinks and stiffness from spending winter nights outside, I found myself glad to have canine, rather than human, walking companions.
For one thing, I don't have to talk to my dogs unless I want to. No need to carry on a conversation -- just the occasional "Max, come here," or "Sam, get behind," that is an integral part of training and disciplining ranch dogs. After all, these dogs also help work the cattle, so letting them misbehave during their walks with me would only lead to problems when they have real work to do . I can talk more if I want -- and I do. With my old dog, Sis, I carried on entire monologues while we hiked up mountains or through prairie pastures; she would cock her head quizzically, decide that I couldn't possibly be talking to her, and carry on her merry way. I have worked out more lesson plans, writing ideas, difficult conversations, and grocery lists that way. . .
Another reason I walk with dogs is that they are tougher exercise partners than a human could ever be. Dogs simply love to walk -- or trot, or bound, or run -- and they don't like short distances. I walk farther, faster and more often because of my dogs. I have yet to look into Maggie's eyes and be able to say, "No, not today girl," without feeling guilt. I mean, how do you tell a dog it's too cold to walk when they are outside all day long? And I know that if I don't walk with my dogs, they will hang around the ranch yard most of the day, bored and getting into mischief. I figure I'm doing my part for world peace -- or at least ranch peace -- by taking them out to run.
But once we are out there, the real rewards are for me. Dogs are pure joy, particularly when they are free to explore and play. It's hard to be worried about the budget or the deadline when walking with dogs. Dogs notice little things, things we humans are just too busy to see. This morning, they all spent several minutes sniffing around two holes in a snowbank. Had I just walked past that bank alone, I wouldn't have even noticed the holes, or I might have thought that a calf simply broke through the hard crust to the softer snow underneath. But, watching my dogs get so interested, I looked closer -- long claw marks by the holes told a different story. A badger, probably, digging for shelter from the wind, or looking for food. A human companion wouldn't have seen those faint tracks, white scratches on white snow; but dogs spend their days sniffing out the little details: they notice things.
My kids don't really like to walk, and even my husband thinks I'm a bit crazy to prefer walking to riding a horse. Since most of my neighbors live at least a few miles away, walking dates are tricky to coordinate. And I'm inherently an introvert, so I'm not likely to call one of them up anyway. Given all these facts, I'll probably find myself walking alone -- with dogs -- for many more years.
Lucky me.
I've always walked with dogs. Today, there are five who share my life; in other times, other places, only two or three. But always a dog. This morning, as I watched the five of them tumble over each other, wrestling out the kinks and stiffness from spending winter nights outside, I found myself glad to have canine, rather than human, walking companions.
For one thing, I don't have to talk to my dogs unless I want to. No need to carry on a conversation -- just the occasional "Max, come here," or "Sam, get behind," that is an integral part of training and disciplining ranch dogs. After all, these dogs also help work the cattle, so letting them misbehave during their walks with me would only lead to problems when they have real work to do . I can talk more if I want -- and I do. With my old dog, Sis, I carried on entire monologues while we hiked up mountains or through prairie pastures; she would cock her head quizzically, decide that I couldn't possibly be talking to her, and carry on her merry way. I have worked out more lesson plans, writing ideas, difficult conversations, and grocery lists that way. . .
Another reason I walk with dogs is that they are tougher exercise partners than a human could ever be. Dogs simply love to walk -- or trot, or bound, or run -- and they don't like short distances. I walk farther, faster and more often because of my dogs. I have yet to look into Maggie's eyes and be able to say, "No, not today girl," without feeling guilt. I mean, how do you tell a dog it's too cold to walk when they are outside all day long? And I know that if I don't walk with my dogs, they will hang around the ranch yard most of the day, bored and getting into mischief. I figure I'm doing my part for world peace -- or at least ranch peace -- by taking them out to run.
But once we are out there, the real rewards are for me. Dogs are pure joy, particularly when they are free to explore and play. It's hard to be worried about the budget or the deadline when walking with dogs. Dogs notice little things, things we humans are just too busy to see. This morning, they all spent several minutes sniffing around two holes in a snowbank. Had I just walked past that bank alone, I wouldn't have even noticed the holes, or I might have thought that a calf simply broke through the hard crust to the softer snow underneath. But, watching my dogs get so interested, I looked closer -- long claw marks by the holes told a different story. A badger, probably, digging for shelter from the wind, or looking for food. A human companion wouldn't have seen those faint tracks, white scratches on white snow; but dogs spend their days sniffing out the little details: they notice things.
My kids don't really like to walk, and even my husband thinks I'm a bit crazy to prefer walking to riding a horse. Since most of my neighbors live at least a few miles away, walking dates are tricky to coordinate. And I'm inherently an introvert, so I'm not likely to call one of them up anyway. Given all these facts, I'll probably find myself walking alone -- with dogs -- for many more years.
Lucky me.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Frost and Frost
This morning, after shuffling my kids back to school, I left the house to walk my five dogs. Stepping out the door -- I hadn't really looked out the window yet -- I was amazed to find the whole world covered in white hoarfrost. Walking through the pasture was like walking through crystal -- the naked tree limbs, the blades of dried-up grass, even the barbed wire stretching across fences -- every surface glistened with fine particles of ice, so delicate that they snowed down to the ground with the slightest disturbance. As I clumped through the snowdrifts, I could not see another human being; sure, I know my husband and his hired man were out there somewhere, feeding, and I could hear the sound of vehicles driving by on the highway . . . but for just twenty precious minutes, the world consisted of me, my dogs, and a palace of ice.
This is the life I've chosen. In my world, I can't run to Starbuck's for a coffee whenever I want, or pop over to the nearest gas station when I forget to buy milk. My Internet connection, satellite-powered, is still glitchy enough that I don't spend a lot of time online. Therefore, I don't have a Facebook or MySpace page, don't Twitter, and am only just discovering the depth and breadth of the blogging world. Who knew? There are so many elements of our cyber-powered world that I am a novice at, so many high-speed pleasures that I haven't experienced. But, my world holds an ancient beauty and calm, a connection to land and creature that can't be found online, or in a busy city.
So -- as much as this makes me sound like the corny former-English teacher that I am -- this morning's frost reminded me of Frost. Like, the guy, the poet. The one who wrote, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --/I took the one less-traveled by,/ And that has made all the difference." (from "The Road Not Taken," Robert Frost)
I thought of this poem this morning, because there were so many roads laid before me when I was twenty; many of them still there when I was thirty; but at forty, with a husband, six kids, five dogs, who-knows-how-many cats, and more horses than I probably should own . . . some of those old roads are pretty faint tracks by now. "Yet knowing how way leads on to way/ I doubted if I should ever come back." (Frost)
Regrets? Maybe a few. But not so many that I can't appreciate the other-worldly beauty of a world kissed by snow angels, the world that I was privileged enough to walk through this morning.
This is the life I've chosen. In my world, I can't run to Starbuck's for a coffee whenever I want, or pop over to the nearest gas station when I forget to buy milk. My Internet connection, satellite-powered, is still glitchy enough that I don't spend a lot of time online. Therefore, I don't have a Facebook or MySpace page, don't Twitter, and am only just discovering the depth and breadth of the blogging world. Who knew? There are so many elements of our cyber-powered world that I am a novice at, so many high-speed pleasures that I haven't experienced. But, my world holds an ancient beauty and calm, a connection to land and creature that can't be found online, or in a busy city.
So -- as much as this makes me sound like the corny former-English teacher that I am -- this morning's frost reminded me of Frost. Like, the guy, the poet. The one who wrote, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --/I took the one less-traveled by,/ And that has made all the difference." (from "The Road Not Taken," Robert Frost)
I thought of this poem this morning, because there were so many roads laid before me when I was twenty; many of them still there when I was thirty; but at forty, with a husband, six kids, five dogs, who-knows-how-many cats, and more horses than I probably should own . . . some of those old roads are pretty faint tracks by now. "Yet knowing how way leads on to way/ I doubted if I should ever come back." (Frost)
Regrets? Maybe a few. But not so many that I can't appreciate the other-worldly beauty of a world kissed by snow angels, the world that I was privileged enough to walk through this morning.
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