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.

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.