tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22245005937975334662024-03-18T23:04:56.283-06:00word after word"a word after a word after a word is power" - margaret atwooddeanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-20927778624778186972014-09-10T12:10:00.000-06:002014-09-10T12:12:16.510-06:00how to enrich your life.It is September, I have just returned from a wonderful but somewhat dizzying month-long trip to Europe, I'm putting on sweaters and scarves, and I am trying to enrich my life.<br />
<br />
To sum up the trip: being in foreign places anchored by long histories marked with suffering and triumph, walking every day for a month straight on cobblestone, looking at art I've only read about or seen pictures of online, listening to languages I don't understand, reading <i>The Age of Innocence</i> on so many trains, jumping into the Mediterranean and letting the waves roll over my face, never spending more than a fifteen-minute-long shower's length of time apart from Eric, trying to absorb everything right into my marrow so I can feel like the experience was real.<br />
<br />
Now, back home on the ranch, back at work where I'm attending webinars on fundraising techniques between teaching children how to ride horses and cooking meals for large groups of people, I'm thinking seriously about how to enrich my life. To accept that I cannot quit my job and just be a "writer" or an "artist." (I use quotations intentionally, and I'm trying to give up the idea that these are things you just suddenly become, rather than things you just are or aren't -- and if I'm not, then maybe I'll have to accept that, too.)<br />
<br />
I signed up for an adult novice concert band. Last night I went to a church in a somewhat seedy neighbourhood and played the flute with other people for the first time in nine years. It was a humbling experience. As it turns out, I've forgotten how to count to four, and how to breathe. <br />
<br />
I'm re-reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ariel-Poems-Sylvia-Plath/dp/B000MPQ3F4" target="_blank">Ariel</a> and trying to remember how to talk about poetry, with the help of <a href="http://www.lizziederksen.com/" target="_blank">Lizzie</a>, who very much knows how. And I have big plans to clean out the office and to set aside two hours on Sunday nights to go into the room, close the door, and write. And, as I usually am when the weather turns cold, I'm thinking about winter crochet projects.<br />
<br />
All of this to try to hedge the winter ennui that I know is coming. This year it took till August to shake it. Maybe this fall I can start by being more grateful for the life I do have.<br />
<br />deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-21322862033897374852014-06-26T15:30:00.002-06:002014-06-26T15:40:05.616-06:00after a long timeThis was a long winter.<br />
<br />
It followed a tense and difficult fall, and was only broken by a busy and stressful spring. Now summer is opening up on the Ranch with clouds of mosquitoes and the sweetness of Alberta roses. Mornings are warm and bright. Everywhere is green leaves or blue sky. I come in at the end of each day smelling like sunscreen and bug spray and horses. Just like I used to.<br />
<br />
Except.<br />
<br />
I haven't slept in a month. Every day I force my body to do the things bodies are supposed to do in the daytime: have open eyes, put food in mouth, go to work, speak to other people, shower, brush teeth, wait for sleep. When the day is over and I think sleep might come, it eludes me, always. I am awake while everyone sleeps. The dog snores. Eric faces away from me, buried in his pillow. I keep checking the time on my phone, lighting up the room with little disappointments -- it's just later and later and later.<br />
<br />
If I didn't live in the wilderness, I would leave the house. We used to stay up until dawn, remember? Talking and talking and talking and talking over craft beers and sometimes pipe tobacco and sometimes campfires, and always Garneau. I don't know what they do now, if they still do that without me.<br />
<br />
But now I'm in the quiet of the countryside. No cars, no backyard parties next door. Just the hum of bugs in the air and the wind in the trees. The breaths of horses and the songs of frogs. And at three in the morning, before the birds have woken up and before the sun thinks of rising, I'm awake and alone.<br />
<br />
It's been months since I've written anything. I tried to strangle out a poem this winter, but it wouldn't give. I've been reading a lot about the creative habits of writers and artists, trying to glean what it is that makes art work for them and not for me. It is hard work for them, too, but they've got an idea to start with. Something to go on. To work towards finishing. The process after that idea comes is different for everyone.<br />
<br />
How long do you wait for an idea? At what point do you just surrender to your life? To going to work, speaking to other people, making plans with friends, being a nice wife, a worthwhile citizen? To putting on sunscreen in the morning, running my hands over the smooth summer coats of our team of Belgian horses, to standing on the deck next to Eric and looking out at the wide green world? There is nothing wrong with any of these things. They could be enough, maybe.<br />
<br />
But I would like both. The ideas, the words -- and to surrender to my regular life. And, of course: to sleep for a month straight.<br />
<br />
<br />deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-58829390735595111592013-08-09T17:52:00.000-06:002013-08-10T00:14:45.990-06:00i love my home (part 1: south cooking lake)Everyone mourns the lake.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What used to be a thriving waterfront for boating, canoeing, fishing and swimming has been disappearing for decades. Lakes don't really dry up; they just fill in, slowly, from the bottom to the top with sludgy sediment eroded from the watershed and from decomposing plants. What used to be a lake deep enough for horses to swim in over their heads is now probably no more than a foot deep. This kind of lake is classified as eutrophic: shallow, weedy and filled with organic matter. It is evolving into a wetland before our eyes. Large areas have given away to vegetation.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSN1w_USz1_3zkh7SPPB9lqcK-rqSmsrHPGTdEqh0RFmdI5ByetCsGjGcAlpdzL3bAEG4ilFWaBat4rVr2DGNdLoHZcWoBWv5S4GMwSjY6YFMKUQEkXs6VEFpsIJ9erdUeP2harLJV0KG7/s1600/IMG_0506.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSN1w_USz1_3zkh7SPPB9lqcK-rqSmsrHPGTdEqh0RFmdI5ByetCsGjGcAlpdzL3bAEG4ilFWaBat4rVr2DGNdLoHZcWoBWv5S4GMwSjY6YFMKUQEkXs6VEFpsIJ9erdUeP2harLJV0KG7/s200/IMG_0506.JPG" width="200" /></a>Shrubs and wayward canola grow in the very bay that I once canoed across as a child at summer camp. It was a windy day, I was nine years old, in an aluminum canoe with two other girls my age. One was scared and crying; she wouldn't paddle. We were blown clear across the lake, coming ashore on someone's farm. I remember looking back towards our own shore and thinking it looked so far away. Other kids in other canoes paddled around the shoreline, but we were lost in some distant land, not knowing what to do or how to paddle effectively enough to get back. Eventually, a camp staff member rescued us and towed us to safety. To this day, when I look across the lake and see the field dotted with cows and the idyllic red barn, I think of sitting in a canoe at the edge of that field, wondering whether we should ask the farmer for help. But the idea of the lake being choppy enough to make canoeing difficult is almost laughable now. So much has changed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Four summers ago, a large bull moose waded out into the lake, as I'm sure he had done for many summers of his life. They like to eat underwater vegetation. They stand long-legged in lakes and ponds, dipping their noses below the water to tear up tender grasses and weeds. But this moose hadn't kept track of the way the land is always changing -- how you can never take nature for granted. As he waded deeper and deeper, he sunk down into the sludge beneath the water. Down past his belly. Stuck out there, he must have fought a long time to free himself, but by the time we saw him, he was mostly still. We heard his moaning cries. We could see him from the area we use for campfires with the kids at camp. The little girls all cried for him, begging our staff members to rescue him, their fingers all pointing out past the large wooden cross that stands on the beach to the suffering soul in the water beyond. Fish and Wildlife had to come out the next day. They went out in a canoe to assess his situation and determined there was no way to save him. I was standing on the soccer field with a group of twenty kids around me when I heard the gunshot. The kids, startled, looked to me. I told them it was fireworks. The fact that it was mid-day didn't seem to occur to them, and they believed me. They went on playing, and that night their week of camp was over, so they all went home. I wonder if any of them ever thought of that moose again. Now there's no sign of him; the area is filled in with reeds.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4HqrMd8oA4hoOC-Z-xbLir1I-kjes5CpvB5KWUTHCSngT1liJZHnPp_48kq3gz9DCIB97DkDwkojGJJI3VZwoHMn7PZKGPZoixCk2wA7ItmpYykLEB3umJ1wQwaQRu3tkrKw4IVeHZxg/s1600/IMG_0689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4HqrMd8oA4hoOC-Z-xbLir1I-kjes5CpvB5KWUTHCSngT1liJZHnPp_48kq3gz9DCIB97DkDwkojGJJI3VZwoHMn7PZKGPZoixCk2wA7ItmpYykLEB3umJ1wQwaQRu3tkrKw4IVeHZxg/s200/IMG_0689.JPG" width="200" /></a>So often I ride my horse alone up this shoreline. His hooves flatten reeds and tall grasses to the spongey ground. His footsteps scare up crickets and frogs. Sometimes the grass is stirrup-high. If I look up the shoreline, I can imagine I'm somewhere very far from civilization. Somewhere very wild. All I can hear in those moments are the sounds of my horse moving through the grass and the buzz of insects and the wind through the leaves of poplar and birch and the calls of birds and the splash of ducks moving across the water. And sometimes, my own voice, as I speak to my horse and to myself and to God.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There may not be water-skiers and fishermen on this lake anymore, but there is so much more here than ever before. The vegetation grows wild. What used to be a sandy beach is now overgrown with cattails, bullrushes, bushes and saplings. The ducks, geese and other shorebirds are thriving in ways I've never seen before. Once, while I rode my horse along the lakeside, what seemed like a thousand birds took off from the water's surface and flew over our heads; the sound of their wings beating was deafening. Awestruck and a little afraid, I craned my neck to watch them pass us and fled to the water around the bend.<br />
<br />
In the early spring I can hear the constant mating calls of ducks from my house. Watching ducklings and goslings swimming along behind their mothers is a special pleasure. And in recent years, I've seen much more wildlife activity in our back pasture area, a mix of forest and meadow that borders the lake. I regularly see deer, moose, osprey, falcons, owls, coyotes, and even bald eagles. Just last night while walking my dog, I was followed by a red-tailed hawk, who cried at me to stop invading his privacy. I'm not sure if this increase in wildlife is related to the fact that our lake is becoming a wetland, or if I am just more conscious lately of what goes on in nature around me. Either way, it has been an incredible gift, and I want to share it with as many people as I can.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDQVt7yA9WauDO4krLrH3oXS7KRsgk_ljsxEtIkuJzg61wq9KR9Y-B0kHbCX1JKFnjtHnfmFIry0OVRuuVpokNGHZQ5sCn1rEhEq45K6jJBVmD_r0Awzzu5u-4w1v6UuTV3CHjcCLqqY0K/s1600/IMG_1137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDQVt7yA9WauDO4krLrH3oXS7KRsgk_ljsxEtIkuJzg61wq9KR9Y-B0kHbCX1JKFnjtHnfmFIry0OVRuuVpokNGHZQ5sCn1rEhEq45K6jJBVmD_r0Awzzu5u-4w1v6UuTV3CHjcCLqqY0K/s200/IMG_1137.JPG" width="200" /></a>Last week, I had the kids at camp making sandcastles down on this wild shore. I found four little clearings in the trees and brush that miraculously held soft, clean, non-weedy sand. The kids ran around collecting wildflowers, sticks, rocks and moss to decorate their creations. They dug moats, putting their hands into the same sand that I'm sure I felt between my toes when I was nine years old, standing on the shore with a canoe paddle in my hand. I looked at the trees that never used to exist but are now taller than me, and wondered what this lakeshore will look like in another fifteen years. Or thirty, or fifty, or a hundred. Long after Birch Bay Ranch no longer resides on this shoreline, what will it look like? Will the clearing where we have our campfires stay clear, or will the aspen forest overtake everything? Will there be any people here to build sandcastles and ride horses, or will the only residents be birds, moose and beavers?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyxa3I6aotB3y77Qfp-OZ6EG96b39_McFMyml-jpCXJjCUPDUtGrR1_-EHEGPVfYb7O9fG2v8rmJfs2L5LSaN8jz0Olj30FI6_glC5-DbhU5BotTsIdgP4JHm4PomOxdtXIVFCH-ZquqfS/s1600/IMG_1138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyxa3I6aotB3y77Qfp-OZ6EG96b39_McFMyml-jpCXJjCUPDUtGrR1_-EHEGPVfYb7O9fG2v8rmJfs2L5LSaN8jz0Olj30FI6_glC5-DbhU5BotTsIdgP4JHm4PomOxdtXIVFCH-ZquqfS/s200/IMG_1138.JPG" width="200" /></a>Everyone mourns the lake, wishes it would come back deep and clear. Longs to splash out into the waves in bathing suits, dreams of boating along its surface, of standing happy and shivery on the shore, water dripping from their hair onto sunburned shoulders, smelling of sand and sunscreen and something vegetal, like algae. But I see the thriving community of plants and animals who have moved in now that we've moved out, and I don't mourn it the same way the others do. We can still use this lake, interact with it and enjoy it. I am glad to hear bird calls and watch ducklings grow and listen to frog songs. God created so many different and incredible things -- I hope I'll be able to cherish them all.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And nature has a way of reclaiming what is hers. What will she do with this piece of water and land that I have known and loved for seventeen years? And will I be able to witness it?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-16431383241842027072013-08-09T15:33:00.000-06:002013-08-09T15:35:40.381-06:00night<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I kept a typewriter<br />I carried a little dark suitcase around<br />I asked the proprietor for some or a little space<br />I was a stranger<br />I was always moving about<br />I knew there was lightning on the moon<br />I hammered gold letters against the wilderness<br />I hammered gold letters against the night<br />I held this light to myself<br />I had so little to say to all the rest</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><i>-- Alfred Starr Hamilton</i></span><br />
<h3 style="font-family: HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue Light', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif !important; font-size: 21px; font-weight: 200 !important; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0.67em; text-rendering: optimizelegibility !important; text-shadow: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.329412) 0px 1px 0px;">
<br /></h3>
deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-54759804533265605652013-07-08T15:45:00.001-06:002013-07-08T15:45:16.673-06:00presenceWell, I have been wrenched into the present at last. Slapped in the face by realities I never once considered a possibility. While I've been spending my days wallowing in longing for the past, or hoping for a distant future, I took for granted what was <i>now</i>. And I know that. I've known it this whole time, struggled against that fact, tried pulling myself out of the past, tried making myself feel present, tried swallowing that crippling nostalgia. But I can't do just by sheer force of will, and never have been able to.<br />
<br />
Well, I'm here now, present. And I am not happy about it. Now I'm scrambling to stop taking for granted all the wonderful things about our life here in the country. One day, we will not be young. One day, we will not live in a community where everyone loves us. Where nature abounds. Where I can step out the door of my office and let my horse breathe his sweet hay breath onto the palm of my hand whenever I feel like it. One day, the work we do will not be in service to a greater cause. One day we'll look back on this time and miss feeling passionate.<br />
<br />
This era, too, will pass. And I will mourn it for a long time.<br />
<br />
Maybe forever.<br />
<br />
To treasure a life -- how many of you can say you're really doing it?deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-44639658881597491112013-06-19T22:32:00.003-06:002013-06-19T22:32:58.537-06:00summertimeIt's summertime. When it isn't raining, the sun is hot. Alberta is such a funny place -- we live always between two extremes. Those long winters where the cold settles right down into your bones and doesn't leave for months, and these short, blazing summers where the sun seems almost never to set.<br />
<br />
Lately it's been muggy. Threatening to thunderstorm. Warnings of tornados break into our radio broadcasts and we find ourselves sitting on the floor in the basement laundry room, our dog, whining, on a leash. The rain will pour down for an hour and then the sun comes out and all that water comes out of the fields in a mist, all at once. Steam curls off our tin roof.<br />
<br />
I would spend more time outside if it weren't for the mosquitos. They're everywhere, in clouds, and they're insatiable.<br />
<br />
Lately I've been working on a project for work that enables me to spend time during the day photographing our horses. I have loved how each of their personalities becomes so evident on film. The silly ones are silly, the grouchy ones grouchy. The ones who know how pretty they are stand tall, ears pricked forward, eyes bright on some imaginary point beyond the lens. How do they know how to do that?<br />
<br />
Tomorrow night I'm going on a trip with my friends (we do it every year). I'm only about a quarter of the way packed; the rest of my clothes are currently drying on the rack in the laundry room. Part of me feels guilty for taking time off work. But the rest of me is thinking about laughing in the car and wandering through wilderness and drinking wine outside. And wondering what wildlife I'll see.<br />
<br />
When I get back, true summer will begin. I might not come up for air until September.<br />
<br />
<br />deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-82285872994591185492013-05-23T11:36:00.002-06:002013-05-23T11:36:21.146-06:00be here nowAre there other people in the world who are being as stifled by nostalgia as I am?<br />
<br />
I'm sitting in my office at a place I've always loved to work at. I have a nice life. I can ride horses whenever I feel like it, I'm surrounded by nature all the time. My husband is easily the best man I know. We are comfortable. The times here are not hard, even though some days feel impossibly long.<br />
<br />
But just now I heard a song that wrenched me back three years, to sitting at my desk in the little Garneau house. An open window, cool air, rain drops on the roof. The street was so green, everything was fresh. I'd be walking to work with a lime green umbrella later that day. I'd be staying out until the sun rose with new best friends.<br />
<br />
This memory, rather than just being a sweet little glimpse into a very different kind of life I used to live, seems to have closed around my heart like a tight fist. It seems rather than reliving happy memories, I immediately think, "I never go back."<br />
<br />
And that thought makes me feel immeasurably sad. It's homesickness, really. Homesick for another time.<br />
<br />
I'm never present enough to just enjoy <i>this</i> time.<br />
<br />
How can I be here now?deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-16758665585622019952013-05-06T16:27:00.001-06:002013-05-06T16:27:23.266-06:00thirty minutes or moreBecause I've committed to <a href="http://30x30.davidsuzuki.org/">this challenge</a>, I've been spending a minimum of thirty minutes in nature every day. So far, it's been easy. The weather has finally turned, and it feels like winter might not come back for a while. So I've been spending afternoons wandering around in the not-yet-budded aspen forest, sometimes on horseback, sometimes on foot, once at the reins of a team driving horses. Every day the grass in the field gets a bit greener. I can't wait until there are leaves on the trees. I've had enough starkness for a long while, I think. Those sharp contrasts of wintertime have ceased to inspire me. The ice has come off the lake, at least. And I thought I saw some tiny new buds on the mayday tree at my parents'.<br />
<br />
It is a wonderful gift, being out in the world.deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-53397984728165838602013-04-17T15:11:00.000-06:002013-04-17T16:43:26.802-06:00workdays in a new seasonFor two days, the sun has shone brightly, and warmly, and I have felt restless and trapped behind my desk. Yesterday, I rode a horse and called it work. I'm struggling with having the self-control not to do the same today.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This afternoon, my sister and I took some photos of donations I've received for our silent auction. She climbed a mountain of snow while wearing a donated backpack, rode a bicycle around the office and dismantled a tool kit. I can feel new crowsfeet forming from this concentrated half hour of laughter.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wish all my days could be like this.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-69726173521232044892013-04-02T12:13:00.001-06:002013-04-02T12:13:25.526-06:00of snowfall and sunshineMaybe now it's happening. Spring.<br />
<br />
It had a few false starts this year. It got my hopes up, and then brought more snow. The shelf of ice that has been creeping over the edge of our roof was growing more terrifying by the day, but yesterday Eric knocked it all down once and for all. Some patches of the road that runs from one end of the ranch to the other are actually clear of snow. Eric and I marvelled in the fact that for the first time in months, there was gravel under our feet.<br />
<br />
Springtime brings another set of horse chores. The horses are all shedding their winter coats like crazy. I watch them scratching their bodies on the fence. Our mare seems to be in heat and repeatedly escapes her pen in search of love. Unfortunately the only stud on the property is her own foal from last year. He is under careful lock and key, so there won't be any funny business, but until her heat cycle is over, she has to be kept in a stall in the barn. Which means the stall needs to be mucked out, her water needs to be constantly changed as she loves to fill it with hay, and she needs to be hand-walked so she doesn't go insane. Tomorrow, I'll be catching all 29 of our horses and bringing them in to have the farrier trim their hooves. I'll be giving them dewormer and maybe even their vaccinations, if I have enough time. I'll be brushing them to help them lose their itchy winter coats and sending them back to their pens, ready for the upcoming season of trail rides and summer camps. I don't really have time for any of this, as I actually have three other jobs.<br />
<br />
On Friday, my sister and our friend came out, and we rode our usual trail ride loop twice. Sebastian was headstrong and excitable. My sister rode a new horse we just bought last week. He is tall and golden and beautiful, and was just the best gem a horse could be on our ride. When the other two horses were snorting anxiously and trotting sideways at the possibility of a moose in the trees, he remained steadfast and calm, walking out like nothing was wrong. I'm so happy to have him here.<br />
<br />
We hosted a big Easter dinner for our family. I made an enormous bone-in ham with farmers' market perogies, pickled beets and fresh buns. My sister brought a salad and Eric's mom brought a sweet and spicy bean dish. There was much wine and beer involved. I love to have them here. Their willingness to visit us out in the country means more to me than they probably know. Without the possibility of visitors, there is a little layer of loneliness over everything out here.<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago, Eric and I stood outside our back door in silence, listening to the sound snowflakes make when they hit the ground. Have you ever heard it? Every bird and wild animal had burrowed away for the night. There were no cars or trains or any other vehicle within earshot. There was no wind, no leaves rustling. Just the snow falling onto the ground and our breaths held in our chests to hear the noise it made when it met the earth.<br />
<br />
I just need more good days. I need the sunshine to stretch onwards for a few more weeks. I need new grass to begin growing, new buds on the trees. More hopeful days like the ones this weekend, when the sun felt warm on my face and the snow began to recede. And then all will be well.<br />
<br />
<br />deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-54887618882342996282013-02-21T11:03:00.001-07:002013-02-21T11:03:12.804-07:00colourless<div>
Everything today is white or grey. There is frost on everything: every branch and needle in the forest, every eyelash on every horse. It kaleidoscopes into patterns on my truck's windshield and builds up around the fencing wire. In the early morning a fog unravels over the field. It is a blank, white space.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I feel colourless.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Winter goes on forever in the country.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-79737512772219272892013-02-16T11:44:00.002-07:002013-02-16T11:44:48.692-07:00under sea and snowIt's the middle of February. I don't like this month very much. It's when winter starts to really bear down on top of me. And I am desperate to see some green leaves. At work, I daydream of lying in a grassy field. I miss tee-shirts and not having to wear long underwear. I want to sit on my front porch with a coffee and read a book for a while.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Last night was another technology-free night for Eric and I. We do it once a week. It does a person good to unplug for a while. I gave him a haircut for the first time, with mediocre results. We had a picnic of bread, cheese, sausage and olives. We drank a bottle of wine and played Trivial Pursuit. Then we went to bed and I read aloud to him Rachel Carson's essay, "Undersea"<i> </i>from the book of her posthumously discovered writings, <i>Lost Woods</i>. It was too beautiful not to read out loud. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've felt lately like making things. Considering art. Remembering sewing. The afghan I started in the fall and never returned to. Building things with wood. Scavenging things to be repurposed, renewed. Eric says there's solid oak from an old church pew lying in a pile of scrap wood in the shop. We've been talking about buying canvasses and paint. He and I could do so many things.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I guess I could start by taking in the Christmas lights in from the porch.</div>
deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-86822247129973120242013-02-06T00:42:00.000-07:002013-02-06T00:42:04.027-07:00one resolutionToday I rode a horse into the woods. He has not been tacked up since October. He was jittery and tense, strong in my hands and ultra-sensitive to my leg. He has gone a bit wild, this winter, whereas I've gone the opposite. I have drawn into the comforts of my warm home. I haven't been out in the woods on horseback all winter because I am comfortable indoors, and, to be honest, I'm afraid of what I might encounter. Horses don't like to see moose -- first their ears prick in the direction of the animal, before I can even see it. Then they stop completely and stand stalk still, their head up, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, all of the senses trying to determine the exact cause for alarm. Their bodies tense. By the time the moose is visible, they've already decided their instincts were correct, and they usually choose that favourite response of theirs: flight. And I happen to know there's a moose and her calf living somewhere near my house. Plus what sounds in the night like hundreds of coyotes.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless: today, my horse and I went into the woods. First we rode out onto the frozen lake. Right to the middle of it, where we stood and looked at the expanse of white running southeast until it blurred into the blue-grey treeline and curved around the bend out of sight. I have never stood in the centre of a frozen lake before. Now I can't imagine why not. Afterwards, we turned back into the forest and followed a trail worn down in the snow by paw prints. I can't be sure it wasn't made that way by our own dogs, but I'm fairly certain this was a well-travelled coyote route, as I often hear them howling from this direction. Eventually it fizzled out, so we had to blaze our own trail through the bare, spindly bushes. We finally emerged into the big field, where we had to wade through three-foot snowdrifts. I am lucky to own a horse so large as Sebastian. I always know he'll make it through.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, I was sore. My back, shoulders and arms ache from the effort it takes to hold back an excited horse for an hour's romp through wilderness and countryside. But it felt good. Familiar. I know he will be more manageable each time I ride him. By spring we'll be galloping unconcerned through our back pasture. Down the lane that winds through meadow and forest, all the way to the lake.<br />
<br />
For now, this afternoon was just one resolution achieved.deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-5253147576879924772013-02-03T14:55:00.002-07:002013-02-03T14:55:55.025-07:00wilderness goalsToday, my dog followed some wild animal -- coyote? rabbit? -- down a bunny trail in the snow. I followed her through the trees past naked aspen and birch, an abandoned osprey nest, a tangle of red-barked bushes, until I found myself standing out on the frozen lake in the bright sunlight. There were no more animal trails out here in the open. Just clean snow. It felt like wandering through the woods into a vast meadow. But I knew there was water under where I stood -- or at least, there had been at some point. The dog was already so far away, bent on catching her prey. I felt quiet, and alone and wonderful.<br />
<br />
I have not been out in the wilderness enough. Living in the city, I made a point of it. I'd drive out here, get on my horse, and explore that lakeshore. Discover paths in the woods made by deer, follow them until they turned into nothing but bush. Once, while we galloped through a long field, a red-tailed hawk flew just in front of us. I have never felt like such a free, wild thing.<br />
<br />
But now that I'm out here, the woods and the lake and the meadow -- they're all just the backdrop to the mundane ins and outs of my regular life.<br />
<br />
It's February, now.<br />
<br />
A new goal: get into the wilderness at least once a week.<br />
<br />
As for January's goals (<i>complete my four sewing projects, ride a horse, write a poem, buy a calendar</i>), I did do a few of them. I sewed one summer sundress, with much frustration and some swearing and lots of wishing my mom were there. I did not ride a horse, but I did learn to drive a team of them and have, in the last week, driven four sleigh rides. I wrote a poem about a coyote. I bought <a href="http://www.designboom.com/design/pentagram-pantone-2013-calendar/">this calendar</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-70577820892790097092013-01-21T21:39:00.001-07:002013-01-21T21:39:07.658-07:00how i go to the woods<b>How I go to the woods</b><br /><i>Mary Oliver</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone,<br />
with not a single friend, for they are all<br />
smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.<br />
<br />
I don't really want to be witnessed talking to<br />
the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree.<br />
I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.<br />
<br />
Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible.<br />
I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise<br />
of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned.<br />
I can hear the almost unbearable sound of the roses singing.<br />
<br />
If you have ever gone to the woods with me,<br />
I must love you very much.<br />
<br />
<br />deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-25109047205746952652013-01-11T15:29:00.003-07:002013-01-11T15:56:05.343-07:00a creed<i>This is the personal creed of Dr. J.W. Grant MacEwan. I put this up on the bulletin board in my office to remind myself to always endeavour to leave things better than I found them. To know every day that my dependence on the land is fundamental. And to help myself not to settle for an ideology that is handed to me; rather to insist upon searching for one.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Dr. MacEwan wrote extensively on matters of conservation and the truly human stories of how Western Canada came to be the way we know it today. He made a massive contribution to the mythology of this region. He believed that we must nurture sustainable relationships with our environment and with each other in order to innovate. Also, he liked horses.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
*</div>
</div>
<br />
I believe instinctively in a God for whom I am prepared to search.<br />
<br />
I believe it is an offence against the God of Nature for me to accept any hand-me-down, man-defined religion or creed without the test of reason. I believe no man dead or alive knows more about God<br />
than I can know by searching.<br />
<br />
I believe that the God of Nature must be without prejudice, with exactly the same concern for all His children, and that the human invokes no more, no less of fatherly love than the beaver or sparrow.<br />
<br />
I believe I am an integral part of the environment and, as a good subject, I must establish an enduring relationship with my surroundings. My dependence upon the land is fundamental.<br />
<br />
I believe destructive waste and greedy exploitation are sins.<br />
<br />
I believe the biggest challenge is in being a helper rather than a destroyer of the treasures in Nature's storehouse, a conserver, a husbandman and partner in caring for the Vineyard.<br />
<br />
I accept, with apologies to Albert Schweitzer, "a Reverence for Life" and all that is of the Great Spirit's creation.<br />
<br />
I believe morality is not complete until the individual holds all of the Great Spirit's creatures in brotherhood and has compassion for all. A fundamental concept of Good consists of working to preserve all creatures with feeling and the will to live.<br />
<br />
I am prepared to stand before my Maker, the Ruler of the entire Universe, with no other plea than that I have tried to leave things in His Vineyard better than I found them.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Dr. J.W. Grant MacEwan, 1969</b></i>deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-82369721789303684532013-01-09T12:15:00.001-07:002013-01-09T12:18:41.177-07:00coyoteAt night, I listen to coyotes. I can feel them coming closer. As winter wears on, they are drawn inward to our little patch of civilization in their wide wilderness. The other night as I fed the horses, I could hear their cries. They sounded so close, I was surprised I couldn't see them. The dog ran back and forth at the edge of the horse pen, barking. His warnings made no difference. The coyotes called anyway. Have you ever heard them? Do you know that strange cry? It almost sounds like children screaming. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.<br />
<br />
And when I returned to my house, the dog suddenly took off barking up the road. In the moonlight and shadows, I couldn't see where he was headed, until his barks turned to whines and I saw him running back towards me. Something followed him, but stopped dead in its tracks when I stepped out onto the road. It had silvery fur and crouched low to the ground. The dog paced back and forth in front of me, barking.<br />
<br />
This is not the first time I have seen one. This fall, I encountered one while out riding my horse. The coyote stood in the middle of the road through our back pasture and stared at me. I was confident that he would be scared off by my presence, but he didn't move. Finally, unnerved by his steady patience and unblinking stare, I turned to leave. When I looked back over my shoulder, he was standing right where I'd left him, watching me. Waiting for me to leave.<br />
<br />
This morning I wrote a hasty, ill-constructed poem about these creatures I find myself sharing my home with. I have been thinking a lot about them. About their society. How a group of wild dogs might act. Do they understand the barking of the dog when he warns them to stay away? Do they recognize him as one of their own, just with different fur and a deeper voice? How close will they come?<br />
<br />
Sometimes I stand on the deck of my house and listen to them calling to each other in the night and I wonder what their voices mean. Why do they sing together? I stare into the dark tree line where the crying comes from. I never see them there.<br />
<br />
I hope this poem will turn into something better.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
<br />
<b>coyote</b><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin-top:0cm;
mso-para-margin-right:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt;
mso-para-margin-left:0cm;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sometimes i think it’s just you and me out here<br />
mostly when your cries sound like children<br />
somewhere close by and
desperate<br />
<br />
hungry<br />
<br />
i stand at the edge of a wilderness and look for you<br />
but you are much too clever to be seen<br />
are you scared? or are
you sure of things?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on the road where we met: you stared <br />
unmoving until i moved
first<br />
i know you watched until i was out of sight<br />
<br />
and i must never take for granted the patience of a wild thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></div>
<!--EndFragment-->deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-67042814257914175412013-01-04T14:19:00.001-07:002013-01-04T14:19:26.621-07:00before january 31stBefore the end of January:<br />
<br />
1. Sew the four projects I bought fabric for on Wednesday. (They're really easy projects.)<br />
2. Ride a horse.<br />
3. Write a poem.<br />
4. Buy a calendar.<br />
<br />
Seems simple enough.deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-81438068857220089962013-01-01T17:55:00.002-07:002013-01-01T17:55:14.756-07:00new years dayI need a calendar.<br />
<br />
And a studio space for writing and making.<br />
<br />
And to miraculously stop being so <i>messy</i>.<br />
<br />
And to have more energy, and to feel more comfortable.<br />
<br />
Beyond thinking a little about what I need more of in my life, I haven't come to any decisions for new years resolutions. I can't decide what I'm willing to commit to. (Probably "be more decisive" should have been on my resolutions list for the last ten years at least.)<br />
<br />
I guess, here's something tentative:<br />
<br />
1. Read every day.<br />
2. Create something once a month.<br />
3. Start riding again -- including taking some lessons.<br />
4. Organize and personalize my office at work so it feels less like some generic person's office and more like my own happy, inspiring workspace.<br />
<br />
And I want to say something about cleaning more, but really, I don't want to clean more. I just want to suddenly find myself in a nicer, more organized environment. As if by magic.<br />
<br />
As for the obligatory reflections on the year just passed: I hardly remember 2012 at all. I feel very far away from it already. We drove past our old house last night and it looked so perfect and familiar and, at the same time, foreign. Our lives are so very different from the ones we had living there. Not better or worse, I think -- just so completely different. For a minute I wanted to drive around back, let myself in and go to bed in our old room with all of our things there. But we don't live there anymore.<br />
<br />
I wonder if we ever will again.<br />
<br />
<br />deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-58018110480500114552012-12-27T23:35:00.000-07:002012-12-27T23:35:24.215-07:00a winter's nightWinter is cold and dark. Out here in the country, on cold, dark nights, I feel very far away from everything. Like a pioneer who has only her family and her horse the home she tries to make comfortable to survive.<br />
<br />
I am beginning, now, to feel the effects of isolation that living in the country bring. Even when people visit -- my sister and our old friend came for coffee just yesterday afternoon. Once they're gone I feel impossibly far again. When I am hungry, there is nothing to do but make do with whatever scraps of food I can find. I am used to living in the centre of everything. If I ever was hungry or lonely, I could go anywhere to find company and good food. Now it's just the two of us (and the dog) making ramshackle dinners out of strange leftovers and putting on snowpants as a part of every day's outfit.<br />
<br />
It's true: I wear snowpants every day. I just can't stand the stinging feeling of the cold through my jeans every morning, afternoon and evening while I go to feed the horses. Meanwhile my relatively short-coated dog ploughs headfirst through snowbanks with unbridled glee. My horse has icicles on his eyelashes. I am sure he remembers a time when he was brought into a warm barn to thaw out, be brushed, ridden in a warm arena, fed, dried and brushed again before being tucked into warm winter blankets and returned to his pen. Now he has only his shaggy winter coat to protect him. There is no warm place for him to go, here.<br />
<br />
I wonder how I'll feel in the spring. When my wonderful world of aspen forests and wide fields opens up again to greenness and warmth. Will I feel differently?deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-40622948206120945422012-12-19T14:29:00.000-07:002012-12-19T14:29:48.751-07:00Christmas giftsThere is a lot to do before Christmas.<br />
<br />
Besides re-vamping my horse feed program and attempting for the first time to wean a foal from his mother's milk (is my life weird?), I am once again caught up in the insanity of making all of my Christmas gifts. This will be the third year.<br />
<br />
This year, though, I've been away for much of the two months leading up to Christmas, so I've scaled back. If I didn't, I would go insane from the stress of frantically learning to be a better sewer, baker, candlestick-maker (literally). This year I've made sure to include at least one item that I hand-made, but have allowed myself to purchase meaningful objects to fill in the gaps.<br />
<br />
Lately I've been missing the city. Probably for its convenience when running so many Christmas-related errands. But I also think about my neighbourhood, the familiar shops and restaurants. My friend's pub. Our group of friends. Drinking coffee in good coffeeshops, walking the dog to the store to pick up a few things. Our small house and its innate coziness.<br />
<br />
But this morning as I walked from breakfast with my coworkers back to my house to get in my truck, the sun was lighting the treetops with the most beautiful golden, silver-edged light. The frost on the branches glowed and the stark outline of the forest softened into light. The moment was a gift.<br />
<br />
I must learn to be content where I am. To stop constantly mining the past for better times. During the time that we lived in that little house, I thought constantly of the time before that. I miss the feeling of being swept up in the <i>right now</i>, a feeling I've only had three times in my life. Each of those times was when I was fully engrossed in a new community, when I was making new friends I knew would be part of my life for a long time, when I was growing and felt loved and felt important. I miss all of those times equally. And that's just the problem: what about <i>this</i> time?<br />
<br />
I've been given a wonderful gift out here in the country. I will endeavour not to waste it.deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-73556131345934108412012-12-14T11:10:00.002-07:002012-12-14T11:11:39.116-07:00winter weekend's eveThis morning brought a bright white fog. This winter is so tone-on-tone. White on white on white on grey. The inside of my farm truck frosts up. The farm dog's black fur was edged with white frost this morning when he joined me for our morning ritual of moving the horses out of the pens where they spend all night staying warm by eating hay.<br />
<br />
It is cold out, but not too cold. Not impossible.<br />
<br />
There are so many chores to do. Hay bales to be thrown down out of the loft into the back of my truck and distributed. An oat bin whose lid has blown off and has filled with snow. Beet pulp and molasses and new halters to be unloaded from the back of my car.<br />
<br />
Today I received three wonderful pieces of mail. The first was a Christmas card and letter from dear friends who live in a house nestled into a hillside in southern Alberta. They are going about their daily life on their farm: caring for horses, collecting eggs from the coop. And then an envelope of two letters from a friend and past roommate who lives downtown. Her life is so different from theirs, but the common thread seems to be: <i>we are all just trying to get our work done and be happy</i>. And we've all got varying levels of success. But I worry about her, sometimes. The third envelope held gifts that same friend made me this spring. A small, handmade notebook and a handmade card that doubles as a coaster (I hadn't thought to use it as one, but she wrote, <i>ps: you can also use this card as a coaster for your beer</i>). I am so lucky to have such a friend. Her gentle skill with paper and fabric is such a gift.<br />
<br />
Now I wonder what I will send to her. What handmade treasures I can find in my home out here in the wilderness to bring countryside to her downtown apartment.<br />
<br />
Also, there's this: tonight my sisters and mom are coming to sleep over at my house. They are romanticized by my country dwelling. I am so happy to have them here. Their willingness to come assuages my fear that no one will ever visit me out here, that I will feel lonely and isolated, and so removed from the life I created in my busy city community.<br />
<br />
I hold in my heart the kind of excitement kids feel on Christmas Eve. It's good to feel this way.deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-7415278266691669932012-11-29T01:12:00.002-07:002012-11-29T01:12:41.427-07:00finishing projects and flying awayAt one o'clock in the morning, I've just finished a major work project, and am squeaking it in just before deadline. I am always afraid to let these things go, always worried that they will not be good enough. Will it be good enough?<br />
<br />
Now I have to pack for a work trip tomorrow morning, and I don't know what to bring. How casual will this conference be? In all of my years of being a professional, I have never felt comfortable with my chosen outfits for work. Always awkward, not-quite-right choices. Trying to make certain shirts seem fancier than they really are, wearing my one pair of dress pants three times a week, that sort of thing. Why do I never seem to have any nice clothes? Where are all of my cardigans?<br />
<br />
When I next return home, I hope I will sleep again. I might just settle into my normal life. Go to work without any huge impending projects. Crochet Christmas gifts for my friends and family. Attend Christmas parties, drink mulled wine, and try to feel like a normal human being for a while.deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-58224288266831612442012-11-23T12:31:00.002-07:002012-11-23T12:31:50.311-07:00ungratefulnessThis morning I am heavy with exhaustion, disoriented with sadness.<br />
<br />
No sleep last night. My head felt so heavy and full. Filled with lead. Insomnia is a plague that never leaves me. I can't remember what it feels like to feel rested.<br />
<br />
And I received some upsetting news. I know I've been writing about horses lately; it's hard not to when they're right outside my window, and I interact with them every day. It has been enriching to get to know them, learn about their individual personalities, scratch their fuzzy foreheads and warm my cold hands on their warm breath.<br />
<br />
We have one horse who is completely blind in one eye and slowly losing vision in the other. His bad eye has died and is shrinking back into the socket, seeping pus. I don't know how much pain he's in. It's hard to tell with him: he is just a doll. Even with his limited vision, he is never easily startled. He is quiet to work around, and often approaches me in his pen to be scratched. He has been here for as long as I can remember, carting kids around like a saint for at least a decade, probably more. I don't even think he's been off the property in all that time. The vet says that once his vision goes completely in the other eye, there is a great chance that he will panic, gallop terrified around his pen, running into fences and seriously hurting himself.<br />
<br />
I want to call a vet to put him down. It's the most humane thing to do. I understand that animals are animals, and that all life has an end.<br />
<br />
Instead of paying for a dignified end to his life of service, those in charge have decided instead to get some money for him by selling him at auction, where he will inevitably go for meat. He is old and blind -- no one with kind intentions is going to buy him. He'll get a per-pound price, and he will be loaded into a stock trailer with a dozen other horses and taken to slaughter. He will be terrified to the last second of his life. I cannot even bear to think of him there.<br />
<br />
Last night I cried for half an hour, knowing that today is the day. This morning, I brought him an apple and stood for a long time in his snowy pen, hugging him. With my face buried in his mane and my fingers woven into his soft winter coat, I breathed in his scent, one so familiar. Horses smell like sweet hay, mostly, mixed with something else like smell of earth. He was ever patient, standing quietly while I clung to him. I thanked him for everything he's done for us, and told him I was sorry about how we were repaying him. Even though he doesn't understand me, I told him everything will be okay. He looked at me out of his good eye, breathed his sweet hay breath into my hair. Tears came to my eyes again.<br />
<br />
Now I'm watching him out of my office window. I've left him in to free-feed off a big round bale all day. He goes this afternoon, and I don't know when his next chance to eat will be. I want him to at least be full and comfortable when he leaves.<br />
<br />
I wish I wasn't here for this. That if it had to be done, it could have been done sometime when I was away. So that I wouldn't have to load him onto the trailer myself, be the one to send him away. The others think I am too sensitive. Tell me he is not a person; he's only a horse. I'm not a child -- I understand that he's not a human being. But he has a personality, he feels comfort and excitement and fear. He feels pain. He has the capacity to interact with people, to be sweet to kids who have hauled him around his whole life. He has the capacity to be afraid at the end of his life.<br />
<br />
I wish I could be in charge of this decision. I would do everything so, so differently. Instead of ungratefully discarding him at some slaughterhouse, I would put him out of his pain in comfort here in his home, where he has spent most of his life and deserves a dignified end.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, life will go on. I won't be upset forever. There are so many other horses. So much in my life to think about besides this one particular horse. But today I am sad, and so tired, and ill-equipped to deal with this one gruesome fact of death and money.deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2224500593797533466.post-56157415663680606412012-11-21T11:36:00.002-07:002012-11-21T11:36:38.129-07:00hinterlandSometimes I forget what winter is like in the country. What fields of snow look like untouched by footprints and tire tracks, graders and gravel trucks. Just the delicate hoofprints of a careful deer. And even these marks will be covered by wind and fresh snow before the day is out.<br />
<br />
The horses have grown their winter coats. This morning when I fed them, frost clung to their whiskers and eyelashes. I often worry about them, but then remember that they are built for this -- their coats are warm, they know where to stand to be out of the wind. The frost on their muzzles will disappear as the day wears on.<br />
<br />
The land and sky today are white on white. The treeline at the end of the field looks silent and grey. Without it there would be nothing to distinguish snow from cloud. The barn looks especially red against this stark backdrop. There is a frosting on everything. Our dog is up to her chest in the yard.<br />
<br />
In my office, I light candles for warmth. Coffee poured into cold mugs turns lukewarm. Snow on the floor by the door melts into puddles.<br />
<br />
<br />deanna mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597252093347909091noreply@blogger.com0