The mouse carcasses surprised me even though we planned their demise.
Seeing the barn dismantled from a small, functioning stable to a rectangular building has been like my heart is being scrubbed of emotion until it’s becoming numb.
It’s a broken clean heart, and that’s a dramatic representation. Change really is hard.
Gus is in training and making amazing, fabulous progress. That’s positive! The home we’re driving up to sign the lease on today is inspirational. Vern is starting a great job. George, Vern’s youngest son, is a happy addition to our family, and I’m starting a low-residency MFA in writing. Things are really good.
We’re driving over Berthoud Pass at the feet of snow-capped majesty stunned silent by the beauty. I’m so excited to move here in two weeks. I’m filled with dread about moving here in two weeks.
Change. Change is required for every really great leap in life. And for every great loss. But we can usually have a sense of what is on the other side of the jump. This leap seems to be a panorama of plenty.
Closing my eyes to the mountains, trees, and meadows, I toe the edge and prepare to fly.
This morning the flour and fat,
Butter, yeast, and salt
Work beneath my hands until
Velvety smoothness emerges.
This sensual act necessary.
The satisfaction in change,
The hope for stretchy perfection,
The gratification in feeding my people.
I’m kneading away hate.
This emotion, call it love,
Infusing this dough,
Can’t find a way forward.
Powerless to change the omnipresent news
So odiously orange,
I bring together the parts I can control.
Roll them into smooth harmony,
Watch them rise together,
And dream this will literally come true.
Recently I watched my “oldest” friend’s handsome, upper-level dressage horse trot back and forth under veterinarian commands while they tried to determine what was causing some lameness problems. Even I’m surprised at how willing I am to watch a flexion, then a trot, watch a flexion, then a trot. I don’t think there is anything about horses that I don’t love. Every one of us with this addiction to horses has found ourselves in this position. I will often call my horse a bad boyfriend. Devastatingly handsome and charming, he and all the horses I’ve known, regularly break my heart.
I know a thing or two about broken hearts. I’m going through photos before our move and I must have had a thousand pictures of my first wedding. I just hadn’t quite sorted through them in the fourteen or so years after the event. Suddenly I found myself holding a picture that made my heart sing: Me and My Bridesmaids.
We should learn to pick boyfriends as well as we pick bridesmaids.
My friend with the stunning dressage horse? She’s there. And our fellow U.S. Air Force Academy Equestrian Team founding member and friend who stopped by for a chat when she returned to town for a school reunion two weeks ago. My best friend from high school who regularly chats with me over social media is there. There’s my roommate from college who took me out to dinner for my birthday last week. My maid of honor, of course, was my very own “Sissy,” who is stuck with me through blood, but has been my best friend for most of my life.
In a lifetime of bad boyfriends, be they human or furry, the women in this picture and my other girlfriends are the constant positive notes. I’ve read more than one article on how mean women are to each other. Back biting, bitchiness, bossiness overwhelm the possibility for friendship.
My tribe of beautiful, strong, indomitable women forgot to read those articles. I love everyone of these ladies and find myself brimming over in gratitude that they are part of my life.
To all the women who helped me through those furry, and not-so-furry, bad boyfriends, thank you.
You have to break some eggs to make an omelet,
But there’s no crying over spilt milk.
We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Still a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
And I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Listen, that dog don’t hunt,
Like an octopus wearing socks,
When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.
You have to pay the piper,
You know, where the rubber meets the road.
Luckily, it takes two to tango.
I know I’m not just whistling Dixie.
It’s just not over until the fat lady sings.