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On my Mother’s side, my Grandpa was a sometime farmer. He was a soldier during WWI – I don’t recall if he ever went overseas, but my brother might know. I do know that he received a most unfortunate wound when he backed around the corner of one of the barracks, right into someone’s poised and ready bayonet. How embarrassing. A sometime schoolteacher, he was a comfortably restless soul, who liked to buy land, build a house on it, live in the house, get the itch, sell the house, buy land, build a house on it…you get the picture. My Mother grew up moving a lot and loving it. She loved meeting new people at every school as a child and was always excited to see a new place.
Clearly, I inherited his restlessness, though that came from grandfathers on both sides – another story.
I’ve always had an affinity for the land and for animals, as my Mother’s parents did. Grandpa was very happy having a small farm, my grandmother had an amazing green thumb, which skipped a generation and which I have inherited. By the time I came along, my grandparents were living sometime in the mountains outside of Boone, North Carolina, in a barn my grandfather had turned into a home, and sometime in a big old white house in Dade City, Florida (which, by the way, is the scene of my earliest memory, which happens to be of my Grandpa) and so there was no farm, no animals, no garden. So my affinity for such things is decidedly genetic.
Since I left home, I’ve lived in cities, in the mountains, in small towns, and in rural-ish areas. When Pat and I bought our house, I was delighted that there were cows across the street. We’ve had the house since 1991, and the cows are still there.
The owner of the small farm is a single woman who has run the place for some 35 years with just the help of a part-time hired man. She is a woman who is totally content to keep to herself. Silver-haired, skin as tough and lined as that of the cows, she walks the fence line every morning to be sure its secure. She smokes like a chimney and has a soft, small voice, unless she is cursing a blue streak at the livestock, at which point she can be heard for blocks. She’s hard of hearing but won’t wear a hearing aid. I’ve never, ever seen her dressed up, and she’s never had a gentleman caller. Actually, as far as callers go, they are just not allowed. She has never even let anyone onto the porch of her small house, which is cluttered to the point of appearing abandoned. I learned early on to stand outside and “hallo the house” if I needed to speak to her.
I have only touched her once. I came to tell her that one of her horses had died, as I could see him lying stiff in the pasture one early morning – she already knew, and had called the renderer. He had been one of her favorites and he was very old. She got teary and choked up telling me about him and about how he had tended the younger horses, and I impulsively gave her a hug. You could feel the shock emanating from her body, but she relaxed for just a few seconds, and seemed to sink into me, as if she hadn’t felt a human touch in decades. The next time we met, I gave her a gentle hug, thinking a barrier had been broken, and felt that shock again, followed by a corpse-like stiffness – she held herself as still as if her response to my touch would kill her. I released her immediately and never tried again.
She’s been trying to sell the farm for years, as in the community, they tax unbuilt land at a higher rate than built land (to discourage small farms and increase their tax base by building businesses and Grey-Poupon communities in their customary greedy fashion). But she has been stubborn about what she wants done with the land, and while she’s come close to selling several times, it has always fallen through, as the developers, in their endless greed, refuse to honor her wishes about housing density, open space, and residential/commercial balance. I think they’ll have to wait her out til death.
The cows have been a source of entertainment, odors, noises, and education for me over the years, and I am so happy that Kelsea has had the chance to share this. It’s rare in this world to grow up literally across the street from livestock. While we’ve missed the actual births, we’ve seen calves less than an hour old (and I’ve heard cows birthing in the middle of the night). We name each new baby. We rejoice when Dude, the stud bull, is allowed into the front pasture. And we’ve witnessed his passion. In fact, he’s been incredibly prolific in the past year.
Every so often, the cows have gotten lose and made a break for it. We’ve found ourselves herding them back to the farm from the small streets in town, heading them off at the pass, so to speak, before they hit the real world of the SuperTarget parking lot – though that would be a novelty, wouldn’t it?
What does all this have to do with the subject of this blog, you may ask?
This morning, as I was drowsily gazing through the slats of the bedroom window blinds, two cows came trotting quickly by the cottage in the open space just on the other side of the split-rail fence. They were followed by nine calves, charging through the grass, with a few more adults bringing up the rear. It was a surprise and a delight, as I have missed the cows since I have moved out. The folks at the Big House are total environmentalists and animal lovers, but they told me when I moved in that they had come to an agreement with the neighbors that they wouldn’t use the open space behind the fence to graze their cattle, because they didn’t like the smell. I don’t know what happened to that agreement, but I love that it’s being violated.
I got up to see what the cows were doing, and just outside the kitchen window, a love scene was taking place. Not something as romantic as Romeo and Juliet, but a tender courtship – dare I say it reminded me of some of my own?
A sweet (albeit booty-full) brown-and-white heifer was complacently nibbling on the dewy grass, and carefully wooing her was a huge black bull. He was snuggling up to her side, sniffing her, gently nuzzling her flanks. At one point, he reached up and tried to bite off a lilac bloom. She was coyly ignoring him, but not running off as I have seen unwilling females do, and so clearly receptive to his delicate attentions on this fine spring morning. It was as if they were flirting, as if she was special to him. It was lovely to watch. When I went outside to see them without windows in the way, they both looked at me as if I was interrupting, and moved slowly away together.
And so, livestock love. What a perfect way to start a beautiful day.
Do you remember the last day of school? I don’t think I’ve thought about it in years. Kelsea has always really liked school, up until this year, when, with the onset of adolescence, the sleeping-in and boredom factors seem to be surfacing. She still likes it, but more for the social aspects than for the academic challenges. She’s really bright and creative and likes to be able to think outside the box – she doesn’t like doing work for work’s sake and wants to be learning things that will apply in the real world, not just because they’re on the prescribed curriculum. I totally sympathize, but we all have to pay our dues. That said, she’s still a straight A student and I’m so very proud of her.
Today, after dropping her off, I saw a boy about her age walking to school. I see him most days when I drop her off. Nice looking, but he always appears to be walking to his cell for the day. Today, his step was bouncy, and he actually looked me in the eye and smiled as I drove past. And that’s what got me thinking about the last day of school.
It was indeed like being released from a jail sentence. I can recall watching the clock ticking down, waiting for that final bell to ring. And then, we were out, with much whooping and screaming. The summer stretched before us like an infinite field of possibilities. Our only requirements were to sleep in, read, hang out with friends, bask in the sun, and watch TV. Things like getting along with your brother were recommended, but not required. And impossible when he decided that the best way to introduce you to the Rolling Stones was at full volume by your ear as you slept on a lazy Southern morning.
Kelsea, like me, is not overly tidy, so I silently empathized with her on locker clean-out day. (There’s where that homework assignment went! And that’s what happened to that lunch I thought I lost! And what is THAT???) I did the mother-thing and dashed over to school yesterday to shell out $20 for a yearbook, which I thought I had ordered at the beginning of the year. I’m glad she has one. They did a cool thing this year, that I’ve never seen in any yearbook, and put some photos and captions of milestones in the country and the world that occurred this year. It will be good for her to show her 6th grade yearbook to her kids and be reminded that 2008 was the year Barack Obama became president and Mike Huckabee roped a hot pink steer head.
And then there are the signatures, a testament to how the language has changed since I had yearbooks to sign. No more “Stay sweet — have a great summer!!!!!” Now, it’s all “BFFL” and “OMG, ROFL about Marshmallow!”
Kelsea and her friend have gotten a yearbook for S., who will be in the hospital for some time to come, and are getting everyone to sign it — including S’s “crush”. I know she’ll be pleased.
So now it’s about forty minutes until that final bell. Clouds are gathering to the west, but there’s not a kid in school who will care. I think I’ll go over just to see her as she gets out. That joy of 900 students being set free for three months has got to be contagious.
I don’t quite recall when I started measuring time by full moons. I think it was after my first trip to the islands, 5 years ago. It seems unbelievable to me that it has only been 5 years since I have been going down there. My travels have changed my life in more ways than I would have thought possible, and opened me up to a wealth of experiences and people I otherwise would never have known.
The moon has always played an important and mystical role in my life. It has been a touchstone, a pearl in the night sky that has watched my tears splash on my thighs, a sliver that has cradled my waking dreams, a semi-star that has connected me to people I love thousands of miles away. It’s brightness has awakened me countelss times, and I never mind – each time that happens, I am wonderous.
It’s the planet of my birth sign, it influences the tides of the oceans that flow in tempo with my blood.
I have never wanted to visit the moon, but have always enjoyed being able to see the topography of its surface on bright, full nights. On a less romantic note, I think about all the trash we have deposited there in our efforts to explore and understand it, as if we can ever understand a planet – we can’t even take care of our own.
The moon is an important component of so many of my memories. Karen dropping to her knees and saying a prayer to it in the K-Mart parking lot when she saw the moon rising huge and orange over the horizon. Watching it eclipse from a railyard with a near-forgotten waiter from Pyewacket, while dogs in all directions barked and howled. Skinny-dipping beneath its beams in White Bay. The first time I laid eyes on the beach in Tulum, lit only by moonlight and bright as day. Sailing on Temujin in Lake Michigan and watching it make a slow track through the sky. Improvisational dancing to Sam’s “Ode to the Moon” during a multimedia performance when I was 17. Holding it in my hand after tequila on a warm Mexico night.
On my first trip to the Islands, I went to the famous full moon party at Bomba’s on Tortola. I was so sunburned from snorkeling I could hardly move, and I attended with a friend I’d made on the beach a few days before. I was so not into it. I couldn’t move without hurting, and everyone seemed to be standing around waiting for someone else to do something interesting. It reminded me of a Frat Party. My friend was jumping around, having a good time, drinking mushroom tea, but it just didn’t work for me. It’s one of those things I’d try again though – could have been my state of mind that night.
Bomba’s aside, the moon on the islands, on the water, was magical, and once I got back to Colorado, I found myself looking for it in all its phases. My once-in-a-lifetime trip turned into every six months (or more often if I could squeeze it in), and I started counting by full moons – only 5 more full moons until I go back, only 4, only 3…
Time has always been a game for me – sometimes I can control it, sometimes I can’t, but it’s something I play with. Sometimes measuring things in terms of days feels longer than weeks, months feels shorter than days, it just depends on me, on the thing I’m measuring, on the day itself. But measuring by the moon offers me a stable, reassuring feeling. It doesn’t mean that I’ll necessarily be returning during a full moon. It just means that there will come a day when the face of the full moon will shine down on me, and shortly thereafter, I’ll be by the sea, letting its rhythms charm their way into my body and soothe my soul.
Each month, having that moon grow full and round, edge up into the sky over the plains, sink down behind the mountains in the early morning, provides solace and comfort, a reminder that some things, like love and the moon, are constant and eternal.
Just one more thing to be thankful for.
About two weeks ago, one of Kelsea’s friends had a brain aneurysm. A beautiful, healthy 12-year old girl. Kelsea had just been at a sleepover birthday party with her two nights before.
Kelsea and her other friends were broken-hearted, worried, sleepless, tearful. The counselors at her school have been exceptional, pulling in Kelsea and her other friend who were closest pals with S to talk with them individually, instead of with the rest of the 6th grade. And they’ve asked her to come back several times to check on her. Kelsea’s been taking it well, talking with me, with her friends. One of the hardest parts has been not knowing. S’s family has been very quiet, not divulging much of S’s status until there was something more definite to divulge.
On Friday, there was word that S was awake, out of her post-surgery drug-induced coma, and wanting to see her friends. That was wonderful news. So today, Kelsea and I and one of her friends and her friend’s mom drove down to see S. It was hard, wonderful, poigniant. She is still on some pretty serious medication – I don’t know what. The scar on her skull, partly hidden by her hair, is harsh. One eye is drooping. She is barely able to walk and is exhausted. But she loved seeing Kelsea. It was a little awkward, Kelsea not quite knowing what to say, so I gently encouraged her to hold S’s hand, give her a hug, tell her about the choir concert. Once S realized Kelsea was there, she kept saying her name, asking to be next to her, reaching for her hand, almost to the exclusion of their other friend. And when S reached over and said to Kelsea, “You are like my sister,” I think we all got teary. S was asking about all her friends, about school, telling the girls that she was having to learn to walk like a little baby. Her cognitive functions seem to be very, very good for all she’s been through.
S’s dad, two grandmothers, and small sister were there, with her dad being positive, helpful, brave and treating S just as he always has, which is just as it should be, and just as I guided Kelsea to do. I couldn’t ask him anything, as I didn’t want to put him on the spot, perhaps being unable to say something in front of S.
Kelsea wants to go back every day, and I’ve promised we’ll go next week. I can’t help but feel for her family. I won’t even imagine going through that experience with Kelsea, and I’ll say a small prayer to the gods to protect her, and ask that this challenge never be to proposed to her – or to me.
But it is strengthening to watch injuries, whether they be of the brain, the body or the heart, heal. Faith plays a big role. The future can be bright regardless of the circumstances of the moment, if you just keep your hopes high and your faith in the universe strong.
Daily Blessing has been updated – and look to Monkeyeye for a Weekend in Pictures later this week. It’s been a while since I’ve done one. I actually have a backlog, but probably won’t play catch-up.
Denver is really a lovely city, even though you have to look closely. I want to get down there to shoot soon. And figure out how to make a living with my eyes.
Transition time: looking at possibly purchasing a lot on Eleuthera. At least I’ll have a piece of ground in the Caribbean on which to throw a tent.
Since, as I have said before, I feel that gratitude may be an important missing link in my life, I am starting the daily blessings page – daily may be pushing it at first but it’s important that we all remember to look for the little things that bring us joy. (And one of those is that I can indeed sound like a Hallmark card on occassion, and so have reason to laugh at myself.)
Please feel free to send a comment with something that warmed your heart today, and in the days to come, and I’ll be happy to include it here. The more we see to be grateful for, and the more we share the little joys with one another, the stronger and happier we will all feel.
This will be an interesting (for me) and soul-baring post.
As my world has turned upside-down again in the past 24 hours, I have had some revelations. Some before the polar shift, actually, and one in the tub just now. Yesterday’s was about my mom’s death – and my dad’s – and is best saved for a different post. Today’s is about me.
When I was 9 or 10, I was sexually assualted by our neighbor, next door to the beach house where we spent every August. He was old – in his 70s perhaps. I can’t recall much of the incident, which I suppose is a small mercy. But I can recall the smell of him – cigarettes, the spread on the bed, some of his words in my ear, his weight, the ceiling, and the view out the bedroom window of my own cottage, right next door, almost close enough to touch. But a universe away. I couldn’t tell anyone for years. I spent months making lists of how to avoid him, in anticipation of the next summer. When we went the next summer, he had died.
I look at my sexual behaviors that have focused on power, not intimacy, for all of my adult life. Those same behaviors that are now costing me the one person I have truly loved, because he cannot be convinced that I will not betray him. Those behaviors that served me in a few ways, and were a disservice to me in so very many more. And laying in the tub, trying to breathe, I realized that all I have done with men since that late August afteroon so many years ago, is try to be in control of them before they could be in control of me, before they could hurt me – in any way, before they could do what Mr. Sutton did to me 37 years ago. And sex was the only way I knew how, because of that day, and because I couldn’t tell until it was too late for me to unlearn it. It was so very shameful, and unbelievable.
My soon-to-be ex-husband blames our sexual problems on this experience that he claims I have never really told him about. I have, many times. He just chooses to forget. He has his own demons.
I have been in and out of therapy since my 20s. Of course this came up. I processed pieces of it. But only pieces. Over the last few years, as I came edging into a sense that I might be able to love, I started examining the fringes of my behaviors, of my past. But I didn’t know what to do with it. And there was no one to help me. So it was still, leave them before they leave you, push yourself away.
And then, last summer, just as I had made some resolutions to change my sexual patterns, along came someone who I could love. It felt different. I fell in love walking along a beach and after a little time, I realized I had found a home in this man’s heart. I felt my heart expand in a way I had never imagined. I could open up myself to him about my past, about what happened that day. I processed more in his arms than I had in all these years of therapy and solitude. I gave fully of myself and my heart to him. I finally felt safe. I had never – NEVER – felt safe before.
And now he is gone.
I am not asking for pity. I cannot change my past, and I am not very proud of it. And there have certainly been worse women than me. I am just lost now, without that safe circle of his arms. And it felt important to tell.
Pain makes me more prolific. That’s not a good thing on many levels.
Being alone is nice. Being lonely is not. Once you have discovered what it is like to not be lonely, after you have spent your whole life being lonely, it is killing to try to go back. Impossible.
And so, I work. I will indeed work myself into an early grave. Why not? At least it will give me some new destination to which to travel. I am considering tacking back on job number 3, which was catering. It fills the time, and brings in money, to whatever end I am still making money. And leaves me less lonely.
There’s no point to my dreams anymore. Maybe next go-round.
Three fitting quotes on dreams:
- Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. – Mark Twain (maybe?)
- We live as we dream–alone… – Joseph Conrad
- When we can’t dream any longer, we die. – Emma Goldman
I am so tired. I am not a drug to be 12-stepped out of. I am a loving person. I want my guy’s arms around me. As I sleep and as I wake.
“When a man knocks you down and you can’t get up, you bite him on the leg. You just don’t quit. When I quit, they’re going to be puttin’ dirt on me.” – StoryCorps interview
And timely.
Sleep? Elusive. Worse than ever. And all through the wakeful night, a single mourning dove, calling loudly, outside my window.
Nothing could feel worse – until this feels worse. Which it will. But still, I wear the ring, and the amulet.
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