"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!
Friday, April 16, 2010
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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