Interview tonight. Please say a prayer. I’ll let you know tomorrow
Gosh, I’m really not doing well.
I find myself wondering am I really old and ugly, my breath is bad, I smell like death, I’m prideful, stupid, annoying? I don’t know.
The sad truth is my youngest daughter thinks I’m so horrible she won’t talk to me or let me be around her two boys (and hates that I say things on this blog). I couldn’t hold onto my library job. What few friends I had feel like they are on the other side of the world happily going on with lives that don’t include me anymore. My cowboy, my hero, isn’t either anymore. He’s either grumpy or he’s gone.
I won’t mention basements or money or fuel to go see my horse or nature or health or any of the things I need. Suffice it to say the list of unbearables is starting to pile so high the weight of it is crushing my spirit.
You now, there is good in me. Really, I’m a nice person: I love God and if I can’t say I always love my fellow man I can say I do try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Everyone has problems; who am I to judge?
I know I’m not very good at turning the other cheek; I have a hard time humoring people who want to mistreat me or take advantage of me. I tend to get mad and want to fight back which becomes me offending them.
Is it bad to wish for a nice Muslim extremist to come along? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind beheading one more Christian. Ya, not doing well at all.
Sorry, guess I need to tell someone even if no one is listening or everyone is.
Got this for Valentine’s Day. Love it. Gonna use it lots.
Valentine’s Day tomorrow so it’s officially spring fever time. With feeling down seeming like my new normal, my doctor asked me what it would take to make me happy. I told what you all know: my old life, prairie, cows, being in nature all day long, not the basement.
Not really a possibility, not that we haven’t been trying. He suggested a house with a garden. I wonder if the garden couldn’t be just a patch of native grass with some crosses in the spring, the smell of sage, maybe a cactus flower or two.
My cowboy tapes a TV show and without fail watches every episode, me too. It is about a vet in Michigan called Dr. Pol. His is in his 70s and originally from Holland. Awesome man, so valuable to the farming area where he lives.
I wonder why my cowboy is so fascinated with the show. I wonder if it’s because he thinks he’ll learn something because it’s definitely educational. I wonder if it’s his way of still being around horses, cattle, dogs, cats, goats, all the other farm animals and pets we both love and miss.
I guess those are reasons why I watch the show with him. But what I see is a a man like my cowboy, a hero saving lives of animals and by doing that helping the people who own and care about those animals.
I watched him out on the prairie everyday doing what in my mind were such heroic things, often putting his own safety and even sometimes his life on the line to help some sick or struggling animal. I knew that even when I wasn’t there to see, when no one was there to see, he was still doing all that heroic stuff.
I guess something I have struggled to come to terms with is the waste of a one good hero, stuck behind the wheel of a bunch of steel and lifeless rubber.
Some of you were wondering how things are going now.
Our immediate family (us and the animals) is shrinking. Just my cowboy, me, my old dog Blue, our deaf dog Pojke, and the horses, my old horse Pic, the awesome little grey horse Trouper, and big yellow Wilbur.
The dogs live with us in a basement apartment, the horses are at a boarding stable (that’s expensive) which is about an hour drive away from us. Not the ideal but . . . well, we all have a place to live.
Yesterday we were all together and it felt so good. Felt like being part of a herd, a feeling I forgot how much I missed.
Sometimes I hear me talking about things that have really happened in my life and think, ‘I bet theses folks (the ones politely listening) think I’m embellishing or flat out lying.
The stories do sound rather fantastical, even to me: roping a Charolais bull and having him tied to a fence when my cowboy shows up with a truck and trailer, having my hands on the head of a charging 2500 bull and not dying, dragonflies flying eye level with me on my horse. So many things that seem out of the real of possibility when you look at me, just a dream.
I would give up most anything to be living in that dream again. The dream of it is still my reality. My life now is just the dream from which still I want so badly to wake.
Today during the two minutes of silence I was thinking how my grandfather, David, lost the brother he was so close to, Jonathan, in the first WW. Jonathan wrote a letter home the day before he died. I have a copy and it’s translation from Welsh into English.
Reminds me of another great friendship between two young men with the same names. Both those stories ended with Jonathan dying during war time.
Today I felt how much grandpa missed his brother and how living without him made difference in his life. Jonathan left a wife and six children as well. All the sacrifices made by so many, the lives changed, made harder by the passing of a brother, husband, dad, or son.
How ungrateful are we when we don’t remember.
It’s been a while since I’ve been here. When I remember who I really am I come back.
Reminds me of a story I heard about a little three year old sister with a brand new baby brother. She insisted her mother let her to talk to the baby alone. The mother was was touched by how important this seemed to her daughter but was a little concerned and decided to listen at the slightly ajar door. The child went in and got as close as she could then asked her brother if he would tell her what heaven was like, because she was beginning to forget.
That’s me; I’m beginning to forget.
Today I have been thinking about scars. They say: ‘Chicks dig scars’. We’ll, maybe, but that doesn’t refer to their own. I’ve often wondered why we get them but I think they serve as a reminder to not do the foolish things that left you with the scar.
Not all scars are of our own making. Not all scars are physical.
Sometimes injuries are inflicted on us through no fault of our own. Someone else initiates the scar. It’s upsetting to me, to say the least, because of the time it takes to heal and forgive.
Sometimes we get injured as children (and adults) by people who, with their own problems, have no intention or, possibly, even a clue that they have injured us. My mom was like that. She was 39 when I was born and now that I’ve lived through menopause I realize that for most of my childhood she was dealing with those challenges. She, too, had some issues that may have begun in childhood but by the time my children were born, she was a good grandma and I’m grateful that’s what my children remember.
I have a hard time being grateful for adversity but that difficult relationship I now see is a blessing as I deal with the inadvertent hurts I caused my own kids. I know I tried extremely hard to be a good mom as I’m sure, now, that my own mom tried her very best. I wonder how many of us actually got through a childhood where parents left no scars and live, unforgiving, for too many years.
The good news is that I’ve come to a place in my life where I can say: I understand, I forgive, I love. What a peaceful, joyful place.