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.