Baciami Ancora

Love this song!

Sung by Lorenzo Jovanotti

My Kind of Shopping

My family has a Thanksgiving tradition--the day after our big feast we go shopping. No Black Friday sales here. I, and fortunately the rest of my family, am not too fond of getting up ridiculously early to fight other crazy people in order to get the store sales I can get from the comfort of my own computer chair. No, this type of shopping does not involve sales or fighting traffic. Instead we drive out into the middle of nowhere, take a bumpy ride on top of some hay bales and make our selection in the fields.

We picked out our 2010 Christmas tree.

This has been our fifth year getting a real tree. Despite the trouble (read: lots of pine needles on the floor) and potential fire hazards, we keep going back for more. We name our tree every year and unfortunately I can't recite every past name, though the Hershey Kiss one was quite memorable.

This year we've named ours Larry Bob.

Very apropos or just random? Let me add my niece and nephew named him. I named our tree Angelina one year, which seems more seasonal to me, but then what do I know? I'm just a boring grown up.

We made our selection quickly. Even though the sky was a perfectly clear, painfully bright blue, it was fairly chilly. I was bundled in a sweatshirt, fashionably scruffy scarf, jacket, windbreaker, thick gloves and stocking cap. I also made my sister wear earmuffs, despite her protests (I put them on her when her hands were occupied with the nephew). When you have big ears like me, you become highly conscious of the cold breeze whipping around your head.

After our quick hayride back to the store in the Steeler wagon, they shook out our tree to loosen any pine needles or stray animals. What they neglected to loosen were two birds nests we found while stringing up the lights. I pulled them out, praying there were no dead bodies in them. It occurred to me only later that maybe having the nests in there would have added to the authenticity of our real tree.

We finished trimming the tree late that night (Our trimming did not involve scissors of any sort. I'm not certain I understand that word in relation to Larry Bob). With the tree ablaze, we followed another tradition: turn off all the lights and watch our handiwork blinking in the darkness with Christmas carols playing in the background.

Back at the Ranch

I am cow number 2!!

I had this revelation a few days ago and it has stuck with me. I realize how random it sounds and it probably makes no sense if you haven't read my blog  "What I learned from a cow". As a refresher, Cow #2 is the one that runs over anyone and everything, including her friend Bessie who is blocking her way, to get what she wants.

That analogy has really been nettling me because I'm not beating people down to get to my freedom (at least I don't think so). I've not run any of my friends over in my haste to get out of a situation...right? And then it hit me: the question isn't "have I run over people to get to my freedom?" It's "what I have I given up or trampled on in my impatience to get to what I want?" Maybe what I want is a certain place, my vision of where I think I should be right now.

Personally, I think my biggest problem is my impatience to feel the euphoria of love, of being wanted. I get a glimpse of the possibility of a relationship and there I go, Cow #2, antsy with the fear of being left behind. I step all over God and my convictions just to get the brief rapture of instant gratification.

By the time they got Cow #2 out of the chute, Bessie was laying on the ground, looking significantly flatter than before. I was terrified she'd been crushed enough to have broken something. The worst part was, Cow #2 hadn't escaped her fate - They still had to round her up and put her back through the chute anyway. All her crazed tearing  had been for nothing.

I'm tired of being Cow #2. I've caught a flash of me in her and it isn't pretty.

The Night Sky

For those of you who didn't know, Sunday's full moon was blue.

The most widely accepted version of a blue moon is two full moons in one month. But the earlier concept of it was different:

"When four blue moons occur in a season, the third one is considered a blue moon. Because most seasons only bring three full moons, this rarity is celebrated. The fourth full moon of autumn will occur on December 21." (taken from http://www.myfoxboston.com/ If you want the full article, click on the link at the end of my blog.)

The moon has been stunningly gorgeous the last few night. Sunday night was, of course, a full moon. The night before and tonight have been just as beautiful. I love when the moon is so bright you can see everything else by it. I've often wondered if it's possible to drive by moonlight on nights like this, when just beyond my yellow-tinged headlights, the so-white-it's-blue moonlight blankets the passing scenery. Excuse me my whimsy, but moonlight has a touch of magic to me. The fact that this last full moon was a blue moon, making it even more rare, tickles my fancy.

Gorgeous, clear nights like this remind me of nights in New Mexico. We used to go out to White Sands and watch the stars, especially in August. August is the prime time to see shooting stars there, though I don't know why. It is an amazing thing to watch. The nights were cool sitting under the clear midnight bowl, so we would take a light jacket and a blanket and watch the night show like we were there to see fireworks.

Good memories.

http://www.myfoxboston.com/dpps/news/why-novembers-full-moon-is-a-blue-moon-dpgoh-20101122-fc_10732037

Morning giggle

I was listening to Huey Lewis and the News this morning and it made me smile, which is an impressive feat, as I don't show much emotion most mornings (think zombie). The song was "The Heart of Rock and Roll." Of course I knew they said the heart of rock and roll is still beating and from what Huey's seen he believes 'em. For the longest time I though he was saying the old folks might be barely breathing but the heart of rock and roll was still beating. Now doesn't that strike you as cold? Did he not care about the old folks? And what did they have to do with rock and roll?

I had no idea I had the wrong lyrics until recently, when a friend of mine corrected me and we had a good laugh at my expense (he wasn't sure of the lyrics either but he was fairly certain Huey wasn't singing about dying people). That's okay. For years, I thought Elvis was singing about his suspicious thighs.

Funny interlude

In the interest of taking time to smell the roses and breathe, I've compiled a list of funny quotes that make me laugh. Enjoy!

A child of five would understand this. Send someone to fetch a child of five.
Groucho Marx

A lot of people are afraid of heights. Not me, I'm afraid of widths.
Steven Wright

Alimony is like buying hay for a dead horse.
Groucho Marx
(That one was a little cynical but I found it funny. And I love Groucho.)

Cross country skiing is great if you live in a small country.
Steven Wright

Curiosity killed the cat, but for a while I was a suspect.
Steven Wright

Drawing on my fine command of the English language, I said nothing.
Robert Benchley

Electricity is really just organized lightning.
George Carlin

Human beings are the only creatures on earth that allow their children to come back home.
Bill Cosby

I bought some batteries, but they weren't included.
Steven Wright

I don't need you to remind me of my age. I have a bladder to do that for me.
Stephen Fry

I have a new philosophy. I'm only going to dread one day at a time.
Charles M. Schulz

 (The above quotes were taken from brainyquote.com)



Happy de-stressing!

Let Me Let Go

Dear God,

I've either been afflicted with an outpouring of irrational hormones or I am stressed.

I cry at the drop of a hat, I get crazily angry over ridiculous things, I can't seem to get enough sleep, my shoulder muscles are so tense it often hurts to turn my head and my digestive tract has gone on strike--an angry, violent strike of protest. All I have to do is think about my future (which is coming in three weeks, no make that two and a half now) and my intestines clench up. I write down what I need to do and I want to quit because I feel overwhelmed. I go over what I'm not doing and I find myself making room amongst the mess of shoes on my closet floor to curl up and hide.

When did I become so stressed, God? When did life cease to be an adventure and become a mess to straighten out? Want to hear something horrible? I heard the other day that laughter is a great way to destress. I thought back and realized I can't remember the last time I had a good belly laugh. Not just laughing, but the kind of side-aching, tears-flowing laugh that makes your stomach muscles sore.The kind that makes you hold your sides; the kind where your face hurts from holding that huge grin. You wipe away the tears of mirth and say, "Oh, I needed that." And then you break into fresh gales all over again.

When did I become so serious?

Was it around the time that I decided You were taking too long and I would take over? Or was it when I looked into the future and became scared spitless at the vast unknown? Whatever it was, I started to make my own plans. After all, Your plan was taking too long. So my Plan A didn't work out. Huh. Well, Plan B is looking kinda shaky, too, not to mention it's not the Plan A I had my heart set on.

Okay, fine. You're turn. Since I can't seem to plan right, I'm going to let You take over. But I don't see a plan in sight!! My insides are clenching as we speak, God! Has anyone ever told You that You move too slow?!

*Deep breath* Yes, God, that was me just trying to take over again. And yes, that was tiny little me telling the Creator of the sun, the planets and the stars that His timing is too slow. Oh, and you made the moon too? Right. Forgot about that one.

Obviously I need to let go of my perfect dream world, where it all works out according to my version of perfect. Because my version of perfect obviously isn't Your version of perfect. And I think You would know perfect much better than me, right?

I need to practice this letting go thing, God. Alright, pep talk time. Repeat this: God is big, I am small. He knows better than me. God is big, I am small, He knows better than me. I am big, God is small, I know better than He. No, wait...Ugh!!!!!

I'm gonna go hide in my closet now, God.

Future Runner?

I picked up two workout CDs yesterday from Sam's. They're from the TV show The Biggest Loser with almost two hours of hard core exercise music, called "mega-mixed", whatever that means. I put the Cardio CD on and I couldn't help doing a Tae Bo move or two, just to test the rhythm out. It was pretty darn nifty! That's how I get into the exercise mood: put on good music. My adrenaline starts rushing, hips moving and I can't sit still.

Doesn't that sound like I'm a fitness freak?

Yeah. Not so much.

I buy these CDs in hopes that I'll download the songs to my phone and get motivated to run on a regular basis.

Yeah.

I'll let you know when that happens.

In the meantime, I'll keep my fantasy of being potentially faboulously fit because of my new CDs. This is my happy little dream world.

Pt 2: What I Learned From the Back of a Cow

Real life.

That's what I have been stepping in all morning. That's what I am about to stick my hand into right now.

The vet, a stooped-shouldered, gray-haired, bespectacled man who looks as though he's lived through four and a half decades of cow palpating and castrating, orders me to put on a glove. When it comes to doing things that make me nervous or scared, I'm not much of a pushover; I have no qualms about saying "no" if I feel uncomfortable. But when Doc tells me to put on the shoulder-length glove, I find I can't disappoint him. He says everyone should palpate a cow, or feel an unborn calf, at least once.

How does one feel an unborn calf, you ask?

With a shoulder-length glove on.

Palpating the female cow means the vet puts his or her hand into the anal cavity of the bovine, reach into the uterus and check for a fetus, or in the case of the cow I am about to palpate, a seven-month bred unborn calf.

After squirting liquid dish soap on my glove (worn on my left hand, even though I'm right-handed, per Doc), I eye up the back end of my patient. She is quiet and docile. Doc has already palpated her and learned she is not only sweet-tempered, but my last chance to do this, since she's the last cow in line. I stand directly behind her and mentally prepare myself. My conversation earlier with Doc goes through my mind:

"What happens if, when your hand is inside, she decides to poop?" Cows are not known for holding their bowels. In fact, I had gotten a picture earlier of a calf who got too close to his mother's hind end. I've seen cows go anywhere, any time, no matter who or what was under them.

With a completely straight face, Doc answered me. "You gotta be quick."

So said the man who is now covered from the waist down with bovine excrement. And he still has to drive home.

I take hold and move her tail to the side with my right hand and press into the anal hole with the other. I know I'm making a face because the others are laughing at me. Especially because my left hand isn't going anywhere.

"You gotta push harder." I think Doc might be laughing at me, too, but it's hard to tell. So maybe I'm a bit tenative in my reach. I have no desire to be kicked by a cranky cow who has every right to be, considering what I'm attempting. The cow backs away from me and I grit my teeth. Remind me again why everyone has to try this? I want to ask this out loud but I'm afraid to be lippy with a man who puts his hand in cows for a living.

I decide I am not going to wimp out. So I widen my stance and push harder. Little by little, I push in and I realize, with a jolt of reality, that I'm halfway up my forearm in a cow's rectal cavity. My left arm is now the warmest part of my body, which, in a gross sort of way, is nice, considering I had been clutching a cup of coffee and shivering to keep warm two minutes ago.

It doesn't get much more real than this, does it? This isn't a pre-packaged filet mignon or a T-bone steak hot off the grill. This is life unprotected, living outside my little suburbia box.

Her muscles are contracting around my wrist. I am completely focused on the odd sensations.

"Do you feel it? Are you in there? The hoof is right there." Doc is shooting rapid-fire questions at me. How do I know if I'm "there"? Pressing my hand down I feel bone. All I can picture is a restaraunt commercial with rotating ribs over the barbie.

I press my arm in further and I feel a lump. I make a shocked face and I see a flash. Great. They are now taking pictures of me with my arm elbow deep in the back end of a side of beef.

"Do you feel it now? Try to grab the hoof." Doc is talking to me through the side of the chute. I nod my head, pray I'm not grabbing a lung or a bladder and reach for the lump. It's round and immediately pulls back. The cow pulls back, too, and I take my hand out. I laugh in sheer delight--I just touched an unborn calf! 

Everybody should try it.

What I learned from a cow

It's the beginning of November, a chilly, overcast day in eastern Ohio to update a herd of cattle on their shots. I'm at Faith Ranch to take pictures of the updating, as well as...well, let's call it working the cattle, which is a polite, ranchy way of referring to the de-bulling of the male calves, as well as palpating the female cow or checking for pregnancy.

After rounding up the cattle, they seperate the calves from the mothers and lead them to a different pen. The pathetic mooing is loud but it works out because I get some great close ups of the calves. Through my lense, I observe how slobbery noses are really cute when there's a fence between me and said leaking nostrils.

Next they work the cows (all females) by sending them one at a time through a series of metal fences into a chute. The closed metal fencing is just wide enough to accomodate one bovine at a time, so a single file line has to walk through. Since a cow's main goal is to get away from the scary humans, they are eager for any hint of freedom. The cow in the front of the line (heretofore referred to as Bessie) sees a clearing in the metal fencing up ahead - an open door! Bessie goes charging through the doors, only to learn it is just wide enough for her head. And when she pulls back, she discovers she can't get her head back out. Her only chance for release is to wait until the handler opens the chute. In the meantime, the cow behind her has been blocked by a swinging metal gate so that the only cow in the chute is Bessie. The same swinging door that has closed off the way for the other cows has created an open doorway that allows the vet access to work the cattle.

I'm shivering. My heavy fleece liner isn't doing much for my cold hands. I hadn't brought gloves because I thought they might interfere with pressing tiny buttons on my Nikon. Now I wish I'd cared a little less about the pictures and more about the cold. I step up to the chute to catch the eyes of the vet in my picture, when the cow, whose head was currently stuck in the chute doors, starts throwing her weight around in protest. I watch through my viewfinder and learn something very profound:

Cows are stupid.

So maybe this is a gimme. No writer has ever written sonnets to the amazingly intelligent cow.

The thing to remember about cows is their mindeset; because they're prey, their instinct is to shy away from the hunter or whatever scares them, which can be anything from a dog to a plastic bag waving in the wind. Cows are easy to manipulate because of their fear (that is a lesson in and of itself. Read that last sentence again and tell me what fear makes you easy to be manipulated).

They are about to release the angry mama cow from the chute when they wave me to the side out of harms way. When the vet opens the doors, the cow breaks out of the chute with head down, hooves diffing deep. This bovine is determined to get out at all costs.

I watch the little kick she gives in her exit dance and I think we should all thank God for this fear cows have because she is gigantic. All cattle have a one-track mind: when they want to get away, they will run through, over and under anything that gets in their way. Anything to get away. Thank goodness they don't know their own strength otherwise cows might could rule the world. I am amazed that the narrow chute is holding up. Rusted through as it is, it very nearly doesn't. Speaking as one who stands to get hurt if the chute gives out, I'm taking this as a miracle straight from God.

Later, it is down to the last few cows and I've set aside my camera. More drama is unfolding. The rancher is trying to get three cows to obey and walk toward the metal fencing. The cows are having second thoughts. I've never seen a cow fold herself in half, but Bessie does. On her way through, she sees the chute and decides she doesn't like it. Instead of going forward, she turns her nose to the back of her hide and squeezes herself to the side. She has managed to get herself stuck, bent in half.

Cows in a panic are dangerous. I've read about, sung about (I love you, Chris Ledoux!) and watched stampedes. But there is nothing that comes close to the exhilerating, heart-pound fear of being up close and personal to a herd of stampeding animals. Even if the stampede is not in full all-out-run mode, it is an awesome sight. Hooves hitting the ground with loud thwacks while their heaving bodies strain to get away. I know it's full out panic when I can see the white of their eyes rolling in their heads. Now picture only two or three cattle, all full grown, in a tight maze of metal fencing. Bessie gets a sniff of freedom through the metal doors. She gets excited, rams her head through the opening, expecting to bust through to the other side. The second and third cows get excited and think they'll reach the promised land soon, too. Remember when I mentioned that swinging metal door, closing off the other cows? If the metal door operator misses his cue, cows number two and maybe even three can seriously hurt Bessie in their panic. They don't care that Bessie is stuck. They are so focused on release, they will climb over and/or under her to get out, a complete mindless disregard of who they hurt.

I watch this scenario play out as Bessie, after unfolding her bent self and managing to get free, has fallen for the chute trick. She rams her head through the doors and now can't go anywhere. Cows number two and three have decided that freedom lies through Bessie. Number two is on top of Bessie, sharp hooves digging to sniff through the doors, while cow number three has lifted Bessie and number two off the ground in an effort to go under. There is a cow pileup and I feel terrible for Bessie, who has now become a beef sandwich between two alarmed idiots.

I have an introspective moment while clutching the steaming coffee cup, my numb hands holding tight to the fleeting warmth of the styrofoam: how often am I cow number two? How often do I hurt someone in my rush for freedom, my panicked need to get away? I wonder if we sometimes resemble cattle to God.

I have no time for deeper thoughts because the stooped, wizened, commanding vet has just summoned me. I hand off the coffee to its rightful owner (I had just been borrowing the heat). Climbing over the metal fencing, I head toward the box of gloves with trepidation...

To be continued in Part 2: What I learned from the back end of a cow

P-Potatoes

"What are these called?"

"Tomatoes." He answered me dutifully, like the good three-year old he was.

"What color are they?"

"Red."

"Good job!" I love asking him his colors. I realize it's silly but I think of the world in terms of colors and smells. Therefore, I believe naming colors to be important. Alright, and maybe I just like to hear how smart he is.

I walked over to the garbage can to throw something out and he stretched on his tip-toes to reach a small green tomato on the counter, the last of the homegrown tomatoes my mother collected from our garden before the first frost in hopes it would ripen indoors.

"What this? It not red." He held it out to me to examine for myself. After I went into far too much detail about the tomato growth patterns, he lost interest and I put the green tomato back.

Grandma called to him from the other room. "Honey, do you want a potato with your meal?"

We were prepping dinner and grandma liked to cover all her bases. When he shook his head I told her I wanted one. His little body held still for a second to consider his options. With a tiny finger on his lips, he answered gramndma again.

"I want tomato!" He chased into the dinning room where she was taking the cooked potatoes from the microwave.

"Honey, these are potatoes."

"Tomatoes," he insisted.

"Puh," grandma pronounced clearly at him. "It starts with a 'p'. Puh-tato."

"Tomato." He was very firm in what he knew, apparently.

To show him the difference, I grabbed the green tomato off the counter and showed him. "You want a tomato? Like this one?" I teased him by pretending to walk toward his dinner plate.

"No! No, I don' want. I want tomato."

"But this is a tomato." I made another pretend pass at his plate with the offending green fruit, his face a cross between giggles and horror.

"No!"

"You must want the tomato not potato. I'll just out this on your pl-"

Giggles lost the battle and he yelled in horror. "No! I don' want the tomato. No! Don' want!" This was not a happy child and this was not an inside voice. This was the beginnings of a genuine fit, which made grandpa not happy, with a time out ensuing.

For my three-year-old nephew, not me.

I was the adult in the relationship, right? I felt a flashback to when I was younger and got my brothers unfairly in trouble.

Lesson learned: I may have grown up but the mischievious little sister in me still shows up from time to time. Gotta work on that.

Road Trips

"One [reason for the melancholy I feel] is that, though I am here in body, my mind and my nerves too are not yet altogether here. We seem to grant to our high-speed roads and our airlines the rather thoughtless assumption that people can change places as rapidly as their bodies can be transported. That, as my own experience keeps proving me, is not true. In the middle fo the afternoon I left off being busy at work, and drove though traffic to the freeway, and then for a solid hour or more I drove sixty or seventy miles an hour, hardly aware of the country I was passing though, because on the freeway one does not have to be. The landscape has been subdued so that one may drive over it at seventy miles per hour without concession whatsoever to one's whereabouts. One might as well be flying. Though one is in Kentucky one is not experiencing Kentucky; one is experiencing the highway, which might be in nearly any hill country east of the Mississippi . . .Our senses, after all, were developed to function at foot speeds; and the tranisition from foot travel to motor travel, in terms of evolutionary time, has been abrupt. The faster one goes, the more strain there is on the senses, the more they fail to take in, the more confusion they must tolerate or gloss over--and the longer it takes to bring the mind to a stop in the presence of anything. Though the freeway passes through the very heart of this forest, the motorist remains several hours' journey by foot from what is living at the edge of the right-of-way."

Taken from Wendell Berry's Recollected Essays 1965 - 1980

Aging Halloween

I've decided I'll be a fairy for Halloween this year. I say this year as though I've had previous years of costumes. The truth is I'm a bit of a recluse. Other people live to dress up this time of year. Me, I watch people in their costumes and wish that were me. But instead I stay at home. This year is different - I have a party to go to. (I say that with pride, which strikes me as a bit pitiful)

A friend and I wandered around the Halloween store for hours looking for just the right costume. They have quite a selection of, shall we say, revealing outfits. There was the referee, the milkmaid, catwoman, batgirl, elvira, school girl and scottich girl. There were over 70 costume choices under the category of "slutty", usually involving thigh highs, boots or both. As I was looking over the selections, part of me was thrilled at the thought of looking like these volumptuous models, like I've always dreamed of looking in a Halloween costume. The other half of me was appalled that I would be on display in skanky fetish outfits for any male to see and lust over. I think of this as a sure sign of my age.

I finally decided on black fairy wings and dark makeup. I felt a girly sort of giddiness when I thought of the fun I would have wearing fake, sparkly eyelashes. The other part of me thrilled at the cheap cost of makeup and wings. Halloween has become ridiculously expensive.

  

I tried on the wings tonight with the outfit I had planned and I realized another sign of my age: I am not willing to be on display if I'll be cold. I'd rather be comfortable. I wonder if fairies wear sweaters and boots?

Dotted Line

                I drive two hours three days a week to get to college. I knew early on this would be a drain on me but I hadn’t realized just how frustrating unexploded road rage can be. I had a friend who told me the reason his priest lived so long was because he never learned to drive. I have to wonder how many years I’ve aged in the last three semesters; people on the road drive me crazy! Some days I think there’s a trend. There must have been a memo sent out to all tan SUVs the other day, because they all drove in the left lane on the highway. Every one I passed. It has to be a conspiracy, designed to make us all choose public transportation. The summers in Pittsburgh are the worst. Nothing makes me crazier than when the construction barrels come out, which have now wisely become concrete barriers to protect PennDot from angry drivers such as myself. Does it really take 5 months to fix a [bleep!] exit ramp?

                In a strange sort of dichotomy, this weekend I took a long drive to get away and relax. I picked a spot on the map that was straight highway, pointed my car in that direction and drove. My friend told me I was crazy. Five hours in a car relaxes me? When I come close to homicide on a daily basis for school? Let me explain.

                When I take a long drive, I know I have hours to myself in that car. There isn’t much in this world I can control, but for a short amount of time, I know I have me, myself and the music I choose to listen to at my command. With my little red Matrix and my brain set to cruise control, my mind can wander where it will. I’ve worked out many issues on long car rides. I can let myself think and think until I’ve either exhausted my brain or worked the problem out in my head. I can cry, I can yell, I can sit in silence and marvel at the scenery. I can put on angry music, sing at the top of my lungs, pretend I’m on the movie set of Thelma and Louise with the wind in my scarf or stop at any billboard-advertised store that catches my interest along the way. On long road trips in my car, I am free.

                This weekend was a gorgeous time to travel. The leaves must have been at their peak because the colors I saw while driving across the countryside melted every tension I had taken with me. I got to see the sunset and travel for a time with the sweet memories twilight brings with it. I can smell Kennywood at any given twilight, when the lights are just being turned on and that’s when I know it’s time for funnel cakes. Or when lightening bugs used to come out at my Gram’s place so thick they would light up the field with their blinking lights. I would dance around the yard trying to catch them while she watched on from her lawn chair, crocheting in the fading light.

                Driving at night is my least favorite time to drive because the passing scene is blanketed, bedding down for the night, a place I should have been had I left two hours earlier. The cars in front and behind me become my only world and I grow easily agitated with trucks and their painfully bright headlights. The drive is saved, however, because there is something soothing to me about the dash lights, a soft reminder of drives past when I would wake up in the van my father piled us in for road trips. The glow would throw a vaguely green cast to the gray in his beard and the sheen of his skin as he accepted a cup of coffee my mother poured for him from his army green thermos.

                What can I say? My car is my happy place.

Out of Control

            I found the Big Dipper pretty easily. I also found all of Orion, which I’ve never been able to see in the city. I even found four or five Little Dippers, which probably says something about the depth of my star knowledge.

            I’ve always wanted to sit on the hood of a car and watch the stars from an overlook. It sounds lonely and romantic and full of pathos. It certainly sounds better than gingerly walking through a pasture in deep darkness with no street lights to guide me or even horizon city lights off in the distance to brighten the edge of the night sky. I kept one eye out for cow patties and one eye out for the mean-spirited bull. That meant I had no eyes leftover to appreciate the night show spread over the darkest blue dome above me. I‘ve heard of people having a third eye, but I’ve never been able to find mine. Perhaps I’ve misplaced it? It’s entirely possible, as I’ve misplaced most everything else in my life.

            Oops. Eyes one and two failed me—I slid in something a little too soft and squishy to be dewy grass.

            I’ve never thought of myself as a city girl, but then I’ve never thought of myself as a country girl either. I suppose that would put me in the suburbs but the country girl in me resents even that title. However, with a dome of splendor above my head, surrounded by loud, bellowing, angry moos, slipping in nature I’d never meant to, I felt more like a city girl than I ever had in my life. All I’d wanted was to soak up the atmosphere! Instead I was stepping in it.

            I’d done this night excursion so I could be with the horses in the dark. Taking away one’s vision has a way of enhancing the other senses and I was eager to experience this blindness with a horse. I hadn’t planned on experiencing it with noisy cows as well. By the time I had found a looming, hulking shape in the darkness and determined I wasn’t about to snuggle up with a cranky bovine, I realized just how tough it would be without sight. Until that night, I’d never understood just how reliant I was on my vision and how helpless I felt without it, how out of control.

            I stroked the horse I’d come across, whose name was Solomon I think, and thought of my fear. How ridiculous I was being. I couldn’t shake my fear, the instability of my situation. Horses are wonderful and calming and sweet. And terrifying because they spook easily. One minute I could be finding comfort in Solomon’s presence and the next I could be knocked over by his big body, shoved out of his path in his rush to get away from whatever had scared him. Horses, by nature, are prey. They have to be aware of everything around them in case a lion or loud human might jump out and have them for dinner. Or breakfast. Or lunch. In the dark, I became more and more alert because I realized I wasn’t in control of anything. Without my vision, I was helpless to see and anticipate what might spook Solomon. My night excursion to find peace had become a precursor to finding a masseuse—every muscle in my body was tensed and ready to give flight.

            By the time Solomon ambled off, I was ready to head back to the main house. To lights. To a place where I could see. At the very least, to a place where I wasn’t afraid of what I couldn’t see.