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.