Second destruction:
Chainsaws echo night’s thunder,
The day after storm.
Surveying the Damage
*sigh*
I didn’t do it! It just fell off.
Good news: the intermittent rain & sunshine we’ve been getting helps the pasture stay healthy. Our maintenance methods are 99% organic.
I was washing my hair yesterday when suddenly, I thought of my NSOMNIASAUM blog. I couldn’t remember the last time this had happened (not the hair washing, silly!). So I looked at my blog, and…Holy Shit! I haven’t posted anything since April 1. Is this a joke? What happened? Where have I been? Why haven’t I been writing?
Well, to be fair, I have been writing loads of other stuff. I wrote articles for Points of Light Institute, State of Formation and Huffington Post. I wrote a long, boring document for the IRS explaining why Headwaters/Delta Interfaith ought to have tax-exempt status. I wrote 140 character tweets for various purposes and organizations. Mostly, I wrote to-do lists and then did the stuff on them, crossed the stuff off, and added more stuff. Lather, rinse, repeat.
But, still…April?
The other thing going on is that I feel like shit. I had surgery in January but by mid-April, my Endometriosis was acting up again. I don’t like writing about it. But I also don’t like NOT writing about it—you know, writing around it, pretending it’s not happening when it is happening. Plus, being in pain limits my energy so by the time my “real” work (whatever that means) is done, I’m pretty much done. Spending more time in front of the computer just to keep everyone up to date on how miserable I am…hmmm…that’s strangely unappealing. Go figure.
Also, as y’all know, I get pissed off, so I took an Anger Management class, and was SO excited to write about it…then (at the facilitator’s request), I sort of promised not to. It felt awkward to write about my life when I wasn’t able to discuss all the interesting internal crap that Anger Management stirred up, confronted, and redefined. But the class was a useful experience, and I met some marvelous, inspiring ladies. And OMG! Something profound happened, I didn’t blog about it, but…it was like it still actually happened! Who knew?
On top of all those lesser excuses, I’ve been incredibly busy being in love. Urban & I have been together for 17 years or something; now and then we’re ambushed by infatuation and can hardly tear ourselves away from each other. We stay up too late, have long deep conversations, make kissy faces, ignore our friends and exist in a goofy, magical bubble of our own. We stagger around feeling dazed, neglecting everything but each other. It’s awesome. And, right now, unexpected.
When I’m in pain for a long time, it wears us both down. I’m shaky and exhausted for obvious reasons but it’s also a strain on him. Here are some things I can’t do when I’m in pain and/or doped up from being in pain: the dishes, feed/turn out/bring in the horses, cook dinner, drive myself anywhere, run errands, mow the lawn, weed the garden, vacuum, change the sheets, do laundry…and so on. When I’m not well, Urban picks up where I leave off, often after he’s worked a 10 hour day and not gotten enough sleep because I’m worse at night and he hates leaving me alone when I’m suffering.
Normally, by this point in my pain cycle, we are strained, crabby, and making an appointment to see our marriage counselor. But none of that is happening. Instead, Urban is being incredibly sweet and unbelievably strong: taking care of me, taking care of our animals and 10 acre property, keeping track of everything, and doing it all with grace and verve. He humbles me.
So despite the pain and the angst that inevitably accompanies it, we’re ridiculously happy. I’m sure some of that is because we are already missing each other: we’re going to be apart for 8 weeks while I’m visiting family & attending Summer Session out East.
I’m both dreading and looking forward to the semester. I’ll admit that I’m worried about my ability to keep up with work and writing commitments and school while my body is screaming at me (SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN, SAUM! TAKE A NAP! STOP MOVING AROUND YOU BITCH, THAT HURTS!). But I love the luxury of being in a classroom rather than taking classes online, the challenge of Summer Session (16 week courses crammed into 7 weeks), and, face it, the libraries at Harvard are heavenly. Nerdvana! Besides the academic stuff, being in Cambridge is lots of fun, and I’m excited to (re)connect with some wonderful people I know in Boston, as well as make new friends. I resolve to socialize more and not to push myself so hard at school. I’ll let you know how that goes.
What I’m not resolving to do is blog here at NSOMNIASAUM. If I blog, I blog. If I don’t, I don’t. If you miss me, you can keep up with my rambling at State of Formation and Huff Post Religion. I’ll see you on Facebook and Twitter. You can call, too; anytime! You know me…I’ll probably be up.
I dunno about you, but I need a break from the serious stuff.
Last night, I acquired two fresh, ripe tomatoes from a friend and put them on the back seat of the Red Barron (our Hybrid SUV). When we got home, there was only one tomato.
I wondered: Where is the other tomato?
I looked on the floor, under the seats, in the hatchback. Urban & I had gotten into a stupid fight (as if there is another kind) on the way home, so he was like, Jeeze, now what? My reply: Well, SOMEBODY has to take care of things around here! At least ONE of us cares about the missing tomato! He gave me a long look, but said nothing and went into the house, because, really…there's no response to that.
I got a flashlight & looked again. No tomato.
After awhile I gave up and followed Urban inside, where we made up, ate frozen pizza and Thai veggie dumpling for dinner and watched the first half-hour of “Southland Tales.” No one mentioned the tomato.
Before bed, I asked, a little shyly, if he got the tomato and just didn’t say anything, you know, to fuck with me. We were fighting. He gave that same long look (if you’re married, you know the one) and said no. We went to bed. I wondered about the tomato for awhile before I fell asleep. Where could it be?
At about 2pm today, I am in the kitchen making lunch when I suddenly remember the tomato. It’s a bright, sunny day so I head outside, open all the Barron’s doors, and conduct a visual inspection. I even check the glove compartment. No tomato.
Did the Barron eat it? I think not. That goddamn tomato is in here somewhere.
I plop onto the grass, wish I had a cigarette, and stare at the Barron sitting in the driveway, doors agape. He’s not giving up his secrets. After awhile, Sabbath (our barn cat) comes over to see what’s up. Sabbath is inexplicably fascinated by our vehicles, and relishes the opportunity to explore them. He peeks in the front seat and hops up. This gives me an idea. I shoo Sabbath out, and go get the dogs.
Dogs can smell stuff, right? They use them to find lost people in huge tracts of land and collapsed buildings, so I figure a tomato in a Lexus should be no problem.
Barnabas and Shiduri have been observing the drama from behind the fence, and are delighted to be included. They rush out of the gate, see the Barron’s open doors, and throw themselves in. After some pushing and shoving, which B-dog predictably loses, they flop down on the backseat and grin at me in anticipation. I tell them we’re not going anywhere, and try to explain about the tomato. They do not care. Just like their father.
I am on my own.
Although they disappointed me, I feel bad that the dogs are excited to go somewhere, so I hop barefoot into the Barron and cruise around the neighborhood. When the dogs are in the car, I drive carefully. (I used to say “I drive like an old lady,” but a couple of years ago I got totally obliterated IN THE CELICA, my I-will-blow-the-doors-off-your-jacked-up-customized-Honda-with-the-ridiculously-huge-spoiler-you-gel-haired-little-punk car, pulling out of a stoplight on HWY 7, by a tiny little old lady in an Audi TT. She was wearing an “I Love My Grandma!” sweatshirt. When we stopped at the next light, she looked over, smiled, and said: I hope someday you can get yourself a real sports car, kid. I learned respect the hard way.)
Anyway, with the pups in the car, I drive carefully, which is boring but gives me time to think. At the intersection of CR 10 & 123, I have a brilliant idea. My normally aggressive driving is just what I need to deal with the tomato situation.
I take the dogs home, usher them out of the car and into the house, grab my purse, and hop back in the Barron, still barefoot. This shouldn’t take long. About halfway down our long farm driveway, I hit the brakes.
I was only doing about 10 MPH, but figure that’s enough to roll that little tomato right out of its hidey hole. I crane around and look at the floor of the backseat. I don’t see it right away, so I hop out, open all the doors, etc., etc.
There is no sign of the tomato.
I get back in the car, turn left onto Harff Road, and, getting up a little more speed, try again. Get out, open doors, look for tomato. Repeat. I do this about four times, going a little faster every time—I’m not crazy (really) so I’m not doing more than 25-30 MPH.
That’s when the Sherriff pulls me over.
Sherriff: Ma’am are you ok? Have you been drinking?
Me: Uh…no. I’m ok and I have not been drinking.
Sherriff: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: I look crazy?
Sherriff: (gives me a long look. I resist the urge to ask if he’s married.) You have been driving somewhat erratically. I’ve been watching you get in and out of your vehicle. Is something wrong?
Me: So, yesterday I got two tomatoes from a friend…
I tell him the whole story. He starts laughing when I get to the part about the dogs. When I am done, he give me directions to the nearest veggie stand so I can go get myself another tomato. I really want to explain that I ALREADY HAVE A PERFECTLY GOOD TOMATO and if I don’t find it, it will ROT and STINK in my car. But, sanity prevails. I just thank him and head home. This tomato thing, and the fact that I am the only one who understands that the smell of rotting tomato is not cool, is starting to piss me off. The cop didn’t care. Urban didn’t care. Even my dogs, who can usually be relied upon for empathy, didn’t care. Fine! I give up!
The Barron lurches to a stop next to the house; I slam my door and stomp towards the front door, then realize I left my purse in the car. I stomp back, tug open the passenger side door…
…and there, sitting on the passenger side floor mat, is the tomato. Red, shiny and silent. Where were you, little tomato?
I may never know. But I’m glad you’re back.
The world is encompassed in oval glass. The engine roars to keep you aloft; it should be deafening, but the enormity of where you are, how fast you’re going, how you stay here, is nothing more than a background hum.
Clouds scoot along a level scrim of sky, imperceptibly contracting, expanding, disappearing. You feel you could reach out and pop one into your mouth. Beneath that, the world stretches and rolls out a map of itself. These are the Great Plains. Vast marbled sweeps of floodplain and cleared fields are chocolate brown and fudgy black, luscious and rich enough to eat. Scattered forests look bushy; they curl darkly in on themselves. Rivers slide and muscle through the land. They are never blue.
Occasional cities clot and sprawl. Gleaming downtowns are bar graph topography at the center of large grid-plains of streets. Ringing this, you see lobed arrays of roads, trees and houses arranged in orderly arabesques, everything in agreement. Cars are sparkles of light, Morse code flashes against the dark flow of road. But these cities are not what cover the land. Most of what you see is farm. Tangram fields are puzzled together: straight edged and serious. Silos rise and flash beside arrangements of angular buildings: bright as a polished blade, tidy as a place setting.
Where is the wilderness? You’re surprised at how much land is strapped and planed and boxed up, neatly. Knife-edged. The sky remains the horizon.
Spring is ugly. It is cold and muddy. The yard is sloppy and muddy, the driveway is flooded and muddy, the dogs are stinky and muddy, the horses are shedding and muddy. Even the sky manages to look muddy. I am muddy too.
All winter, I imagine a Technicolor spring. I long for little green shoots bravely poking out of the ground, returning birds, blue skies, a photogenic season. After months shut in the house with my thoughts, I want to picnic in the pasture, to lay down on warm earth and throw my arms open to the sun. I want to thaw.
Instead there are endless days of rain, fog and drear. Roadside snow turns icy, black and toxic-looking. The receding ice age reveals eternally bright plastic bottles and flattened paper artifacts stripped of color. On our farm, five months worth of horseshit is exposed. It drives me nuts. I stand at the paddock gate and assess. Half the paddock is still under a foot of snow, the rest is boot-sucking bog. I’ll have to live with it awhile longer.
The horses, wet, mud-splashed and apparently balding, are itchy and irritable. Jetta glares at me. Styx widens her eyes in an I-really-don’t-LIKE-this stare. They look like a Humane Society ad.
I bring them into the barn for grain and to dry off. Jetta hustles for her stall, the dogs hurry to get out of her way. Sabbath purrs around my ankles and avoids wet mud on my boots. Styx plods in, then stops in the middle of the aisle. We all turn and look at her. I can hear water gently dripping off her coat. She plants her hooves, stretches out her powerful neck, and gives an almighty shake. It starts at her head—her ears flap wildly-- and works its way down neck, shoulders, body, butt and tail. Muscles and skin ripple and blur. Styx weighs a thousand pounds: this more like watching an earthquake than an animal. Muck flies. Everything in a ten foot radius is splattered. Sabbath vanishes; I hear the cat-door on the tack room slap shut. The dogs, frozen in place and stippled with fresh mud, look impressed. Jetta, safe in her stall, chews hay and takes no notice.
Styx, wet hair spiking out in all directions, lowers her head and regards me with one dark eye. She does not move. I step forward to wrap my arms around her neck; her coat is cold and dirty but underneath she is warm, steady and strong. I lay against my horse’s heartbeat. After a moment that seems to last a season, I straighten up and step back. She blows out a breath and clomps into her stall. I wipe God-knows-what off my face and go get the grain.
