This morning, running a bit later than usual, I didn't take my dogs on our typical walk out through the hay meadows; instead, we made a quick trip up to the mailbox at the highway, just far enough to let them run a bit and to get my blood flowing. As we neared the gate to the highway, our youngest dog, a puppy named Hoss, bolted ahead to sniff at something in the culvert. I panicked, yelling at him to come back, with little success. Our highway, even as far out in the country as we are, is a major commerce route between northeastern Wyoming and southern Montana. Semi-trucks, passenger vehicles, pickups pulling trailers of livestock or machinery -- all hurtle past our driveway at 70 mph any time of day. Had he run out in front of one of them, Hoss wouldn't have had a chance. I ran up to the highway, grabbed his collar, and dragged him back to the safety of the driveway. Of course I couldn't be angry at him: although it was reckless of him to run up to that culvert, it was more reckless of me to take him near the highway without a leash.
Both life on the ranch and life beyond 40 have been teaching me many lessons about recklessness these last months. One might believe that ranching is something of a reckless occupation, filled as it is with physical danger. The dictionary, however, tells us that to be reckless is not simply to engage in a dangerous activity; it is to engage in any activity without proper caution, to have no regard for consequences. Ranchers actually spend hours on precautions designed to minimize the danger of their job: sharp-shoeing horses to ride on wintry ice; moving cattle quietly and easily through rough hills and prairie dog towns; checking tack to ensure proper fit for the horses and safety for the rider; warming up a young colt on the ground before mounting. Failure to do these activities can result in consequences as fleeting as a good scare, or as final as death. Ranchers really cannot afford to be reckless.
Neither, it seems, can I. Though I've certainly suffered my share of setbacks and difficulties - as anyone does - mostly I've lived quite a charmed life. I have six children, none of whom suffers from a life-threatening illness or incapacitating disability. I've always had a roof over my head, even if I don't own it, and plenty of food in my cupboards. I do work I enjoy, for decent pay and benefits, with enough leisure time to pursue avocations that don't pay very well. All this good fortune, I'm afraid, led me to take most of my life for granted, and to even become critical and whiny about a life that many would envy. And with that discontent came a recklessness about appreciating the blessings I'd always taken for granted. However, life has knocked me on my ass a bit in the last six months: thankfully, none of the consequences of my recklessness have been final, but many of them have been ground-shaking enough to scare me, wake me up.
Recently, I've learned that, after a lifetime of envious health, I now have several diagnoses that will affect the way I eat and take care of my body for the rest of my life. The most significant of these is celiac disease, an autoimmune disorder that can only be managed if I don't consume the gluten found in wheat, rye or barley products. All my life, I've enjoyed a high metabolism and the ability to eat all types of food. Although I've mostly eaten healthfully because I have a family, I've also gone through days and even weeks recklessly consuming erratic meals comprised of junk food and caffeine. Even when my symptoms pointed to the need to make dietary changes, I chose to ignore the signs. Now, I am suddenly confronted with a choice: continue my lifelong habits and continue to be sick, or start planning meals and purchasing food with care and caution. Gluten is found not only in bread and cereal products, but also in many commercially prepared and processed foods. Avoiding it requires advance planning, careful hygiene, and iron discipline.
My personal health now requires a high level of discipline and care, but not as much as my personal relationships now do. During the last half year, I have discovered, to my anguish, how neglected and judged my family has felt. A drive to succeed, to measure up, in the outer world led me to become careless about the feelings of the people I love most; a compulsion to compare our life to others' led me to be critical and controlling of my family. As a result, my most important human relationship almost fell apart last fall. Going through that pain caused me to take a hard look at the person I was becoming; could I really afford to be so reckless with my language, my lifestyle, my love? Thankfully, my lack of caution about marriage and family life caused only a temporary scare, not permanent death.
Taking proper care and caution about family life requires even more diligence than properly caring for my body does. Conversations must be started - and finished - even when difficult and uncomfortable. Expectations must be evaluated based on fairness and overall good for our family, rather than on arbitrary standards that don't fit our unique life. Companionship and compassion must be valued before discipline and drive. Work obligations must take second place to family life, and pursuing my dreams must lead me back to a place where the people I love are waiting.
Oddly, this new emphasis on evaluating my lifestyle - both physical and spiritual - more carefully has led me to embrace a different kind of recklessness - one that stretches me, forces me to face my demons even if I am quaking inside. I know from living with and loving ranchers all my life that this kind of recklessness happens daily - a lack of concern for self in order to get a job done, to do the right thing. It's what keeps cowboys out in freezing weather to warm baby calves, or goads them to ride a flightly colt through its fears to a place where it has the potential to be a horse. It's what keeps farmers planting year after year, even when drought parches the earth and prices barely allow them to buy new seed. This kind of recklessness is actually an awareness that the job before us is exactly the one we are supposed to do - a faith that, when we leap, angel wings stretch out to catch us on our way down. It's the recklessness that has allowed me to finally speak of difficult subjects with the people I love, to tell the truth about myself and my feelings, without knowing how my words will be received. It's the recklessness that permits me to stand up for my family and my self, knowing that I may not be professionally or socially respected for it. It's the recklessness that prompts me to say "I love you," and "I miss you", even if those words won't be reciprocated. It's the recklessness that has allowed me to write the truth, even when tears blur my eyes and my fingers tremble at the keys. It's the recklessness that moves me to love, even if my love is not returned.
The thing about celiac disease that is somewhat sinister is its link to other illnesses; since it is really a form a malnutrition, deficiences slowly lead to disease. Even though I am now taking care of my health and eating to not aggravate my gluten allergy, I have no way of knowing if I will still succumb to osteoporosis, lymphoma, cancer. The damage may have already been done; I can only do the best I can with what I know now. Likewise, my personal life may not ever fully recover. I try now to show up in my life, pay attention to the people around me, speak my truth. Surrendering the results? I'm working on it, but I'm not there yet.
Shawn has a sign in our mud room that reads: "Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway." This morning he needed help to bring in about 300 pregnant mother cows, to be sorted and moved into calving pastures. I don't often help gather. In fact, in the nearly seven years we've lived on this ranch, I've only ridden on very small moves. The pastures here are huge, and the ground is deceptively treacherous; normally I am too scared of missing cows, making mistakes, causing a wreck. I stay home to avoid looking foolish and disappointing my husband. Today, though, I saddled up. There was a job to do, and even though I might have messed up, I was needed. All morning, through difficult creek crossings and slow-moving mama cows, I just focused on my job, and tried not to think about the impression I was making or the potential danger I was in. Although I didn't lope recklessly across prairie dog towns or attempt any cowgirl show-off tricks, I did keep the moving parts moving. Now, the cattle are in the corral being sorted, lunch has been served, and there is peace in our house.
The kids' bus has pulled into the yard. It's time to leave my personal pursuit - for now - and focus on them. Time to think about taking the dogs for a walk - with a leash! - or saddling up their ponies. Time to be their mom, and not worry about dirty dishes or unwashed laundry. Time to recklessly ignore the details that don't matter much, and pay reckless attention to the ones that do.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Monday, June 20, 2011
Milly
Yesterday I spent an entire day on the ranch -- a rarity for me, particularly because I didn't have company or crews here with me. It was Father's Day, Shawn's day to decide how we would pass the time. No surprises, then, that he just wanted to relax. Our spring has been nothing but a frenzy of activity: since late March, we've flung ourselves from calving, to track meets, to school projects, to concerts, to graduations, to family visits, to work conferences, to school tours, to summer reading preparations, to brandings, to birthday parties . . . Between the two of us, we've put over five thousand miles on our vehicles in the last two months. I shudder to think how many miles we've put on our psyches, living under this constant strain.
The ranch shows the strain, too: despite a monumental effort to clean and straighten before last week's three-day branding event, there are jobs that we just haven't been able to accomplish. My garden has yet to be seeded; the rains this spring, plus our crazy life, have prevented me from even turning the ground over. Saturday I planted potatoes and pumpkins -- on the day before Father's Day! I must be hoping for an extended Indian summer this year. In addition, there are flower beds to weed, spring cleaning projects to finish, paperwork to complete and file.
And so, when Shawn wanted to spend the day at home yesterday, my inherent guilt over all these projects prompted me to tackle the to-do list instead of enjoying the day. I started off productively enough, making a big Father's Day breakfast and then watching all three young kids on their ponies in the round pen while I planned the grocery list for the week. After lunch, I cleaned up the deck, picking up the picnic tables from branding crew lunches and toys from Katie's 7th birthday party. Intending to put away some rope and turn out the horses, I headed over to the barn. As I unhaltered the fourth horse, my mare, Milly, stood quietly in the corral, twitching her tail against the flies.
I approached and put my arms around her neck, surprised that she even let me: Milly is notoriously difficult to catch. There was an opportunity there, and for once, I took it: I slipped the halter I had been carrying over her head, and led her into the barn.
No, I'm not going to write that I saddled her and spend the rest of the afternoon joyously horseback, riding through river pastures and cottonwood trees. I'm going to write instead that I gave my twenty-year-old engagement gift a scoop of oats, and spent the next forty-five minutes working massive tangles out of her red-gold mane. Nothing special, nothing exciting. She ate; I combed; she stomped when I pulled too much; I sang country songs with the radio to soothe her. My old dog, Max, lay at the foot of the stall, watching us. It was easily the most perfect, and least productive, hour I spent yesterday -- or for many days.
Most of my writing about Milly has centered on the ways she's cared for me, carrying me through miles of trails, past fears and doubts that were so deeply rooted that I was paralyzed by them. Yesterday, for a little while, I had a chance to ask nothing of this mare, but to simply care for her. She ended the day with a tangle-free mane; a girl wants to look good no matter how old she is getting, you know. I ended the day with most of my list undone -- but with a precious memory that will live way beyond my crazy spring. That, above all, is why Milly remains one of the best gifts this life has given me.
The ranch shows the strain, too: despite a monumental effort to clean and straighten before last week's three-day branding event, there are jobs that we just haven't been able to accomplish. My garden has yet to be seeded; the rains this spring, plus our crazy life, have prevented me from even turning the ground over. Saturday I planted potatoes and pumpkins -- on the day before Father's Day! I must be hoping for an extended Indian summer this year. In addition, there are flower beds to weed, spring cleaning projects to finish, paperwork to complete and file.
And so, when Shawn wanted to spend the day at home yesterday, my inherent guilt over all these projects prompted me to tackle the to-do list instead of enjoying the day. I started off productively enough, making a big Father's Day breakfast and then watching all three young kids on their ponies in the round pen while I planned the grocery list for the week. After lunch, I cleaned up the deck, picking up the picnic tables from branding crew lunches and toys from Katie's 7th birthday party. Intending to put away some rope and turn out the horses, I headed over to the barn. As I unhaltered the fourth horse, my mare, Milly, stood quietly in the corral, twitching her tail against the flies.
I approached and put my arms around her neck, surprised that she even let me: Milly is notoriously difficult to catch. There was an opportunity there, and for once, I took it: I slipped the halter I had been carrying over her head, and led her into the barn.
No, I'm not going to write that I saddled her and spend the rest of the afternoon joyously horseback, riding through river pastures and cottonwood trees. I'm going to write instead that I gave my twenty-year-old engagement gift a scoop of oats, and spent the next forty-five minutes working massive tangles out of her red-gold mane. Nothing special, nothing exciting. She ate; I combed; she stomped when I pulled too much; I sang country songs with the radio to soothe her. My old dog, Max, lay at the foot of the stall, watching us. It was easily the most perfect, and least productive, hour I spent yesterday -- or for many days.
Most of my writing about Milly has centered on the ways she's cared for me, carrying me through miles of trails, past fears and doubts that were so deeply rooted that I was paralyzed by them. Yesterday, for a little while, I had a chance to ask nothing of this mare, but to simply care for her. She ended the day with a tangle-free mane; a girl wants to look good no matter how old she is getting, you know. I ended the day with most of my list undone -- but with a precious memory that will live way beyond my crazy spring. That, above all, is why Milly remains one of the best gifts this life has given me.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Stinky Spring
Although the first official day of spring is still a few days away, at least according to the calendar, we've been privileged to have a break from winter weather this weekend. Today, the high temperature reached the mid-50's, and a 60 degree reading is predicted for Wednesday. Ahh, spring. Breathe deeply of the clean, fresh air . . . . or not.
Here at the ranch, the smell of early spring -- before the grass really grows and the lilacs finally bloom -- cannot be described as pleasant or refreshing. Rather, early spring around here stinks. Literally. We winter weaned calves in the meadows just north of our house, keep steers and horses in the corrals south of the barn, feed weanling foals in the lot on the hill. And all those animals poop -- all winter long. A person doesn't notice the smell when the turds remain hard and frozen . . . but when the air temperature warms enough for them to thaw, well, you might want to take your deep breaths inside the house.
In addition to some rather strong smells, early spring at the ranch also features slick, snot-like mud and flooded meadows. I can only walk the dogs along the dike, a raised ridge of earth remaining from a time when this ranch was irrigated. Shawn has fewer options each day for feeding his calves, as so much of the meadows are under water. Today, he buried his pickup truck up to the frame in mud; he'd been attempting to cake his cows early, before the frost thawed, but got just a little late and got stuck attempting to cross the river. He used his suspenders to tie two pieces of driftwood together to help him stay afloat as he swam across, because the spring current threatened to take even him, a rather large, strong man, downstream.
Does it sound like I'm complaining? I'm not, actually . . . just listing the realities of ranch life, realities that don't often appear in magazine photo spreads or on country-living blogs. Each season of ranch living brings its challenges, its problems to surmount, its dangers . . . and each season, just as much, brings its joys. The geese are nesting in meadows, getting ready to hatch their young; it's just as well that I can't walk across those areas with the dogs, because I wouldn't want to disturb them. The green grass is beginning to come up, and the ice is thawing in front of the barn. We have a new puppy and a new foal, and soon the heifers will be in the arena, and Shawn will calve out next year's crop of babies. The place will really smell then!
And that's one of my favorite lessons from ranch life: that from bad comes good, from inconvenience comes resourcefulness, from discomfort and danger comes strength and ingenuity. It's not a deep metaphor, nor an original one. It's just the one Mother Nature keeps replaying for us, year after year. Thawing manure brings green grass; flooded meadows grow tons of hay; muddy corrals bring deep, rich soil. On the ranch, and probably in all of life, sooner or later stink brings sweet.
Here at the ranch, the smell of early spring -- before the grass really grows and the lilacs finally bloom -- cannot be described as pleasant or refreshing. Rather, early spring around here stinks. Literally. We winter weaned calves in the meadows just north of our house, keep steers and horses in the corrals south of the barn, feed weanling foals in the lot on the hill. And all those animals poop -- all winter long. A person doesn't notice the smell when the turds remain hard and frozen . . . but when the air temperature warms enough for them to thaw, well, you might want to take your deep breaths inside the house.
In addition to some rather strong smells, early spring at the ranch also features slick, snot-like mud and flooded meadows. I can only walk the dogs along the dike, a raised ridge of earth remaining from a time when this ranch was irrigated. Shawn has fewer options each day for feeding his calves, as so much of the meadows are under water. Today, he buried his pickup truck up to the frame in mud; he'd been attempting to cake his cows early, before the frost thawed, but got just a little late and got stuck attempting to cross the river. He used his suspenders to tie two pieces of driftwood together to help him stay afloat as he swam across, because the spring current threatened to take even him, a rather large, strong man, downstream.
Does it sound like I'm complaining? I'm not, actually . . . just listing the realities of ranch life, realities that don't often appear in magazine photo spreads or on country-living blogs. Each season of ranch living brings its challenges, its problems to surmount, its dangers . . . and each season, just as much, brings its joys. The geese are nesting in meadows, getting ready to hatch their young; it's just as well that I can't walk across those areas with the dogs, because I wouldn't want to disturb them. The green grass is beginning to come up, and the ice is thawing in front of the barn. We have a new puppy and a new foal, and soon the heifers will be in the arena, and Shawn will calve out next year's crop of babies. The place will really smell then!
And that's one of my favorite lessons from ranch life: that from bad comes good, from inconvenience comes resourcefulness, from discomfort and danger comes strength and ingenuity. It's not a deep metaphor, nor an original one. It's just the one Mother Nature keeps replaying for us, year after year. Thawing manure brings green grass; flooded meadows grow tons of hay; muddy corrals bring deep, rich soil. On the ranch, and probably in all of life, sooner or later stink brings sweet.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Skater-Kids
Years ago, when my family lived in a different community, my older girls received ice skates for a Christmas gift. At that time, Maria was barely walking; her skates were so tiny that I was sure they'd been specially ordered. We had a small pond near our house -- really just a low spot where water drained. Shawn and I swept off the snow and attempted to teach Laura, Carmen and Maria to ice-skate. They learned in fits and starts; after a few winters we began taking them to the small community ice rink in town. Shawn and I even purchased skates of our own, a bargain at a second-hand store that allowed us to fall on our rumps as often as the girls did. Neither one of us ice -skated while growing up, although we knew the basics just from having roller-skated as kids. Although it wasn't the girls' favorite winter activity and none of them became that proficient at it, the three of them learned enough to be able to manage when they were invited to skating parties.
Now, raising our "second set" of kids, we live on a different ranch, and lead a much busier lifestyle. Teaching Cody, Emily and Katie to ice-skate has not been a priority; our leisure time in winter is so limited that we usually just take them sledding on the hills near our house or have a quick snowball fight. Time to really teach -- time for them to really learn -- a new skill seems eaten up by work and school obligations, older sisters' activities, community involvements.
Yesterday, determined to not let February slip by without at least getting my younger three on the ice, I took them into the basement to fit them with ice skates from the assortment we'd accumulated over the years. Most of the skates that Carmen and Maria grew through are now too small for Emily and Katie's feet. Cody ended up wearing an old pair of mine, too snug for me and a bit too loose for him; Emily and Katie had to share one pair that was somewhere between their sizes. Already feeling frustrated, I got them suited up in the requisite winter gear, grabbed a couple sleds and set off across corral lots and pastures towards the nearest reservoir. Of course, in my hurry to get out the door, I forgot a shovel or broom to clear the ice. Once we stumbled upon the reservoir, we had to use our feet and the edge of the sleds to clear the snow off. The water/ice level was very low: during this long winter of freeze and thaw cycles, a small hole in the dam -- probably a muskrat burrow -- had caved in, and most of the reservoir water had flooded down to the river. What remained was frozen, but only a few inches deep. Nonetheless, we cleared a very small space, probably no bigger than my dining room floor, and I helped each child out onto the ice.
I've probably given more successful ice-skating lessons. Cody got bored immediately: the space I'd cleared was so small, and my old skates so dull, that he couldn't get enough speed or thrill to keep his 9-year-old attention. Emily, on the other hand, was scared to death, and never stood fully straight the entire time: she bent double, clutching at my hands, convinced that her feet would splay out and break her legs. Only Katie really enjoyed the skating, moving up from holding both of my hands, to just one, to finally skating a few strides by herself. She fell, but mastered the art of standing back up on ice skates quickly.
We stayed there for nearly two hours: because the water level was so low, we were surrounded by the dam edges, out of the wind and warmed by the February sun. Cody left to explore the animal tracks around, sure that he would spot a bobcat or coyote. Emily, a rather courageous sledder, slid down the reservoir slopes out onto the ice. Katie and I played around on our tiny, makeshift rink; our five dogs spread out around the area, sunning themselves or following Cody. Our trip home included a stop to pet Cody's horse; later, I made the trek back out to the reservoir alone, to retrieve Cody's coat and gloves left behind.
If my kids lived in town, they could go to the local ice rink every weekend, even take lessons from a real teacher. They would probably own skates that fit, and that were sharpened properly. I'm not going to win mother of the year for my little venture to the reservoir with them yesterday; many kids would call our trip boring. Certainly the skater kids that I often see at my work would scoff at my kids' third- or fourth-hand skates, the tiny, bumpy rink, the snowy, un-Zambooni'd ice.
But just like the tiny muskrat burrow that became a gaping hole, I hope my tiny effort yesterday becomes a lesson for my kids. It probably won't be remembered as a lesson about how to ice-skate! Hopefully, though, it will be remembered as a lesson in making do with what you have; in making one's own recreation; and in enjoying the gifts life offers, even if they are simple gifts like nice weather, family, and pets. I'm not sure you'll ever see my kids on the hockey team or in figure-skating competitions; but hopefully, you will see my kids trying their best, teaching themselves, and doing whatever they love to do.
Now, raising our "second set" of kids, we live on a different ranch, and lead a much busier lifestyle. Teaching Cody, Emily and Katie to ice-skate has not been a priority; our leisure time in winter is so limited that we usually just take them sledding on the hills near our house or have a quick snowball fight. Time to really teach -- time for them to really learn -- a new skill seems eaten up by work and school obligations, older sisters' activities, community involvements.
Yesterday, determined to not let February slip by without at least getting my younger three on the ice, I took them into the basement to fit them with ice skates from the assortment we'd accumulated over the years. Most of the skates that Carmen and Maria grew through are now too small for Emily and Katie's feet. Cody ended up wearing an old pair of mine, too snug for me and a bit too loose for him; Emily and Katie had to share one pair that was somewhere between their sizes. Already feeling frustrated, I got them suited up in the requisite winter gear, grabbed a couple sleds and set off across corral lots and pastures towards the nearest reservoir. Of course, in my hurry to get out the door, I forgot a shovel or broom to clear the ice. Once we stumbled upon the reservoir, we had to use our feet and the edge of the sleds to clear the snow off. The water/ice level was very low: during this long winter of freeze and thaw cycles, a small hole in the dam -- probably a muskrat burrow -- had caved in, and most of the reservoir water had flooded down to the river. What remained was frozen, but only a few inches deep. Nonetheless, we cleared a very small space, probably no bigger than my dining room floor, and I helped each child out onto the ice.
I've probably given more successful ice-skating lessons. Cody got bored immediately: the space I'd cleared was so small, and my old skates so dull, that he couldn't get enough speed or thrill to keep his 9-year-old attention. Emily, on the other hand, was scared to death, and never stood fully straight the entire time: she bent double, clutching at my hands, convinced that her feet would splay out and break her legs. Only Katie really enjoyed the skating, moving up from holding both of my hands, to just one, to finally skating a few strides by herself. She fell, but mastered the art of standing back up on ice skates quickly.
We stayed there for nearly two hours: because the water level was so low, we were surrounded by the dam edges, out of the wind and warmed by the February sun. Cody left to explore the animal tracks around, sure that he would spot a bobcat or coyote. Emily, a rather courageous sledder, slid down the reservoir slopes out onto the ice. Katie and I played around on our tiny, makeshift rink; our five dogs spread out around the area, sunning themselves or following Cody. Our trip home included a stop to pet Cody's horse; later, I made the trek back out to the reservoir alone, to retrieve Cody's coat and gloves left behind.
If my kids lived in town, they could go to the local ice rink every weekend, even take lessons from a real teacher. They would probably own skates that fit, and that were sharpened properly. I'm not going to win mother of the year for my little venture to the reservoir with them yesterday; many kids would call our trip boring. Certainly the skater kids that I often see at my work would scoff at my kids' third- or fourth-hand skates, the tiny, bumpy rink, the snowy, un-Zambooni'd ice.
But just like the tiny muskrat burrow that became a gaping hole, I hope my tiny effort yesterday becomes a lesson for my kids. It probably won't be remembered as a lesson about how to ice-skate! Hopefully, though, it will be remembered as a lesson in making do with what you have; in making one's own recreation; and in enjoying the gifts life offers, even if they are simple gifts like nice weather, family, and pets. I'm not sure you'll ever see my kids on the hockey team or in figure-skating competitions; but hopefully, you will see my kids trying their best, teaching themselves, and doing whatever they love to do.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Choosing
Last year about this time, I wrote a post entitled "Frost and Frost" -- a reflection following a walk in icy frostiness, about my choices and the life I'm leading here at the Allison.
This last week has provided me ample opportunity to review the choice to live at this remote ranch: icy roads this time have increased my daily commute substantially, giving me time to think about why I am choosing to live 40 miles from town and work. As my normal 45-minute drive has nearly doubled this week, my subconscious mind has chewed over the five-year-old decision to make my life and home on the ranch, and the implications of that decision.
I am not a cowgirl, so living on a ranch does not have the typical perks that attract my neighbors: I don't need the extra pasture for my barrel-racing horses, don't relish the thought of feeding cows and pulling calves for a livelihood. To borrow a phrase from my friend, writer Pat Frolander, I'm "married into it" -- married into this lifestyle, this home, this place. If my husband wasn't a ranch manager, I would not be living on a ranch; it's that simple. I don't have the skills to hold a ranch job on my own; therefore, the provided house wouldn't be something I could attain. My own mother still lives on the farm where I grew up, and my brother is slowly buying that from her -- so the prospect of returning to my childhood country home doesn't exist for me. And financially, I could no more manage to purchase a ranch than I could feed all the hungry children in South America.
Being married into it, however, doesn't limit me the way it might have limited a woman of an earlier generation. I work hard to free myself from preconcieved notions of what I should be as a ranch wife, as the woman who now lives on this place. It's been an uphill battle to convince some people -- most especially myself --- that this ranch is big enough to accomodate all different types of ranch women. I don't have to fit into a box.
Having that freedom has allowed me to really think about the daily choice I make to live here. I live on this isolated ranch, this place so long neglected and forlorn, because:
* The silence I experience on my morning walks envelopes me, making the rest of the world seem like it exists in a parallel galaxy. A cold winter morning, with little traffic on the highway and little sign of another human, reveals a peace and perfection that no human creation can mimic.
* My closest companions on my "ranch" days are dogs, cats and occasionally horses -- and none of them demands anything more from me than a caress and some food.
* My children are safe here. Sure, there exist a multitude of dangers on a ranch; but they are safe in another sense. My children are safe here from the materialistic, media-inundated, me-centered lifestyle that so many other children succumb to. They understand that they are part of something here that is greater than they are, and that their part in the whole is, paradoxically, both insignificant and important. They may be just feeding a cat; BUT, they are feeding a cat.
* My powers of observation sharpen here. I see birds I'm learning to identify; weeds I'm working to eradicate; land formations I'm hoping to memorize.
* This lifestyle forces me to develop the qualities I most need to work on : resourcefulness, creativity, patience and gratitude.
* My morning and evening commutes have become times to pray, to listen, to learn: I have, on a daily basis, nearly two private hours for enlightenment.
* The work my husband does here is important; he is feeding the world. Despite the incovenience of our distance from town and the incessant work that ranching requires, there is a pride to be part of this place that supplants the discomforts of it.
Probably there are many more reasons I choose to live here, but today, on this windy, brilliant January day, those are the ones that touch my spirit. On another day, there will be other reasons. That's how it is with choice: while you think you make them only one time, the important ones are ones you make over and over, every day.
This last week has provided me ample opportunity to review the choice to live at this remote ranch: icy roads this time have increased my daily commute substantially, giving me time to think about why I am choosing to live 40 miles from town and work. As my normal 45-minute drive has nearly doubled this week, my subconscious mind has chewed over the five-year-old decision to make my life and home on the ranch, and the implications of that decision.
I am not a cowgirl, so living on a ranch does not have the typical perks that attract my neighbors: I don't need the extra pasture for my barrel-racing horses, don't relish the thought of feeding cows and pulling calves for a livelihood. To borrow a phrase from my friend, writer Pat Frolander, I'm "married into it" -- married into this lifestyle, this home, this place. If my husband wasn't a ranch manager, I would not be living on a ranch; it's that simple. I don't have the skills to hold a ranch job on my own; therefore, the provided house wouldn't be something I could attain. My own mother still lives on the farm where I grew up, and my brother is slowly buying that from her -- so the prospect of returning to my childhood country home doesn't exist for me. And financially, I could no more manage to purchase a ranch than I could feed all the hungry children in South America.
Being married into it, however, doesn't limit me the way it might have limited a woman of an earlier generation. I work hard to free myself from preconcieved notions of what I should be as a ranch wife, as the woman who now lives on this place. It's been an uphill battle to convince some people -- most especially myself --- that this ranch is big enough to accomodate all different types of ranch women. I don't have to fit into a box.
Having that freedom has allowed me to really think about the daily choice I make to live here. I live on this isolated ranch, this place so long neglected and forlorn, because:
* The silence I experience on my morning walks envelopes me, making the rest of the world seem like it exists in a parallel galaxy. A cold winter morning, with little traffic on the highway and little sign of another human, reveals a peace and perfection that no human creation can mimic.
* My closest companions on my "ranch" days are dogs, cats and occasionally horses -- and none of them demands anything more from me than a caress and some food.
* My children are safe here. Sure, there exist a multitude of dangers on a ranch; but they are safe in another sense. My children are safe here from the materialistic, media-inundated, me-centered lifestyle that so many other children succumb to. They understand that they are part of something here that is greater than they are, and that their part in the whole is, paradoxically, both insignificant and important. They may be just feeding a cat; BUT, they are feeding a cat.
* My powers of observation sharpen here. I see birds I'm learning to identify; weeds I'm working to eradicate; land formations I'm hoping to memorize.
* This lifestyle forces me to develop the qualities I most need to work on : resourcefulness, creativity, patience and gratitude.
* My morning and evening commutes have become times to pray, to listen, to learn: I have, on a daily basis, nearly two private hours for enlightenment.
* The work my husband does here is important; he is feeding the world. Despite the incovenience of our distance from town and the incessant work that ranching requires, there is a pride to be part of this place that supplants the discomforts of it.
Probably there are many more reasons I choose to live here, but today, on this windy, brilliant January day, those are the ones that touch my spirit. On another day, there will be other reasons. That's how it is with choice: while you think you make them only one time, the important ones are ones you make over and over, every day.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Solstice
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)