Mountain Time

            July 2013, Big Horn Mountains. Shawn and the kids spread out with their poles along the stream, hoping their casts lead to catches. I sit, notebook open, pen poised, attempting to conjure poetry that captures the magnificence of these mountains.

            Around me, flashes of color become touchstones of memory. Paintbrush orange and fireweed violet blaze from emerald grass.  Up the bank, forest-green raspberry bushes crop from a tumble of mottled boulder. At once, I am both in this place and on every other July camping trip we’ve taken. The creek winks in the sun, playing hide and seek with its treasure, and in the blur between vision and memory, my two little girls become two others, this mountain becomes every mountain.

            Here, on mountain time, I become closest to who I really am, who I want to be. Here in these mountains, I am once again 20, sitting on a sun-warmed boulder beside a mountain lake with a beer, a fishing pole, and the most exquisite peach I’d ever eaten. I smile back at a cowboy, my T-shirt, blue jeans and boots the only uniform I need. I am that girl, who had no schedule, no deadline, no agenda  -- who needed only sunshine, simple food, and somebody wonderful to love.

            Does Shawn still see that girl when he looks at me? Or does his vision stop at the 40ish wrinkles, the librarian outfit?  Can he see that same glow of pure joy on my face – ever? Or is the glow clouded out by frowns of worry, tears of loneliness? Does that girl still live in his heart – or has she faded to the woman who shares his closet and his checkbook, who frets over the children, the parents, the job?

            Would my children even believe that girl was me? My daughters – much closer to 20 now than I am – would they believe their always-on-task mother would sit for hours by a lake, catching nothing and caring less? Can they see past the practical haircut and sunscreened complexion to the long brown braid down my back and sunburn across my nose? Would they believe their ever-organized, ever-responsible mother would have been so in love with a place and a cowboy that she simply disappeared for a couple days, telling nobody where she was going?

            I know that the girl by the lake – the one awed by beauty, satisfied with earth’s simple gifts, in love with the people lin her life – remains. But does anyone else see her these days?

            Katie and Emily need help with their poles now, so I go. In twenty years of parenting, this response has been my grounding point – what my children need, if at all possible, I provide.  The girl who sat by that lake then untangles fishing line now. And realizes how fleeting this moment is – how twenty years disappears as quickly as summer in the mountains.

            This has been a summer of sudden endings: one friend’s brother killed in an airplane accident, another friend’s of a sudden heart attack. Just days ago, 18 firefighters on an Arizona mountain. My own cowboy had a brush with death a month ago, fracturing a vertebrae in a horse wreck.

            The lesson of that brevity, that fragility, should center me, make me grateful for just this moment, the way that girl at Sheep Lake was. Yet this camping trip has been clouded by a muddle of negativity – worry about my left-out youngest, loneliness for my absent oldest, frustration with the elders living down the creek. My mind rarely stills, rarely lands in one precious moment. It flits instead like a butterfly on fireweed, darting from one problem to another.

            Ironically, it is that same brevity and fragility that unravels my calm. Just as the face of this mountain is ever-changing, so too my life. I want to hit pause, to get a do-over, to try once more to get it right.

            I recently saw a workshop advertised as an opportunity to learn how to “re-invent” oneself. I see no need to reinvent: life does enough re-tooling for me. Gone now is that young, flushed bride with the long dark curls: now graying hair greets me as I pull on my mom jeans in front of the mirror. Gone too is the young, idealistic mom who read eight stories a day and folded cloth diapers at night – now there is an errand-running, appointment-making mom who’s sometimes too busy to talk. Almost gone is the mom who helped with school projects – replaced by the mom who does financial aid forms. Gone is the lullaby-singing, rocking chair-snuggling Mommy – now I’m the mom who can’t always fix things or kiss away the hurt.

            The rest of the family joins Katie and Emily now; the fish just aren’t biting today, so we decide to return to camp. Emily wants to take some pictures before we leave, however. We find a stand of paintbrush framed behind a piece of deadfall, and the vibrant orange contrasts beautifully with the weathered gray. I give her some advice about paying attention to the background and foreground, and about getting on the same level as the image she wants to capture. With her blond braid and faded jeans, Emily looks so much like her oldest sister, Laura, just as Katie looks like Carmen. Soon a day will come when Emily won’t want to take my advice, and that day will mark the beginning of an end: the end of the time when I have the answers to all her questions, the end of our simple, sweet relationship. One day she’ll have to discover her own answers. One day she’ll see me not as Mommy, but as a sometimes fierce, sometimes fearful, always fallible woman. One day she might even see me as the girl at the lake.

            As we finally drive away, I look back down the draw. I know enough about mountain ecology to know that the unstoppable progression of drought, infestation, fire and mud slides may – and most likely will – change the face of these mountains. I know enough about mountain economy to know the human impacts of grazing, logging, mining, and even recreating will eventually alter what I see.

            But despite all those changes, the mountain – its essence, what it truest about its nature – will remain. I can only hope the same for me.

 

 

 

For Carmen

Today my daughter Carmen turns eighteen; tonight she will attend a concert in a nearby city with her best friend. Tomorrow, she heads to Laramie, WY, to attend orientation at the university there and, perhaps more important to her, to visit her older sister, Laura. Although they have all kinds of plans for tattoos and 18-and-over activities, I know that just the prospect of spending the two days after her birthday with Laura makes Carmen’s celebration last longer.  Laura has lived at least four hours away for the past ten months, and  when you've grown up practically connected, only eighteen short months apart, such a separation feels unnatural.  It will be good for both of them to spend these next two days together.

Thankfully, next fall they will once again have the opportunity to see each other more, as Carmen joins Laura in Laramie.  After only just going through Laura's graduation and move to college, I am having trouble believing that Carmen has now graduated and will move from home in just over three months.

I've fallen into the habit these last few weeks of thinking of the two of them, Laura and Carmen, as a pair once again, the way I did when they were little girls.  Back then, their natures balanced between opposites: Laura's blond to Carmen's brunette; Carmen's rowdiness to Laura's bookishness; Laura's obedience to Carmen's . . ahem . . not obedience. As they grew older, still the differences surfaced: Laura's cats to Carmen's horses; Carmen's outside to Laura's inside; Laura's procrastination to Carmen's organization; Laura’s math and writing skills to Carmen’s agriculture and speaking talents. But rather than divide them, the differences made them a stronger pair. Certainly they fought through the normal sibling disagreements that all sisters have, particularly during their junior high years; but as they've grown older, the fights have gradually lessened.  I consider it a gift that these two sisters make the choice to spend time together whenever they can. 

And their choice reminds me of two sisters I used to know: my Grandma Quinn and her sister, Marcella.  We kids knew Marcella as Sister Margaret Francis, for she was a Franciscan nun. Sister would willingly spend each of her summer vacations at Grandma and Grandpa Quinn's farm, just to be close to Grandma and their other sister, Aileen. Just as with my girls, the differences among these three women created an energy that was stronger than its individual pieces.

As I did a year ago, I am writing this blog for my now-graduated daughter -- this year for Carmen. But instead of writing about the lessons her Papa Lipp would have taught her -- lessons that Carmen internalized years ago -- I will write instead of the wisdom of Sister Margaret Francis, a great-aunt about whom Carmen knows very little. The rest of this post, then, is for Carmen:


Look for the little surprises, the small beauties in life.

Sister Margaret Francis had, through her teaching and missionary work, many opportunities to travel. In fact, the wood carving that hangs on our dining room wall -- the one that portrays the Last Supper -- came from her, from her work in Chile.  Had you known her, Carmen, you would have enjoyed her stories, as you share her love of travel.  Still, Sister chose to return to South Dakota every summer, rather than visiting new places. This decision was, of course, based on her camaraderie with her sisters, but she never seemed to feel bored by the plains. Rather, she delighted in the small, tucked-away beauties of the prairie -- the birds, wildflowers, fields.  On her daily walks, she found something interesting, pretty, or rewarding to focus on each day, and she talked of being grateful for those small surprises.   Life won't always offer you big, exciting events: sometimes, Carmen, you will have look carefully to find your own reasons for joy.


Rather than complaining about things you can't have, appreciate those things you do.

Finding those small reasons for joy will give you something to hold on to when disappointments hit.  Sister Margaret Francis battled Type I diabetes since girlhood; it was eventually the reason for her death in 1993. She loved to bake, however, and would prepare cakes and cookies for others to eat; I don't remember ever hearing her complain that she couldn't indulge in the sugary treats. When I was a girl, I didn't realize how much her health conditions hampered her enjoyment of pleasures I took for granted; now that I'm older, I am amazed at the courage it took, not to live resignedly with her condition, but to accept it and find other joys. You, my beautiful daughter, will certainly face disappoinments, times when you feel that pleasures you deserve to experience are taken from you -- by health conditions, by financial circumstances, by other people's choices.  My hope is that, once you move through the initial anger and sadness that these times will bring, you will face your life with brave acceptance, and make the most of what you do have.


The world is not black and white: be true to your ideals, but be careful about judging others. 

 Lest I make it seem that Sister was a saint, I should also tell you that she sometimes made comments that were hurtful or unkind -- particularly when she felt others' behavior fell below her ideology. Great-nieces and nephews who made choices of which she didn't approve, or the farmers in our family whose business decisions she didn't understand often heard judgement, not acceptance, in her well-intentioned words of advice. While it is one thing to have morals, it is another to impose them on others. Carmen, you, too, can speak judgementally about the behavior of people around you; while you should not hide your truth, be careful about speaking it in a way that is not helpful or kind. Realize that not everyone's standards are the same as yours, and let compassion, not ideology, be your guiding philosophy.


Let your differences -- with friends, with colleagues, with sisters -- be a source of strength and learning. 

Sister Margaret Francis obviously did not have children, but she learned much about motherhood and the joyful chaos of family life from her own sisters; likewise, those sisters did not travel much beyond South Dakota, but they learned about the world from listening to Sister's stories. The differences among them became a source of growth.  During your childhood and adolescence, you at times felt very removed from your own sisters because of different interests, different personalities. You were never much for playing dolls and dressing up; you always preferred outside activities, and the muddier, the better. You love country music and horses; Laura loves all music but country, and rarely rides.  Your natural tendency is to be friendly and extroverted -- sometimes even a little loud -- and so Maria's quiet introversion often confuses you. Yet through travel, through band and FFA activities, through living in a large family, you have learned that it takes all kinds of people to make the world interesting.   You've had to adapt your own behavior to create comfortable relationships with the two sisters closest to you; and you've grown as a person because of that.

Trust that separation is not permanent.

Unfortunately, Carmen, since early childhood, your life has been marked by the loss of friends and classmates – sometimes to long-distance moves, but also to death. Some of those deaths were suicides; others, unfortunate accidents. Likewise, people who are close to you have “gone away” in another sense: by changing in such a way that they became strangers. Somehow, Carmen, you keep smiling, and your attitude is marked by hope, rather than resignation or gloom. Perhaps in this way more than any other, you remind me of Sister Margaret Francis.  Deep inside you lies an abiding faith, a faith that is truly a grace of God. Hold on to that faith, Carmen. Those you have loved who are no longer visible to you are still somehow connected. I know you know this, given how often you visit Brandon’s grave. Those friends who move away, or who never lived close to you in the first place, will remain friends despite physical distance. Those who have made choices that make them seem far away will someday come back to you.  

It's always seemed appropriate to me, Carmen, that your birthday happens just after the summer solstice: the world-wide celebration of light. You bring joy and light to our corner of the world, and I know you will bring that same light with you as you move on to bigger places. Like Sister, be light and joy and simplicity whenever you can; and when you can't, trust that the darkness never lasts forever.

 
Happy Birthday, dear Carmen.

For G.

In the barn,
Four horses stand --
Heads down, lips nibbling,
Consuming this day's portion of grain --

Their coats dull and matted,
Hip bones protruding,
Ribs exposed,
Tails chewed off.

They stand new to this barn,
This ranch.
Seized last week --
Brought here in rescue.

On the TV, politicians argue
While mothers weep.
A nation demands answers;
Our children need rescue.

Over the Internet, a young girl
Posts her private drama,
And publicly weeps.
Surely she, too, needs rescue.

Rescue siezes, storms;
Preaches, pontificates.
Points fingers;
Issues mandates.

Rescue is a knight in
Shining armor --
Sword drawn, trumpet blaring;
Heroic, but so damn shiny.

In the barn, horses eat.
A nation mourns;
A daughter cries.
Now the real work begins.

Healing feeds, refreshes.
Prays, hopes, and waits.
Brushes cockleburs from matted hair;
Dries tears from swollen faces.

Healing is an old, wrinkly woman,
Murmuring comfort,
Wise with knowing,
Smiling in her silvery glow.

Rescue sees the damage,
Fears the pain,
Feeds on the drama --
Judging, self-righteous.

Healing sees the life left,
Supports the helpers,
Rejoices in small victories --
Guarding, hopeful.

In the corral, horses drink:
Afraid to separate,
The four move together --
Survivors.

A nation screams;
Solutions shriek.
But healing whispers --
A smile, a soft song.

Kindnesses replace suspicion;
Connection pusehs away fear;
A daughter plays in the snow;
Her eyes brighten.

Healing's path winds
Backwards and forwards.
More shots ring out;
Dark days descend.

Horses recover slowly --
Weeks, months, years - sometimes never.
Broken teeth and hooves repaired;
More pain in order to heal.

Today, release for the gelding:
Turned into pasture with healthy horses --
He lingers at the gate, nickering;
Then wheels, runs free and safe.

Rescue asks why.
Seeks to save, to stem the hurt.
Healing asks how.
Seeks to change, to build the good.

Rescue is the sun;
Healing the moon.
Rescue is for now;
Healing for always.

In the barn, a new day.
Three horses stand,
Heads down, lips nibbling;
Slowly returning to life.

Autumn 2011/Summer 2012

Parched earth, long neglected

By rain’s soft caress.

Grasses wait, tinder dry,

Longing.

 

Heavy gray clouds build,

Swollen with promised rain,

Then brush busily past,

To another place, another job

Behind they leave strikes of rejection,

Hot wind of loneliness,

Smoldering flame of doubt,

Reckless spark of anger.

 

Lightning bolts on wet ground

Die quickly.

Scorched earth carefully watched

Burns little.

 

But drought and storm,

Sadness and carelessness

Create an inferno that blackens

Blue skies of naiveté.

 

Blazes of hopelessness

Fanned by ego’s hot wind

Run along ridgetops

Out of control.

Orange flames jump

Treetop to treetop, haphazard,

Feeding hungrily on each mistake

Larger with every imperfection.

Deadfall of the past,

Left to litter the forest floor,

Now feeds the wildfire,

Creates a maelstrom of hurt and revenge.

Blame matters little

As the fire rages –

There is no control,

Only humble efforts to contain.

 

Time clocks, schedules,

Goals, plans, appointments –

The fire consumes the superfluous,

And burns down to the bones.

Those who battle the blaze

Lose themselves in the effort;

Surrendering ego,

They become heroic.

 

Fire kills -- cattle trapped in draws;

Wildlife choked by smoke;

A beloved daughter;

Innocent trust.

Also dead – pine-beetle infested forest;

Sagebrush choking out grass;

Beloved egos;

Carelessness.

Fire scars the land,

Blackens it beyond recognition;

Burns trees and buildings,

Until only sacred ground remains.

But land scarred by fire

Will resurrect:

Green meadows where once thick timber,

Simple joy where once resentment.

 

People threatened by flames

Breathe relief at rain’s soft kiss,

Receive each calf, each flower, each smile

Grateful for what remains.

Mineral-laden water in burning cottonwoods

Hardens to porous,  gray rock.

Skin scarred by scrapes and cuts

Grows back stronger, more resilient.

Hearts scorched by fire

Emerge gray and sober;

Tested by the flames,

They grow resilient, then joyful.

 

In mountain forests consumed by flame,

Seeds of lodgepole pine rest in rich ground.

Exploded from cones during the inferno’s blaze,

They promise new life with the spring.

For Laura

                Today I woke to rain and clouds, the air heavy with that damp feeling that comes after a few days of slow drizzle; this is day three of this front, and it is forecast to be set in for at least one more. This weekend our family will celebrate our oldest daughter, Laura's, graduation. The rain, therefore, does not seem a welcome thing. However, amidst all the bustle and activity, rain feels grounding; in some ways, it's good to know that the Earth, that nature, simply moves through its cycles despite the buzzing around that we humans do.

                Family is coming for Laura's graduation, beginning this evening and continuing through tomorrow. And while we are glad to see them, there are undercurrents of tension and unresolved conflict that shadow us. As I write, I worry -- will those tensions threaten our celebration with a downpour of negativity? For Laura's sake, I hope not. Both the experience of being the oldest of our children, and of simply being an adult now, lend her a perception of those tensions that is more nuanced than her siblings'; will she be worried, as well?

                One family member will not be here in body, although I know that he's always around in that space just beyond my vision. Nineteen years ago this month, in May, 1993, my dad died of complications from emphysema. I was just three months' pregnant with Laura. She never met him in person, though I've told all my children enough stories of their Papa that they have some knowledge of what he is like. And they all carry pieces of him with them, in their heritage and DNA:  Laura particularly carries his intelligence and his ability to detach from drama. I hope those gifts serve her well as she moves into the rest of her life.

                The summer after my dad died, I attended a graduate school writing class at the University of Montana. There, one of the projects I completed was a letter to my unborn baby about my dad, a beginning of the stories I continued to tell once Laura and her siblings entered our lives. Instead of saving the letter for her graduation, as intended, I gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday.  While I feel bad about not saving that original letter, I also realize that it isn't the letter I would choose to  give to her now. That summer, Laura was still unknown to me; this summer, her last with us, I know her in ways that even she doesn't. I've spent over eighteen years watching her grow and change, and eighteen years loving her even when she's been unloveable.

                And I have changed - immensely - in these last nineteen years as well. Parenting changed me:  both my successes and my failures have been magnified by seeing their effects on my kids. Working in different careers changed me: I have learned to adapt to more kinds of people and more environments than I ever thought I would. Marriage changed me: living with one person for over 20 years, even through the hard times, has both humbled me and honored me. And simply growing older has changed me:  just as Laura is not entirely the same person at 18 that she was at 8, neither am I the same on the back side of 40 as I was when I wrote the original letter at 23.

                And so, for the rest of this post, I am going to write to Laura. The original letter was full of the same types of platitudes that she'll hear so much of this weekend:  "reach for your goals;" "rely on your strength;" "never give up." And while those are certainly lessons her Papa would have taught her, and lessons that I want her to learn, there are other, simpler things he would have demonstrated as well:

* Know what you love, and what brings you joy.  Find some small way to include those things in your life. Papa loved the land, and returned from his tour in the Korean Conflict to work on his parents' farm; after their retirement, he worked it first with his brother and then alone. He bought that farm, and sometimes it was truly a monkey on his back. Particularly near the end of his life, the farm finances were so dire that he perhaps wished it was not his responsibility. But he still took joy from the small things the farm brought:  the call of pheasants in the windbreak, the sight of the setting sun, the seclusion of our home.

Papa also loved to travel, to see new places. Ironic, then, that his chosen career and lifestyle kept him married to one place. Trips were rare for our family, and never did we venture out of state, unless for medical reasons. Still, he maintained his love of travel and nurtured it by reading about foreign lands and peoples. It was a small way to keep his passion alive, but I cannot picture my dad sitting down to drink his coffee or take a breathing treatment without a book or magazine – especially the National Geographic – in front of him. Although he wasn’t able to actively pursue this love, he found a way to include it; it is the same reason I garden, though I’m not a horticulturist, or that your dad hunts, though he is not a wildlife manager. Your music is such a passion for you now, and I hope it becomes your career; but even if it doesn’t, remember Papa and his magazines – and don’t ever lose that which makes you feel most alive.

* Choose your battles, but once you’ve chosen one, don’t be afraid to fight. Papa was not a loud or boastful man, and he put up with a lot. To some his quiet acceptance came across as weakness; however, I think he simply knew that not every fight was worth fighting. He saw plenty of violence in Korea; he had a reputation as a younger man for being “scrappy.” By the time he was raising our family, he just didn’t waste his energy on conflicts that didn’t matter. This detachment allowed him to rise above family drama, as well as many disputes with neighbors. He didn’t have a need to be right about everything, the way some people do. However, when a fight had meaning to him – when his family or his land was threatened, for example –then he didn’t back down. Whether fighting fire that threatened land and crops, or fighting the emphysema that threatened his life, Papa didn’t give up on the important battles. 

* People are going to disappoint you; love them anyway. Because Papa was not the oldest in his family, he was not expected to inherit the family farm.  However, his older brothers did not want to farm; therefore, he and his younger brother first leased the place from his parents; later, after Fritz moved away, Papa began the process of buying the farm. Suddenly those brothers who had not wanted the farm wanted their fair share of income from it. The situation was not fair, for multiple reasons; still, Papa paid them what they asked, and continued to maintain a place for them to visit and hunt when they wanted. He loved his brothers despite what they’d done; there was no sense in holding grudges. When his dad – my grandpa – died in 1980, after Grandma had been gone three years, the entire family returned to our farm for the days surrounding the funeral. I remember our house being filled with laughter and stories as Papa and his brothers played cards until late into the evenings.  Had he held grudges – which might have been justified – Papa would have missed out on the good times, the memories, the love of his brothers. In forgiving them and moving on, he opened himself to the joy and healing that occurred during that week.

* You are not perfect; nobody is. You therefore have an obligation to be compassionate and grateful. Because of the hardships he’d faced and surmounted, many people thought of your Papa as a hero. Particularly when he died nineteen years ago, the stories told were of his bravery when he lost four fingers from his right hand in a corn picker accident; his determination when first buying the family farm and then facing the devastating farm credit crisis of the 1980s; his quiet courage when he was diagnosed with emphysema. And it’s true that he did possess those qualities. But he was also a man who was addicted to tobacco, who sometimes lost his temper, who let work come before family time. In short, he was human. One of Papa’s favorite songs was an old gospel hymn, sung by Kris Kristofferson; although Papa was not as musical as Grandma, he would sing along with the radio when this song came on:

                                “Why me, Lord? What have I ever done

                                To deserve even one

                                Of the treasures I’ve known?"

It was a song of great humility, the confession of a sinner who knows that all he has is not deserved.  

It was also, however, a song of profound faith:

                “Lord, help me, Jesus. I’ve wasted it,

                So help me Jesus.            

                I know what I am.

                And now that I know,

                That I’ve needed you so, help me Jesus.

                My soul’s in your hands.

                Jesus, my soul’s in your hands.”

 There is great freedom in realizing that one does not need to be perfect to be loved; I hope you, too, find this freedom. I think it was this knowledge that gave your Papa the strength to face the trials in his life; he knew he wouldn’t handle things perfectly, so he just did the best he could. This absence of ego allowed him to be heroic when it really mattered.

* Don’t ever, ever cuss the rain. Sometimes rain comes as an easily recognized blessing; sometimes it’s more difficult to be grateful for. Life’s trials – the rainy periods – are usually like that last type of rain, the kind that shows up when you have a graduation party planned, or when the hay crop is already swathed, or when you’ve been trying for weeks to get muddy fields seeded. The dark and stormy times of life don’t come conveniently, and they don’t end when you think they should. But like the rain, they eventually spur new growth. Growth is messy, painful, and even heart-breaking – but it is still growth, and it is always a blessing. Papa didn’t know this phrase, but I bet he would have liked it:

                Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass;

                It’s about learning to dance in the rain.

Dance in the rain, dear Laura. You have a beautiful, strong, wise heritage; keep it close to you.

Reckless

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.
















 

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.