Running the Fence

Early November –

Today, my husband, son and some family friends moved the ranch’s 100-odd mother cows down the highway to the Weis place – the last job in a string of tasks necessary to finish a cycle begun last April. The calves that these cows bore last spring now, mostly, scatter through the meadows north of the house, weaned three days ago from those mama cows. Since this ranch runs as a yearling operation, those calves will winter on these meadows before being shipped to their summer range next spring, just before green-up.

And as the meadows are now their home, most of the newly-weaned calves graze voraciously, enjoying the still-tender grasses and fresh-flowing river water. But some still trot the fenceline, bawling for their mothers in pitiful, throaty cries that sound eerily like childrens’ cries. For three days, they’ve smelled and heard their mothers in the lots just south of the barn, where they were separated; instinctively, they turn toward their last point of contact in their bawling. They cry for their mothers in the place they last saw them.

I’ve helped with the weaning process more than usual this year, and repeatedly I’ve witnessed this instinct. Last Friday, after moving pairs across the highway, Shawn and I sat for hours watching so that the calves wouldn’t attempt to climb through the fence and cross back, looking for their mamas. The cows themselves were already grazing toward the center of the meadow, moving away from the highway into new pasture. If the calves, instead of crowding the fence to return to the old had just ventured out into the new, they would have found their mothers.

Equally, the mamas bawled and pushed against the corral lots after we weaned on Wednesday. This time, the confusion of the lot and discomfort of tight udders led to mamas also crying well into the night.

Change hurts. Even though the calves rarely nursed and had mostly weaned themselves. Even though the mothers now carry new calves and must conserve strength to sustain new pregnancies though winter. Even though new, ungrazed pastures wait for both cows and calves . . . still they cry.

I find myself hurting over change this autumn as well. My oldest daughter turns 21 tomorrow; the past year has been one of her small turnings-away from Shawn and me. Rejecting some of our values for her own. Deciding on paths we would not have chosen for her. Entering into relationships, jobs and life situations that worry us. Making mistakes. Fixing them her own way. Living her life, not ours.

How much I’ve been running the fence this fall: clinging to our past, both to lament its mistakes and mourn its passing. Resorting to behaviors suited to the mother of a child, but not the mother of a woman. Floundering for a new way to relate to this daughter who I know still needs me, but for what, exactly, I’m no longer sure.

But calves who run the fence looking for the past expend a lot of physical energy. Thus, the running results in lower weight at the scale and higher susceptibility to illness. No rancher wants to see calves run the fence for long.

Likewise, how much psychic energy have I burned running the fence? My behaviors don’t exactly look the same, and I certainly haven’t dropped weight. Instead, I’ve engaged – mostly with Shawn – in lengthy, circular conversations full of worry and anger but no real solutions, We’ve both slept fitful nights broken by quiet ruminations, and sometimes tears in the dark. Sadly, outbursts of mis-directed anger have singed my younger children, and conversations that needed my devoted attention have instead only received distracted, short-tempered replies. Real work has been postponed in favor of drawn-out muddling in my anxiety.

As I write, brilliant sun tinges the late-autumn grass gold, and the pungent smell of manure mixes with the dry, crisp barely-there scent of dry leaves. At nearly four p.m., the temperature hovers in the high 50’s, another day in a string of impossibly beautiful days this fall. And yet, the weather forecast tells me that temperatures will plummet beginning tomorrow night, and the skies will snow down winter by Monday. The change will arrive sudden as death.

November presents us with a month of taking stock, settling our accounts, mourning our losses. If we do our soul-work well this month, we hope to know gratitude, peace and joy as the holiday season approaches. Last weekend, we celebrated All Souls Day, el Dia de los Muertos, our chance to remember loved ones who have passed on. In many cultures, this holy day reminds us of what many faiths profess – of what I profess: that there is life after death, and that it is richer and more exquisite than what we can now imagine.

So much of my anxiety at Laura’s emotional weaning stems from not knowing what comes next. If I am not the protector, the provider, the nurturer, the teacher that I’ve been these last 21 years, then who am I? What role will I now play in my daughter’s life?  In all my children’s lives? As much as I am grieving for one daughter’s growing away, I am grieving for the end of a significant period of my adulthood. In what will seem only a heartbeat, even 10-year-old Katie will be moving into her own life.  And yet, even as I grieve, I wonder: could it be that the next stages of our family’s life will be richer, more exquisite than we can imagine?

Calves that “wean well” are calves who find the new grass, put their heads down, and begin grazing. They move into their reality and remain strong. Likewise, my husband tells me the crew had little trouble moving the mother cows today because, after three days in the corral, they were ready to move on. I will not romanticize what is happening here: the calves that now graze the meadow will be sold for slaughter as yearlings; the mother cows, after producing a calf crop for seven to ten years, will also die. That is the business of ranching. But those who “wean well” go on to serve the larger purpose for which they’ve been raised; those who sicken from running the fence feed only the scavengers.

Motherhood gives me purpose; as this role diminishes, I’m not certain what other purpose will take its place. But it’s time to move on, if only to see what’s over the rise. I don’t know for sure what’s ahead, but I’ll hope for work that nurtures and protects  on a new level, for the joy of grandchildren, for adult friendships with all my children. In fulfilling my next purpose in this world, I’ll hope for ox-bowed watering holes, cottonwood-shaded glades, and a few last pockets of late autumn sunshine.

 

 

Let It Be . . .

I'm not a tattoo person.  I don't like the look of dark ink on light skin, don't like large images covering arms and legs, don't like the snap judgements that, unfortunately, pop into my head when I see a heavily-tattooed person. I know, I know . . . this is one of those prejudices I need to work on.  Two of my daughters have tattoos -- mostly tasteful -- and I wouldn't want someone making snap judgements about them, so I'm working on that. I'm working toward an attitude of acceptance of other people's choices regarding their own bodies; but still, this probably won't be a choice I'll make for myself.


The other day, however, I was in the grocery store checkout line, and noticed that my cashier had a tattoo on her inner wrist.  In beautiful calligraphy, it read, "Grace."  My oldest daughter also has an inner-wrist tattoo: hers reads "Anima Bella."


And I've decided that I like the placement of these tattoos as much as what they say.  Semi-private, they aren't as obvious as large tattoo "sleeves," but they aren't hidden away for only a lover's eyes, either. They seem very personal to me, more meant for the bearer's eyes than for the observer's. One could quietly flip her wrist to read what's written there, then flip it back to be concealed.


Although I won't be visiting the tattoo parlor anytime soon - or ever - I know what I'd like my wrist tattoo to be.  One simple line, from the Bible -- or the Beatles, depending on your perspective:  "Let It Be."  Though I know that the reference to "Mother Mary" in the Beatles' song could have another meaning, I prefer to think of it as the real Mother Mary, the one who's been my guide since my horse wreck when I was fourteen years old.  Her response to Gabriel's message regarding the birth of Jesus models the kind of courage and faith I can only hope to emulate at some point in my journey through life:  "Let it be done to me according to His will."

"Let it be done to me."  Not -- "let me do this."  Not -- "let me tell you how this should go."  Not -- "let me alone to live my own life."

Right now, it's August - prime time for me to practice this philosophy, which happens to be the most difficult one of my life.  For the last eight months, I've been struggling with "let it be" through a year of disappointment and heartbreak, but also great opportunity and achievement. Now, in August, as our drought progresses, our summer busy-ness continues, and our fears are high and hopes even higher, I need most to remember to trust and "let it be." 

Through my life, this has been the idea that I fight the most strongly against, resist with the most tenacity, accept the most sorrowfully.  In younger years, I thought "let it be" meant to give up, to become apathetic, to quit caring so much. A control freak -- out of both intense love and extreme ego -- the idea of letting go and letting life take its natural course was anathema.  A little older now, I realize "let it be" means one can still care a lot, but one has to let go of the outcome. It means to give everything you have, then trust that there's a better plan than the one in your head.

Those words are relatively easy to write, and next to impossible, for me at least, to live. So perhaps a tattoo of those words on my wrist, where I can look quickly as I take a deep breath, would help me remember that I don't have to control everything . . . that I couldn't, anyway.

I can almost hear Mary gently reminding me:

Your ideal job has turned out to be a lot of drudgery? Take a deep breath, look at the rewards, and let it be. Do your work well, until another opportunity comes along.

The manuscript you've worked on so long comes back returned?  Breathe, cry, let it be -- and then send it out again.
 
The money you hoped to earn turns out to be far less than expected? Let it be; there's no changing the situation now. Look to the future, peer closely at your spending, and change what you can.
 
The relationship breaks, and nothing you do can fix it? Honor your pain. Mourning takes time.  Once you've done that, let it be -- and let it go. Something else will come along, though there is no guarantee of when. You deserve happiness, even if you need to find it alone first.

The project you've spend months on, the one you've poured your soul into, flops?  Cry, mourn, grieve . . . and then let it be.  Trust that the lessons you've learned will serve you in the future; trust that no creative effort happens in vain.

Your adult child makes choices that go against your values? Your heart breaks every time you think of her, every time you miss him? If you raised him well, gave her love and attention and support, then take a deep breath and let it be; pray for acceptance, peace and love. Pray mostly that you will be able to hold him again, that you will rejoice at their happiness one day.


There is a flower bed outside my bedroom window shows that it's August, the month of full-bloom summer and the beginning of dying-back autumn.  In one small bed, I see all stages of the life cycle: the flower buds of new galliardia, the smiling yellow blooms of black-eyed Susan, the dying-away seed heads of echinachea.  Because of both the drought and my extended absence a week ago, one of the echinachea looks to be completely dead. In my efforts to have nice-looking flower beds, I'm tempted to pull them all up, or at least to dead-head it to remove the faded blooms. But I know that if I pull up the brown stalks, I'll dislodge the living plant. If I deadhead the wilted flowers, the seeds will not drop and spread.  I'd like the plant, and the entire stand of echinachea to become fuller next year, so I let it be.  The seeds will be scattered on the soil as the wind lifts them from the flower heads, as the bees brush by them in their pollen-gathering.  And next year, there will be more purple flowers, more blooms, more foliage.  I'll put up with the ugliness in faith that beauty will come with another season.

One of the best books I've read this year has been Cheryl Strayed's Wild. In her memoir of her trek along the Pacific Crest trail, she speaks of the awful life choices that brought her to the point of making that solo journey. And as she reaches the end, she realizes:  all the choices of her life -- the good and the bad, the mistakes and the triumphs, the sin and the salvation -- all brought her to the point of success, of healing, of completion. The thought gives me hope when the dead flowers outnumber the growing, when the failures outweigh the successes, when the fears pile up and the hopes dwindle.


Sometimes life holds the soft promises of new buds; sometimes it blazes bright with  accomplishment, the gift of full flower.  And sometimes, life dies back, stands somberly as the dying echinchea; soon, all my beds will hold mostly brown stalks, dried seed heads, decomposing petals.  Try as I might to water and feed, I can't hold back the dying.  And so I don't.  I let it be, take a deep breath, and try to remember that everything in life cycles, even success, even happiness.  To live in the oasis, we must also cross the desert.

Did you just see me look at my wrist to remind myself of that?

Late Blooming . . . .

Pink rose buds unfurl against the creamy stucco wall of the garden shed, soaking in the powerful July sun. They are late -- June-pink blossoms incongruous next to the hotter reds, oranges and fuchsias of July.  The bush blossoms anyway; where yesterday one lone flower hid amongst the branches, today dozens bejewel the green leaves.

Clichés abound about late-blooming; usually, the term is spoken disparagingly, used to insinuate that its subject lacks ambition and direction. To be a late-bloomer is to miss the achievement-runged ladder that society uses to measure success. And in our society, one's visible success equates dangerously with one's worth.

I wonder how much damage this perception does in our society. Working with youth, I know already the intense pressure put on teens to decide a life path early, so as to get a jump on the prerequisite classes and activities designed to lead to the greatest success. Teens as young as 16 "stress out" because they don't yet know what they want to do with their lives. At 16, I was lucky to know what I wanted to do on Saturday night!  Worse is the shame felt by college-age young adults who remain unsure of a career path; still worse, the desperation felt by adults locked in a career they no longer, or never did, enjoy. In a society marked by achievement, acquisition, and ambition, those who require time to determine their life path, or who explore various directions, earn ridicule at best, contempt at worst.

I'm a late bloomer. In my mid-40s, I'm in my second career. Both careers have been rewarding, and I've enjoyed moderate success in them, but a mover and shaker I am not. Last fall, I published by first book, the product of ten years of work -- not quite the best example of a well-articulated 5-year plan. My book has earned its own treasures -- respect of colleagues, conversations with readers, opportunities to shed light on a lifestyle -- but its monetary rewards will hardly justify the years spend writing it.

And that's OK. Being a late bloomer has gifted be with time to live and to lose, time to get clear about my own definition of success.

Success for a rose bush manifests in blossoms, whether one or many, early or late. We humans arbitrarily decide that a successful rose bush produces profuse blooms at its designated time, but the bush has its own wisdom. My bush blossomed two weeks late because conditions in mid-June -- cool, drenching rains, battering wind and hail, cold nighttime temperatures --  simply weren't right. To have blossomed on schedule would have meant losing those blossoms to hail or cold.

Like the rosebush, I simply wasn't ready to bloom early in my writing career. My own conditions weren't right: I lacked the humility, the courage, and the purpose I'd need to have a book "out there" for others to read. My frame of reference is writing, of course, but I think that presenting any creative endeavor to the public eye requires a degree of maturity.

Also like the rosebush, I've had to trust my own wisdom regarding what success looks like. When I started writing nearly 20 years ago, success looked like the bestseller list and a six-digit bank account balance. Today, success wears a different face: the hours spend digging in to research and chasing a thought from start to finish, attempting to string words and phrases into a delicate net that capture the thought without obscuring its beauty. Success looks like meeting the eyes of a stranger during a presentation and immediately feeling the spark of shared understanding. Success looks liks signing the title page of my book to a dear old friend, one who encouraged me when I could no longer encourage myself. Success looks like spending an afternoon sitting on my deck, jotting notes for a new essay while my kids play and the late-blooming roses nod in the July breeze.

But don't misunderstand. I still dream of a writing career more solid than the few hours a week I carve from an already-packed schedule. I still yearn for a time when "going to work" means going into the office down the hall, not driving 40 miles. I still hope to travel and speak, bringing the lessons and wisdom of this agricultural lifestyle to groups of people who I believe will benefit from remembering their connections to the land, to fellow creatures, and to themselves.

But that is my dream, not necessarily my goal for today. I don't know exactly how that dream will manifest. Conventional life-coaching wisdom would tell me to break that dream apart, divide it into attainable steps, give myself a deadline for reaching each. But what if, in focusing on the small pieces of the dream, I lose sight of the magic of the whole? If I miss a step, or a deadline, will that mean I've lost the dream? In a way, this path to success is like focusing on the stray blades of grass growing up through the rosebush's branches instead of seeing the pink and green glory of the bush. 

And so, I work.  I write and water, wait and weed.  I give the rosebush what I think it needs, knowing that the perfect conditions are only supplied by God. I give my writing what I think it needs, as well -- or at least, I do so to the best of my ability.  The rest of the dream -- the measurable successes, the publications, the rose blossoms -- will come, in time.

Sometimes, the blooms that come late are the ones that smell the sweetest.