Be wild, child.

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Cowgirl ShoeThere was an invasion at the ranch this weekend. An invasion of pink and glitter and ruffles and frills and dresses and jewels and ponytails and princess paraphernalia–all of the things little girls are made of. And all of those glamorous, glorious things were smuggled in inside of purple and pink purses and bags on the shoulders of an almost 7 year old and an almost 5 year old (well, when the next July comes she’ll be 5). And in 5.3 seconds it was like Barbie’s mansion exploded in my tiny house, with no sign of Ken anywhere…not even a loafer.

And it was absolutely lovely.

Yes, the nieces came to visit for what they called “a vacation away from their baby sister” while their parents were in Belize for a wedding. But they also came to play in the mud, pick wildflowers, yell at the dogs, swat at bugs, ride horses and become bonafide, tried and true cowgirls. And in preparation for this adventure filled weekend they made sure that they told everyone who crossed their paths where they were going in three weeks..two weeks..one day..today.

And I bought them cowboy hats. Pink ones. Because a girl’s got to look the part you know.

Cowgirl WalkAnd apparently looking just right is at the top of the almost-7-year-old and almost-5 year-old’s list. Because when I showed up at their doorstep, they were dressed to perfection in matching red and black cotton dresses with ruffles and well placed stripes and dots. Sporting brand new hair cuts, the little blondies were tapping their toes, clutching their princess backpacks nervously, and pacing back and forth, asking gramma “how many more minutes?” “when is she going to get here?”  And while it’s so nice to be wanted, it’s not so great when you are running about 20 minutes behind and an almost-7-year-old and almost-5-year-old-next-July have been told a specific time to expect the much anticipated cowgirl adventure to begin. I am not sure gramma appreciated my road construction excuse, but it was legit.

Anyway, I made it. And I promptly began to pack into the back of my car what I estimated to have been about 1,550 pounds of everything a couple of little girls could possibly need for three days. I mean we were loaded down. But, as I always say, you never know when you’re going to need a pink toy hamster on wheels.

In our 75 mile trek to the wilderness we covered about everything. Who’s your best friend? What have you been doing this Cowgirl Wildflowersummer? What is your favorite color? What do you want to be when you grow up? Can we get ice-cream?

So we stopped to get ice cream.

“What flavor would you like?  Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Strawberry”

“They don’t have strawberry honey.  Only chocolate or vanilla.”

“Banana”

“No banana. Chocolate or vanilla.”

“Just regular then.”

Which I took to mean vanilla and we were on our way to a melty, sugary, delicious, wonderful mess.

And back on the road to the ranch.

Cowgirl MoonWhen we arrived, the wonderment began. Not just for the two princesses, but for myself as well. In preparation for their visit, I tried hard to remember what it was like to be an almost-7 year-old and almost-5-year-old-next-July. What  did I do for fun? What did I like to eat? When did I go to bed? I remember much of my young childhood spent in jeans, t-shirts and boots running around in the hills, making tree forts and pots and vases out of the wet clay in the buttes. I remember enjoying projects, like rock painting, which could occupy me for hours. I remember wanting to spend as much time as possible outside.

I don’t remember owning as many dresses as these girls packed for a weekend. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think I have owned that many dresses in my lifetime.

Anyway, I employed what I knew about entertaining young ladies, as I was once one myself (although I possessed a little less ofCowgirl the lady part) and the rest the almost-7-year-old planned out for me.

First things first, we found their jeans.

And then we made supper. I gave them their hats. They squealed with delight. We marched down to the barn and saddled up their horses and hoisted their itty bitty bodies up on the backs of these gentle beasts.

They were nervous. They were thrilled. They chattered and asked questions and giggled and told stories and took instruction quite well…and then forget everything about 3 minutes later. They wanted to go faster. And farther. They wanted me to let go of the reins and let them try it themselves. They wanted to go up the hills and through the trees and ride off into the sunset a full blown cowgirl. Alone. Without my help.

A bit jolted, I was reminded of what it really was like to be almost 7 and almost 5 next July. It was about growing up…every second.

In all of the play that was squeezed in between riding the horses and picking flowers and running around outside, every conversation and fantasy scenario was centered around pretending they were older. Pretending they were the big girls and the world around them was filled with things they were allowed to do, allowed to control and experience and excel at. And they pulled me into that play land where I was the mom and they were the teenagers, or we were all ladies putting on makeup and getting ready for a party, or wives in the kitchen baking for our husbands. And it was lovely.

Cowgirl SunsetBut when I pulled the covers up to their tiny little chins at night, I wanted to whisper in their ears, “slow down little ones.” Slow down and breathe in the air around you and try hard to remember what the sky and the flowers and the bugs and the trees look like from down there. Take it easy and take note of how sweet the sugar tastes on your tongue right now, without any worries. I’ll worry for you. Let your hands dig in the dirt and mess up your clothes. Let your feet trudge up the hill and think about rolling down through the sweet smelling grass. Run as fast as you possibly can (and I know that it’s fast) and hear the wind whip through your ears. Sing at the top of your lungs the words to a song your can’t quite remember. Sneak up on a rabbit with every intention of making him your pet. Catch a frog, climb a tree, splash in a puddle. Be wild child. Be wild. And then tell me all about it.

Because as the big girl they are impatiently waiting to be, there are things I want to tell them, but I know these things can’t be Cowgirl Walksaid. Like, being a princess might not be all that Disney promised and sometimes you have to save yourself, and the prince (and then kick him to the curb). I want to tell them to be kind to their grandparents and hold on tight to their hands, because you never know when you will have to let go. I want them to know that there will be times you will curse your womanhood and scream at mother nature for being so cruel, but respect your body and understand that it can do great things–and push it to do so. I want them to know that they should rely on themselves first and make sure to learn to change a tire, fix a sink, check the oil and use a hammer, because it’s not a guarantee that someone capable will be around to do these things for you. I want to prepare them for the fact that they may not grow up to look like Barbie, and that’s a great thing. I want them to know that life will try hard to change you and mold you and break you down, but take a moment to look in the mirror and tell yourself you’re beautiful, without the sparkle, without the curlers, without the frills. And believe it. Wear your dresses when you want to. Wear your jeans when you have to.

Cowgirl sunsetI wanted to tell them all of these things, but I imagine they will get to learn them the hard way, just like every other woman. So as they drifted off to dream land, I chose to whisper a thank you to them instead. Thank you for reminding me to go faster and farther (with nervous squeals) off into the sunset and into a world that waits for three beautiful, muddy, thrilled and wild cowgirls who know a thing or two about how to really live.

Cowgirls
Sunset

What Rain Looks Like

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I had plans for another hot day at the ranch, but woke up to a nice, refreshing surprise this morning–the sound and smell of rain outside my open windows. The wind wasn’t blowing, the tree branches weren’t moving, there was no lightning–just calm, steady, trickling, warm rain. This means so much to the landscape this late in the season. I am not sure what the farmers have to say about it, but the moisture will help it stay green out here just a little longer and I’m ok with that. So I took a walk to capture what rain looks like on a North Dakota summer morning. Everything seemed to sparkle and open up wide to thank the sky. Even my lawn ornament looked refreshed.

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Now I’m off to pick up my nieces. We were going to hit the pool, but I think we will play cowboy all weekend instead (which is much more fun).

The bravery thing.

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RooftopWe spent what I hope to be one of our last weekends working on the house renovation in Dickinson this weekend. And no matter how positive I keep my attitude during this massive project (that has, I think, worked really hard to ruin my life for the last two years) sometimes you just have to sit on the roof and have a little mental breakdown.

Because I saw my life flash before my eyes this weekend.

I have never claimed to be a brave person–I mean when it comes to hazardous situations that have the capabilities to maim or dismember or cause head trauma or possible death, the worst case scenario always flashes in my mind. I play it all out: I am running the table saw and my hand slips, slicing off a much under appreciated (until that moment) left hand appendage. I scream in horror. Blood pools from my hand and the husband comes rushing to my side, wrapping the wound with the bandana from his head as he frantically searches for the missing limb in a garage full of dust and tools and scraps I should have cleaned up yesterday, dammit. We rush to the hospital and the limb cannot be saved, and I walk around the rest of my life having to explain the accident and why I don’t have a left thumb. Knitting is definitely out.

I snap out of the day dream (or nightmare) and realize that the particular situation is probably unlikely, considering all of the safety precautions and the fact that I rarely run the table saw.  But I also realize that shit like this does happen sometimes. It happens to some people–you know, the ones that are walking around missing pieces of their bodies. And if I’ve learned anything in my short life it is that if it’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen to me.

See, I’m accident prone. It has been proven. I have stubbed multiple toes, broken fingers, and have scars from minor,  “walking”Painting Hand and “baking” accidents all over my arms and legs. Yes, I have been labeled a bit of a klutz. My cousins called me “tuck and roll” for most of my life for crying out loud. This unique characteristic of my existence is at the top of my mind today because I am nursing an old injury. It “flared up.” (Does using this phrase make me that much closer to becoming the old lady I always knew I was meant to be?)  And, as chain of events seem to go, this happy little reminder of a youth spent in several different casts was the culprit of my near demise this weekend.

When I was about thirteen years old I was helping my dad get the horses in from the pasture to the front of the barn. At that time, our horses didn’t come when we whistled, unfortunately for me.

Most of the time when I was growing up we would walk to look for them in the pasture and then lead them in with grain, or take a bridal and ride one of them bareback home, while the others followed. Well this particular time my dad, my little sister and myself took the pickup and some grain out into the pasture to call them in. But we forgot a bridal. No worries. Dad told me to just jump on my old mare and ride her in. He had a piece of twine (or leather, I can’t remember, it’s all a blur now), from which he made a temporary bridal, slipped it over her nose and boosted me up on the old, red mare, stomping and milling around with the other ten horses. My mission was to ride her in while the rest of the herd followed.

Simple.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Except it did.

RoadAs we made our way toward the barn over the hill, my horse began to step up the pace–from a walk, to a trot, to the not so fun on bareback fast trot, to an all out run.

I pulled frantically on my homemade bridal with no response, because the mare was on a mission and I guess my dad needed to take a class in bridal making. I was now trying to steer and gain control of an oversized animal with a mind of her own with a piece of string connected to NOTHING BUT AIR!!! And all the beautiful horses followed behind, bucking and kicking and snorting and stomping and laughing and teasing me as a tried to remain calm on the back of a 1,200 pound beast in the middle of a damn stampede.

So after weighing all my options and seeing my death played out in my mind, what did I do? I decided to bail.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, you could decide to jump on the hardest, most uneven, piece of hard packed gumbo on the ranch, which just happened to be littered with rocks and boulders and sharp objects ready to pierce your fragile skin. Yes, you could decide to jump off there, all elbows and legs flailing as you reason that hitting the ground on purpose couldn’t possibly be as life altering as hitting it by accident.

Except I am not sure there is a difference really. Hitting the ground is hitting the ground, especially when you abandon all logicalRear View falling moves designed to protect one’s limbs and noggin. Like the well known “tuck and roll.”

And I eventually hit the ground. And hit my head on a rock. And broke my wrist in half.

That was a fun one for the little horse gathering crew to explain to mom.

Anyway, after a surgery and pins and a summer in a cast, without really noticing, I have chosen to use that wrist as little as possible into my adult life. And this weekend that little injury came back to bite me… funny how my accidents connect.

Like I said, it flared up. I pride myself on being able to tell when the weather is going to change, because the old wrist stiffens up (yeah, I am definitely an old lady) but this was a bit more severe than an ache, and the weather wasn’t changing. But I didn’t let it stop me from getting my work done. No, not this tough girl. I complained enough about it, but I went about my business, which on this particular day happened to involve painting the outside of the house. Which requires a really tall ladder and getting on the roof.

Did I mention I hate heights? Like I pray to God when I am above ground level a few feet to save me from my immanent death.

LadderBut anyway, I also happen to hate asking for help. Because I should be able to handle moving a 20 ft. antique, adjustable fiberglass ladder around to all sides of the house with only one, measly, Olive Oyl arm.

No problem.

What could possibly go wrong.

Well, after a couple successful, but agonizing moves, exhausted and sweating to beat hell, I tried, one last time to move the 100 pound apparatus by positioning myself directly underneath it, balancing it on my shoulder as I attempted to dig the base into the ground and hoist it to lean it in its proper location. That was the plan. Until my good arm gave out and the ladder wobbled back and forth as my shoulders acted as the base in a teeter totter, positioning my head directly between two rungs. Two adjustable rungs. And in my efforts to stay standing to avoid being flattened by this fiberglass ladder that was ripping all exposed flesh to shreds, I maneuvered the ladder just right to get my good arm in position to fling the thing off of myself, which also happened to be the same maneuver that  signals the ladder to adjust. Adjust down. Which trapped my head between the two rungs.

Shit.

I pulled back.

Still stuck.

I pushed forward.

Still stuck.

I wondered if the neighbors were watching.

Still stuck.

I contemplated the embarrassment of this sort of explanation on my death certificate.Rooftop

The pressure began to constrict my airway.

I laughed a little at the thought. I began to sweat. I thought about calling to my husband, but didn’t want the neighbors to hear. I started to cry…just for a second.

In one more breath of courage and adrenaline in the face of humiliation, I decided to see if my bad hand may be able to finally pull its weight around here and I reached for both sides of the ladder and with gusto managed to signal the ladder to adjust up, freeing my skull and rocketing the ladder to the ground.

Praise Jesus.

I ran in to tell the story to my husband, who promptly came out to move the ladder for me so I could get on the roof and finish the job.

Yes. That  is exactly what could go wrong. And exactly what I did. I got back on the horse. I got back on the roof. I dangled over the edge, scraping the siding, praying to the Saint of gravity or falling or not falling or landing softly (I’m not Catholic, and am not familiar with the Saints, but figured there must be one for these situations). I negotiated all worst case scenarios. I shook. I swore. I cried…just a little.

Brave PugAnd then I called my husband up for help. And he, like Superman, or Spiderman or something, jumped from the pickup, to the garage roof, to the house roof in three noble leaps to sit with me high above Dickinson, on top of the life we’re about to sell, as I wished away my fear.

I wished to be more like him, my husband, who conquers tasks, high above or down below ground (or in his most dreaded situations, like cocktail parties) with precision and confidence. I wished to be more like my pug, who on the way home leaped from the window of my moving pickup and bounced and rolled like a beach ball into the ditch, only to get up and run toward the house, because he just couldn’t wait to be back at the ranch and he thought he could get there faster.

But would life be easier without the fear–without our mind and our reasoning and our logic getting in the way of all of the things we are capable of? If we could just jump, head first like the pug as the ground goes whizzing out from under us without thought of how this could end? Would we be better If we could make the decision, in a split second, and have faith that it will turn out, or at least get us somewhere–somewhere more than a broken arm, a head stuck in a ladder or a life without bravery?

I don’t think so. Bravery defined is “feeling no fear.” But to live a life of bravery, to me, does not mean to live a life with no fear. We need fear–it makes us human and separates us from the pugs. It saves us from head trauma, hurt feelings and broken ams. Fear is always in there, somewhere. I mean, even noble husband is afraid of something (which happens to be spiders).  Fear gives us pause to reflect and really feel, to think and reason and then, hopefully do it anyway. Because it is the conquering that is the mostPug difficult, which makes it the most important really. It is the conquering that makes us brave.

I am working on it. The bravery thing. The conquering thing.

Because the project needs to get done, my husband’s not a great painter and I at least have one good hand.

And another for emergencies.

Wind

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The wind is howling at the ranch today and I wanted to capture it. I wanted to record its sound and tell you how it woke me this morning. Help you hear it. But the wind wears an invisible suit and, it turns out, doesn’t really like his picture taken (no matter how I tried).  But despite the suit, you can definitely  tell when he’s in the area ruffling fur, pulling the petals off flowers, teasing the grass and pushing the clouds along. So I settled for photos of the evidence and called him out in a poem.

Hope  you are holding onto your hats today, because nature’s a flirt isn’t it?

Wind

frantic
moving
breathing

air

just air

whipping through my clothing
desperately reaching for skin
pleading
grabbing at my insides
through my ears

a whisper

then a silence

then a howl

sporadic
you make up your mind
to take the glory from the sun

we curse you
as you spill our drinks
turn pages of our open books
rock boats
ruin a warm day

we pull hats down
squint eyes
clench our jaws

as grass clings to roots
branches beg for mercy
and birds become puppets bouncing on strings

I fling open the windows
daring you to come in
to comb through my hair
twist up the rugs

and unsettle the dust


I know what home is.

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There is something about the month of July that has always felt so much like home to me. It’s like it marches in with all of its blue sky and green grass and bugs and scents of clover and cow poop and touches me on the shoulder to wake me up to every glorious lake day, evening ride, campfire and hot, mid day hike I’ve ever had in every July of my life. This particular month so far has, to my surprise, has been all of those things and it is only half over.

I saw this summer at the ranch drifting lazily by as I contemplated what I am doing here. I saw myself sleeping in a little, cleaning up and making home cooked meals for the husband (ha, well, I have been known to be delusional). I have done this a little, but I have also done things a bit more exhilarating really…like answering my phone and saying yes –yes to every family member and friend that has been within arms reach for years, but whom I just couldn’t quite get to because of deadlines, work, or a commitment I didn’t want to commit to. And I have found that when used properly, “yes” can be the best word. Ever.

And so I have been out of commission in my own life for about 10 days, because I have willingly, and with gusto and open arms, planted myself in my best people’s lives across this great state. And all this being away from home, camped out in my grandparent’s lake cabin, in a hotel, on a couch in my cousin’s basement, in my sister’s bed in her apartment,  and in a tent at the edge of Lake Sakakawea, got me thinking a bit about how we define the word.

Home.

It’s intriguing to me particularly because we, my husband and I, have spent the last few years trying to find it. We have expended quite an amount of energy lugging our things around from apartment, to apartment, to apartment until we finally lost our minds enough to purchase a house of our own. And then we promptly extinguished all of our life savings deconstructing this new place so that it would indeed feel like ours, smell like ours, look like ours…be ours.

And for two years, I never felt so displaced. In all of the chaos and construction and saw dust and paint, I never unpacked a photo of us. I placed my things in the closets to get them out of the way and then never could really find anything again. I moved in and out of the project, from work to work to bed and back again, only a shell of a person really, in the shell of a house that someday, we hoped, would become our perfect home.

The funny thing is, all of the cussing, planning, crying, and hitting my fingers countless times with a hammer didn’t open our eyes of a perfect bricks and mortar home that was coming to life in front of us, but revealed a vision of a future that wasn’t contained in this house in this town, but a life that was waiting for us 60 miles north.

And as soon as we declared this project no longer our future, I became me again and I guess, started spreading myself around to whoever has missed me. And as it turns out, there have been plenty of people who wanted to catch up. So I put them all on my calendar.

I drove east to Minnesota to spend 4th of July with my grandparents on my mother’s side of the family, getting to know new babies and babies that have turned into teenagers over night. I put my feet in the lake where I spent summers of my youth, then let it close in over my head, just like when I was twelve. I swam. I ate watermelon. I toasted s’mores. I water-skied for crying out loud!

I hugged my grandparents and cooked french toast for thirty of my favorite people in a kitchen where we have all gathered to re-cap weddings, to announce pregnancies, to proudly tell a story of a renowned kindergarden performance or a winning goal. And we filled that home, that entire lake, with laughter of people who have known us all along and love us anyway.

And it felt pretty good, so I stayed away a bit longer.

I headed back west a bit to Fargo to spend some time with my cousins (the former members of the Kitten Kaboodle club and the ones who are responsible for my non-belief in the Easter Bunny). I marveled at a now grown woman, who once taught me the rodeo queen wave and lent me her sparkly cowboy shirts for talent shows, as she moved about her house, feeding her toddler cheerios and clapping her hands and rolling her head back as her princess four year old performed karate moves on her doll. I listened as that woman’s brother, and my forever best friend, spoke of his PhD program at the University of Miami, and felt so damn proud, followed by a pang of jealousy for his great tan and the laid back attitude he has accumulated along the way. I watched my youngest cousin use a pizza box to sled down the stairs just because we dared him to. I slapped the bass like a champ playing “Rock Star” on Play Station, I drank just a little too much, and talked just a little too loud and was just a little obnoxious. Just like old times

And my stomach hurt from the laughter, so I stayed away a bit longer.

Because my little sister needed me. She needed me, of all things, to hold her hand as she got a tattoo to commemorate her service trip to Guatemala. She needed me to make sure it looked just right, to calm her nerves, to tell her that it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, you should do what you want. And I watched as she braved the needle like a champ and cried a little when her alligator tears fell at the end of the session, because even though the pain was self inflicted, it really sucks to see your little sister cry. I got to know her new boyfriend. I gave him shit. I commented on her less than clean apartment and ate at the restaurant where she worked and tipped her big.  I slept next to her in her bed. Just like old times.

My heart filled up.

And then my best of friends, these three beautiful, successful and wonderfully quirky women,  called and said they wanted a vacation out west. So I drove back to the ranch to meet them there to try to give them their dream weekend. It was 100 degrees, but like a fresh breeze their car pulled into my driveway and love spilled out as they opened the doors with their arms spread wide, ready to embrace us, ready to embrace the evening. We grilled steaks and cut up veggies for a salad, we sat out on the lawn, we saddled up and took a ride over the hills. We built a campfire. We drank some beer. We went to the lake and felt the wind whip by as my husband drove the boat like a bullet across the big water. We listened to my dad sing. We all made our beds in this tiny house, snuggled in tight between these walls that embraced us like their friendly hugs embraced me, under this roof, under the big, starry sky.

And I felt damn loved.

But now that the quiet has settled in again, I caught myself thinking: “Now back to normal. Back to the real world”

What is that all about? What is normal? What is the real world? Wasn’t I just in it?

Never during those days of being away did I feel like I missed home. Never did I miss my bed or my couch or my shower or my desk. I missed my husband,  I missed the space, the horses,  I missed my dogs…

So here is what I think. And I don’t think I’m wrong.

Home isn’t carpeting and wall paper and a really great kitchen. Home is those living, breathing things surrounding you, talking to you, touching you and reminding you of things you forgot about yourself.  Home is who loves you and listens and offers advice on cooking and great wine.

Home is a long, hot summer, jumping in the lake, cheering your sister on as she works to get up on water skis. It’s taking your cousins to a movie and then driving home in the pouring Minnesota rain. It is pitching a tent with your best friends and then realizing you forgot the stakes. It is saying thank you when they cook you a really great hot dog and figure out how to make stakes out of sticks, and that works even better anyway. It is sitting next to your aunt as she holds her new grandchild and watching your grandparents beam with love as the next wave of company pulls in the yard. It is cringing with worry as your brother in law attempts to blow up the lake with $300 worth of fireworks. And it’s the whooping and screaming when he pulls the display off beautifully (and safely). It is singing around the campfire, catching tiny perch out of a pontoon full of family, posing for photos and taking turns at bat during a game of softball on the lawn.

It’s July and September and December and all of the months spent living.

I know this now.

I know what home is.

Tiger Lilies and Sweet Clover

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There are certain things at the ranch that signify we’ve moved on to mid-summer–mosquito bites, 80+ weather, thunderstorms, the yellow clover and, my favorite, tiger lilies.

I wish you could smell it out here.  The air is heavy with the the lush, fresh scent of this wild (and, if I were a cow, delicious would be an adjective here) sweet clover.  I wish I could bottle this air up, or make it a plug-in scent, or sell it to the candle companies to burn on the long winter nights, to help remind me that this time does come, in all its wonder and splendor and drama.

I took a walk this morning before the hot weather hit to gather some tiger lilies we saw on a side hill on our ride the other night. Usually these wild variety are quite rare on the landscape, but if you spot a patch one summer, and the weather is right, they will most likely be there the next. I am sure many of you grow these flowers outside your home, but there is nothing like coming up over a hill filled with wild grasses, prickly brush and cactus to find these vibrant orange, perfectly constructed, delicate flowers dotting the landscape. This morning I couldn’t believe how many there were. Maybe I’m too simple, but it was simply thrilling to me.

Happy mid-summer to you. Enjoy our beautiful world this weekend, and enjoy your 4th of July!

Small spaces

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It’s quite clear that I am enamored with all of this space around me–all of the grass and the sky and the pink road that stretches on for miles onto the horizon. I stand outside and feel like I could simply blow away with the leaves in this vast landscape, no more significant than a field mouse really.

But I am a completely different size in this house. In fact, I am actually quite significant, and so is my shoe population, unfortunately for my husband’s side of the closet. Just to give you a bit of a visual of what we are dealing with here, when you knock on the door, you can see directly into the bedroom (and if you take five steps, you will be inside of it). Closing the bedroom doors would be an option, except that they have windows–beautiful, but not so practical when you’re in the process of changing your shorts and the neighbor pops in for a chat. And if my husband and I were standing side by side in the living room and tried to perform the chicken dance the way it was meant, our elbows would be scraping the sides of the room, which rules out any kind of gymnastics performances. I haven’t nearly successfully completed the move of all our earthly possessions from our three bedroom, three bathroom home to our new humble abode and we have already nearly covered every moveable inch with stuff. And when you throw two people, and two dogs (one of them the size of a small teenage boy) into the mix, there is not much floor space to skip around in. And I do like to dance and sometimes kick a leg up while doing the dishes,  so that throws a bit of a kink in my style.

But I am not complaining. In fact I like living in smaller spaces, because, when it comes down to it it means less surface area to have to worry about dusting and scrubbing and vacuuming, and I’m really all for that. Anyway, I am sure, unless  you were born into the Hilton family or are waiting to be crowned the next king or queen of a country,  most of us have had the experience, or will have the gift of living in close quarters with someone we promised to have and hold no matter how many times we step on each others’ toes while brushing our teeth. In fact, I think it should be a requirement that all couples who are contemplating a life long commitment, live together in a one bedroom, one bathroom, one closet home. Because nothing spells love and commitment quite like holding your pee while your dearly beloved finishes his morning grooming ritual.

No, there is no hiding anything here really. Last night, we sat down in the living room for a lovely dinner of burned grilled chicken legs (I cooked), my husband sprawled out in his recliner, me and my plate dangerously close to his reclined stocking feet,  and I couldn’t get past the fact that my instant rice tasted a bit like a foot that had been crammed into a pair of work boots all day in 90 degree weather. Ugh, I think I can still smell it.

Although there is no hiding from the unfortunate stenches, there is also no hiding from each other. You wake up in the morning and as you move about the house, reaching for the coffee, your hand gently brushes his. You get ready for the day and you lean across his body for your comb and laugh as you watch him crane and distort his nose and mouth while he works to shave his face. He stands in the kitchen, cutting up onions for his famous and favorite soup and the smell of bay leaves and butter wrap around you and you can’t help but get up to do the same to him. The walls move in on you and you  move closer to one another. You are no longer swallowed up in the space between the multiple rooms you once used to get away from one another in an argument, but forced to look in the eye the emotions that have been provoked. The whispers in the dark sweep over you and the laughter rattles the foundation. There is no need to shout.

But when I am stubbing my toe on the coffee table for the thirteenth time that day or tripping over the damn dog in the middle of the floor, I can not believe this is where my five cousins, two sisters, two aunts, two uncles and my parents spent holiday weekends, cooking, eating, sleeping and, let’s be honest here, putting on interpretations of the “Wizard of Oz.” It seemed so much bigger when I was growing up. Interesting, considering that it was full of so much more than bodies, but of laughter and love and conversations, the smell of homemade bread, a house cat and a large Christmas Tree. Where did we all sleep? How did we manage to put on what I would consider successful and entertaining dance performances to Paula Abdul? How did we all fit around the kitchen table? And where did my grandmother keep all of her shoes for crying out loud?

I don’t know. I remember only faintly what it looked like in here, what photos she hung and where my grandfather’s easy chair sat. As I curse the closet space and shove my luggage under the bed of the very room my grandmother used to sleep in after a day of chores and raising three children, I wonder if she ever cursed the small stove or wished she had room for a bigger kitchen table. I imagine her life here, where her bed was placed and if the sun hit her face the same way it hits mine in the summer mornings and if she left the windows open at night like I do. I imagine her as a light hearted wife humming in the kitchen while plopping down pancakes for breakfast. Sometimes, when I’m outside,  I  swear I can hear her calling to the cattle or to her grandkids to come inside for supper. I compare her life to mine in this house, between these walls and how different this world must be from hers.

But seeing my tupperware shoved in the re-done cupboards, the laundry stacked up on the bed, the unopened cans waiting for me to rearrange the pantry and the work boots scattered in the entry way, I long to fill this house they way she filled it. I want people to sit close, eat my cooking and drink my bad coffee. I want our laughter and kitchen light to flood the farmyard late into the night and bounce off the buttes and make the landscape ring with life.

And some days, when I am scrubbing the floor or dusting the shelves, I feel like her. I feel her smile spread across my face, her kink in my back. And I wonder if this house held her the way it is holding me. I wonder if these walls closed in on them the way they have on us, urging us to break down, to touch, to hold on tight to each other.  I wonder if she stood in the kitchen making dinner for her husband and if he felt moved to come up behind her and gently kiss her cheek. I wonder if she danced in the living room. I wonder if she tripped over her coffee table and walked out into the landscape and opened her arms up wide and smiled as the big, blue sky swallowed her up.

Weekend Ride

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It was a gorgeous weekend at the ranch and wanted to share some photos of moving horses between the two places. It’s a simple chore,  but I love summer evenings when the light is disappearing slowly, casting dramatic shadows across the landscape. Truly a breathtaking backyard if I do say so myself.

Chad moving equipment

Attempting a simple swing on.

Another approach

Failed. I guess I'll just walk to the barn and get the saddle with the understanding that I'm not what I used to be (although, I blamed it on my too-tight pants). The mare is not enthused, as you can see here.

The guys and the mule taking it slow down the road

Critter trail

Taking the long way. Can you see the moon?

Mushroom Tree

Shadows

My view. Always a bit behind, I bring out the slow in horses. Fine for a leisurely ride, but never won me any buckles.

Almost there

Coming into the yard

Settling in

Home

The in-between pages

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I was smart enough along my way to save the books I have written in since I was given a blank page and told to put it all down. Good advice I think, considering that is what I have done.

I wrote it all down.

Not in a literal, this is what has happened today sense, because considering my art of choice has been poetry much of my musings have been in that form. Beginning with simple rhyming about my horses or the frogs I caught in the pond below our house, which were quite awful actually, and moving into words I was able to put to music once I began learning to play guitar.

I go through these books periodically. I am urged to open them when I am at a crossroads, or lonely, or feeling a bit dramatic or angry or overwhelmed. Because we all get caught up in that. So caught up in the ladder climbing and paycheck earning and dinner making and lawn mowing that we sometimes forget who we really are, and consequently, who we wanted to be in the first place. I’ve done it. I’ve lost it before. And only we can save ourselves.

So lately, as I am running my eyes across the words on worn out pages that I scrawled on ten years ago…five years ago…yesterday…I realize that I have given myself a gift. Because these pages have taken me through my life, my completely raw and unedited, for my eyes only, emotional life. And as a woman, or if you are a man who knows a woman, you can appreciate what a nice little jaunt this can be.

Reaching into my vault, I get a glimpse of who I was as far back as elementary school, where (drawing conclusions from my writing that my memory won’t fill in) I was an energetic, optimistic, animal fanatic who was terrified, absolutely terrified, of growing up (and wished a little bit that she was born a boy). And I take myself through junior high, where that fear of losing my innocent outlook and wholesome relationships was very evident.  I learn, each time I page through, what it was like to be 16, in love for the first time, and surrounded by all of this space, waiting for him to knock on my door and take me out. I learn again, about my fragile confidence, my torn heart, my full heart, my fear of leaving and losing and hurting–all of the dark places I went, all of the bright spots, all of the anguish and indecision and certainty. I am reminded.

I am reminded what it was like to be on the cusp of marriage and visualizing my life moving in two different directions. I see my pen marks run down the lines of the pages, working it out, writing it out, asking myself questions with indecisive replies. I hear the adventure in my voice as I packed my bags and headed down the road, alone, with so much work and music and heartbreak and let downs and thrilling moments ahead of me. With a boyfriend, then a husband, then a vision of family weighing on my mind.

I see the blank pages I left as my time was swallowed up with miles and moves and a wedding and a house and a dog and another dog and a job to pay the bills and feed a new ambition.

I hear my meek voice in between those blank pages, something I wrote down after thumbing through and searching my soul one late night, trying again to speak out so confidently into the still air of my room as my husband slept beside me.

I hear her. I feel her. I try to know her again.

So I appreciate that I have been blessed here with a moment. A moment created by a decision to make my home where it has always been, a place where my soul has been fed,  a place I come back to time and time again. A moment that allows me to take a deep breath while my husband rises at 5 am to head to work with a sandwich I made for him and kisses me goodbye and tells me to do something I love today.

I realize that this particular gift I was given isn’t possible for everyone. That not everyone can up and leave a job with security and insurance and settle into a beautiful landscape that brings you back to earth. That others have babies and husbands and wives who count on them to bring home the money to fill the fridge and pay off the home and SUV. That others aren’t ready yet. That others didn’t save all the pages. I understand this. This could have been me. This has been me. This may be me again.

And I know this moment won’t last forever. It can’t. I know my life carries on its back responsibilities and longings and lifetime goals that I wish to achieve–I need to achieve. But I’m working hard to not take this for granted. To take my moment and run as fast as I can with it, to search, to ask, to really find out.

So I write. I write it all down. Because I was told to. I write into existence the person I want to be, the way my hair might look, the clothes I could wear, the things I would say, the people I love, those who don’t understand. I put it all down. Write it out into the universe. To help the woman tomorrow understand who this woman is today.

Because there are things we cannot change. There is time we won’t get back, people we will never see again and those we can never heal, who will never love us, who we may never love. There are houses we will never live in, cars we will never drive, ocean shores we may never feel beneath our feet, children who will never be born.

All we have is who we are and we owe it to ourselves and those we love to take a moment. Take a breath and take off our working shoes, wipe our hands clean and find out who that really is.

I found this in one of those in-between pages.

Wait

somebody told me
somebody warned me
that little piece left can’t be filled
that you’ll always look in the quiet spaces
or moments without the songs you should have made

and you’ll stop for one breath

and hold it

and your hand may still be working
dusting off the highest shelf
you forgot about during the weeks filled with coffee
and neatly pressed shirts

and you’ll think

allowing it to only take you for a moment
before it stings too much
that you may have missed something in that conversation that led you to this place
you may have forgotten to say
“I have one more thing left”
“I have something up my sleeve”
“It may work this time”
something that could save you from needing those mornings
and checks with the insurance withdrawn

this may not be what I want

but when your eye catches the crumbs that you left
after a late night dinner of cornflakes
you let yourself move your hand from the shelf to the table with ease
and the brave woman you used to be
moves on to the laundry from there

Impractical Shoes

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I have nothing on my face except sunscreen. I haven’t shaved my legs in enough days to make the neighbors uncomfortable. I have yet to take a shower today, even after a long run in the hills.  I think small animals have begun to nest in my wild, frizzy hair (it’s the humidity people, the humidity). I have dirt under my fingernails, horse hair stuck to my sweaty arms and yet another wood-tick crawling on my pants.

And I am loving every minute of this stinky day.

It’s not the first day I’ve spent like this since officially moving out here a couple weeks ago. In fact, I’ve spent more days than not, shall we say, au-natural. And this is how it used to be for me. Back before I discovered that maybe a little mascara wouldn’t hurt anyone, carrying a purse is convenient as well as fashionable, and yes, I should probably wear a bra in public (that is the decent, Christian thing to do). See, I was a bit of a tom boy growing up, but most wouldn’t peg me as one now. Because,  I was also blessed with a mother who has an eye for fashion and worked pretty hard to make sure her girls looked the cute part in public.

Thank God for her really.

When I first began singing with my dad, on stages, in front of people, my mom was charged with the gift of dressing me. And I had a strict idea of what I should be dressed like (wranglers, shirt buttoned up to the top, cowboy hat, belt, boots…I think we have gone here before with the whole 4-H thing? Yeah, that wasn’t just my uniform for the County Fair, that was my uniform for life…after I got over the whole leotard and tights thing…).

Anyway, my mother, God bless her again, would gently coax me to maybe undo the top button of my Garth Brooks inspired brush-popper, or try to tip my hat up a bit so people could see my eyes. She would bring some new outfits home from her travels and convince me to try them on, and depending on the day and the garment, I may or may not have agreed to add it to my wardrobe. During my first few real stage performances standing alongside dad, all of my nerves and anxiety would not be thrust into the fact that I was about to go up and play guitar in front of people for the first time, that would be too logical. I could have used that energy to practice a bit more, Lord knows I needed to. No, all my nervous energy was thrown at my outfit. And my poor mother would have to sit with me as I sprawled out on the bathroom floor of the venue, crying while I blamed her for the fact that I looked like a total dork, dweeb, loser face and asking her, while we were at it, why, why, why did you let me wear leotards and tights? I mean, that stuff is documented in family photo albums across the country!

But my mom never fought back. She was always about self expression in the form of fashion, whatever your fashion choice might be. She was a pageant queen and a dancer for crying out loud (how far apart in worlds could I possibly be from this graceful, dignified woman?) And with her quiet guidance, I eventually found my own style that was acceptable outside of Jazzercise classes and the rodeo arena. As I continued performing and went on to the big school in town where the styles looked a little more like “Saved by the Bell” than a country music video, I began to get the point. In High School I started to develop a love affair with shoes and that spiraled into purses and cheap sundresses and belts and heels and I went on to college and on the road with my music. I learned to manage my less than tame-able mane and cleaned up my style with the idea that I should always sport something that I won’t regret in photos years later.  The neon western shirts never returned.

In my younger adult life I was fortunate enough to have some fun with my style, but as a professional woman who, until recently, worked in fundraising at a small college, I dressed the part. I wore heels and liked it. I wore a suit jacket and appropriate buttoned up shirts. I wore tights and dresses and ironed my clothes.

And I confused people.

When the email went out to my co-workers a few weeks before my scheduled departure about my plans to move back to the ranch where I grew up and begin “eco-tourism opportunities” I got a few curious inquiries and guests at my going away party. One person, in particular, made a special phone call to me to wish me well, but to mostly get the scoop. When I explained my situation, and convinced him that I was indeed excited to be moving back, and that yes, I ride horses and yes, I will be helping my dad and starting a business out here, his reaction was disbelief. He said he wouldn’t have guessed it. By the way I dressed, he always saw me as some sort of prim and proper prissy girl. Another person indicated that I looked a little too “uptight”  to receive his typical going away gift (a framed portrait of himself), another told me I will have to start dressing the part out there if I wanted to convince people.

They thought I was full of shit.

Which got me thinking about appearances. It is like our clothing, our makeup, our hair is our invitation for people to read our book, to hear our story, to open our cover and take a look inside. None of these people who knew me only at the office, or as a fellow college student, or someone I just met at a bar or on the street, would have pegged me and my big damn hair and my strappy sandals as a woman who used to get shit canned off of a green-broke horse regularly during childhood or someone who really doesn’t mind snakes or heavy lifting (although “heavy”  is really relative. Despite my upbringing, I have never actually developed any form of upper body strength or confidence with large machinery…in fact, once I nearly killed one of our hired men with a tractor, but I’ll explain myself later.)

This somewhat superficial judgement is not a bad thing. This is human nature. This is society. This is the real world.

But today, in my grass stained jeans, bare feet and unpainted face, I am reminded of the girl I used to be–or the girl I really am. The girl who paid no attention to the fact that her socks didn’t match. The girl who would wear the same shirt day in and day out because it was my favorite, dammit, and it had horses on it. The girl whose skin was brown from the sun soaked up from playing and working hard in the dirt, the girl with the fuzzy ringlets springing out of her ponytail, unwilling to be tamed, unwilling to conform, much like the girl herself.

And I am relieved. Like take a deep breath and hold back the tears relieved. Because I’d lost this girl for a little while. I’d lost her to career paths and paychecks and date nights and deadlines and making an impression that it turns out, I didn’t really want to make. I was working so damn hard to smooth out the wrinkles of who I really was without realizing how important those wrinkles were to me. I was going to the gym to tighten and tone a body that was meant not to sit in a chair behind a desk, but to shovel rock and brush horses and mow the lawn and get bucked off and run up to the top of the hill to see the view. With my buttoned up blouses and my hoop earrings, I was putting up a shield I was unaware of. A shield that was blocking out the best parts of me, not only from others, but from myself as well.

Now, don’t get me wrong here. This confusion will still remain I am sure. Because I like my fancy shoes and my purses and, because I finally got my ears pierced, my dangly earrings. I can strut my stuff with the best of them. But this wardrobe thing is an accent–my abstract book cover that entices you to read the back to get the gist of the plot.

Yes, some people will hear about what I’m doing and where I’m from and wonder why I’m walking around in impractical foot gear with a pile of bracelets on my arm. They will think I’m full of shit.

But you can be whoever the hell you want out here. The cows don’t care.

And I am not confused anymore.

I am a sweaty, muddy, perfumed, tattooed, mascaraed, diamond donning woman in great shoes with scrawny arms,mosquito bites, a bad tan line, chipped nail polish and well groomed eyebrows.

And I haven’t showered in days.