Tag Archives: autumn

When the leaves blow from their branches, I will tell you…

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Dear Little Man with the wispy hair, bright blue eyes and smile that sweeps wide across your face, lifting those squeezable cheeks toward the sky…

This is your crazy aunty here, you know, the one that will do anything, including crawling around on the kitchen floor and underneath coffee tables, jumping up and down frantically or singing “You are my sunshine” forty-seven million times in a row if it means that you will keep laughing.

Hello there. I have something to tell you. Something I intend to tell you every year when the leaves on the trees outside of your window start to drop from their branches and  blow away in the chilly wind. Someday your momma will ask you to rake them up into neat little piles. Someday, when you are bigger you will happily oblige and you will fling your body into the middle of the pile you created, feeling happy and free and glad to be out in the crisp fall air playing and running and jumping and kicking and all around creating havoc like little boys should.

Yes, someday you will.

And someday you will detach and drift and blow with the wind like the very leaves that dropped to the ground on the day of your birth. Someday you will fly away with them into a world filled with adventures and challenges and mountains to climb–the same world you are learning something new about every day.

But today I want to tell you that we are so glad you are here. Before you arrived we were a family, we were happy and full of life and things to do. Before we met you we dreamed you. We dreamed your hair with some curls, your eyes big and blue, your smile the way it showed up on you…always there, lighting our lives. We talked about what you might look like and when you might arrive and who you might become and how we would teach you things about why then sun shines and where the stars go at night.

But we had no idea. We didn’t understand what one little child with two tiny hands and two tiny feet and a nose that turns up just a bit could do to a family that was happy and full of life and had things to do. When we heard you were coming, when we got the call, we couldn’t wait. We drove in the dark in the earliest hours of the morning under a moon that was full and bright to get to you, to welcome you to this earth with open arms. We didn’t want to  miss it. We needed to see you first thing!

So we waited, impatiently. We paced the floor. We called our friends. We were nervous. Your momma was brave. And we were so proud as the moon disappeared and made way for that sun that would hang high and bright and shiny in the sky above you. And that earth that just moments before was preparing for a long winter sleep woke up bright and beautiful as your cries bounced off of the walls and out the door and into the morning air on the day you were born.

We were there to hear that first cry. Your momma, your daddy, your grampa and gramma and me. Your other aunty was calling, anxious to meet you, to hear about your eyes and your hands and your hair. Your grandma and grandpa hundreds of miles away were saying their prayers and holding their breath, waiting to hear the news of your arrival. Your uncle came rushing down the hall to hold you in his arms and say hello. He drove fast to get there just in time. He said you were tiny and perfectly perfect.


Your daddy couldn’t stop smiling. 

Your momma cried tears of joy.

And in that moment we couldn’t imagine a world without you.

It’s been a year Little Man and every day you amaze us. Every day you learn something new, you grow just a bit more. Every day you bring us closer to one another as we fall more in love over your busy hands, your belly laughs, the way you crawl and climb and stand and reach and taste and touch and hold on tight.

We hold tight right back. We don’t want to miss a thing. We don’t want to forget.

And all of wonders we thought we would teach you, all of the things that we thought you should learn from us? It turns out we just don’t know a thing, except the way that your hair plops over your eyes when you play and how your breath sounds when you’re fast asleep.

And so I will tell you year after year as the cold comes marching in, the leaves let go and the moon shines longer into the night, as you reach higher toward the sky, walk stronger on the earth, speak words true and knowing from your mouth, I will tell you on the anniversary of your arrival, on the day of your birth,  of all of those things we thought you would be–a wonder, a blessing, a gift of a life–


Little Man, you are so much more.

Happy Birthday! I love you…

Now can I  please have a bite of that cake?…

It’s all about autumn…

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Fall is one of those fleeting seasons around here. The kind that doesn’t get much attention because everyone is busy digging out their wool caps and puffy coats in preparation for what’s to come. But boy, this fall, this season, has been truly spectacular so far around here this year. Just like the rest of the seasons, it has not disappointed.

So on this Wednesday as I prepare for one of my good friend’s visit to the ranch, I would like to take a moment out of my frantic cleaning, organizing and thoughts about baking something to pay this season a bit of the attention it deserves….

Because who knows, we could find ourselves in a snow globe scenario in the morning. 

Here we go: On behalf of northern people everywhere, the ones who get out and take walks, stroll their babies through the parks, rake up piles of leaves and let their kids and wives and dogs jump in them while they laugh and stretch out the kinks in their backs before joining them. From the people who carve pumpkins and press pretty oak leaves between the pages of their books, the ones who enjoy a hot cup of homemade soup and light jackets and cardigans, the ones who paint eloquently, photograph with great care and detail, the ones who look, who really see…on behalf of people like these we would like to present this award of appreciation to the season of autumn.

I hope you display this giant, ten foot trophy proudly on the shelf on your wall–the shelf where you hang photos of your changing leaves, vibrant sunsets, rolling clouds and golden hues.

I hope you invite summer over for a cup of cider to brag a little. She’ll have time to stay for a bit now that she’s on vacation.  And winter, I imagine he will want to see this too, as the only award he’s ever won was from snowboarders and skiers thanking him for staying so long.

That winter really likes to chat doesn’t he?

And spring. Let him know that he’s next in line. Maybe the two of you could talk to wind and ask him to tone it down a bit, he’s always trying to ruin a perfectly pleasant season change.

But for now autumn, this is all about you.

You and your understated beauty, your crunching leaves and well worn paths. You and your picturesque views from the hilltops, pleasant temperatures and crisp air.

Thanks for quieting down so I could hear the acorns literally plunking to the ground in the coulees behind my house. Thanks for dropping those acorns,


even if you did drop one on my head.

I forgive you, because you and I are on the same page about the whole “the world needs more oak trees” thing. 

Thanks for putting a sparkle in the stock dam,

a shimmer in the chilly creeks,

a glow on the tips of the trees.

Thanks for reminding me what red looks like…

and orange…

and yellow

…and gold…

Because of this and how hard you have worked to paint a picture outside my window each morning and put me to sleep at night with your cool breezes, I will forgive you your cockleburs, the hornet that stung the favorite part of my hand, and the excessive and obnoxious amount of grasshoppers. They are only out there because you have given them longer life with your warmth and sunshine.

Thanks for that. Thanks for letting us sit outside and read a book, do a project, or just poke around. Thanks for sticking around long enough for me to take your picture. Because I’m sure your friends will want some for their walls.

You rock autumn.

Now go call your momma, she’ll be so proud of you.

Alone and breathing in Theodore Roosevelt National Park

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Well fall came dancing along in all its glory around here and we sure didn’t need the calendar to tell us so. Just like the uncharacteristically warm weather, the leaves on the trees were not about to take the subtle approach to the season change. Overnight the ash leaves turned from greed to gold, the vines bright red, the grass and flowers exploded seeds and even the slow and steady oaks began letting go their acorns and turning one leaf over to gold at a time.

It has been magnificent. But that’s the way it is around these parts, when it comes to the landscape and the great outdoors, you really can’t accuse it of being understated.

So after a challenging week I was ready to celebrate autumn the way it deserved to be celebrated. I was ready to frolic in it, to let go my agenda and my worries, ignore my pain and troubles and just climb a big damn hill and feel the warm breeze in my hair. So on Friday after a trip to the big town for an appointment, I moseyed on down the busy highway filled with lines of trucks and pickups and SUVs. Vehicles that moved busy humans at full speed along that paved ribbon of road that winds through buttes and half cut wheat fields, across the Little Missouri River that sparkles and meanders under the big blue sky and slowly sinking sun. I wanted to meander too, I wanted to meander among the things out here that are allowed a slow change, a subtle move toward hibernation, a good long preparation for a show like no other, a recital of how to slow down gracefully.

And I couldn’t help but wonder while I tried hard to keep my eyes on the road, despite the neon yellow trees waving at me from the ditches, if these people who were sharing my path were seeing this. Did they notice that the tree was waving to them too? Were they commenting on how the crows have gathered? As we came down through the brakes that move us through the badlands of Western North Dakota, our home, did they notice how the layers of the buttes–the line of  red scoria, the black coal, the clay–did they notice how in the late afternoon light the landscape looked like a giant canvas and the buttes seemed created with wisps of an artist’s brush?

Did they see that river? I mean really see it when they passed over the bridge? Did they take note of how it has receded a bit? Did they feel like stopping beside it to rest for a while? And as they approached the sign that read “Theodore Roosevelt National Park-North Unit,” a sign that indicated they were indeed on the home stretch to their destination perhaps, only 15 miles to the town to stop for gas, to make it home, to take a rest on a long truck route, were they enticed like I was at all on that Friday afternoon to stop for a bit?

Because what could be better than breathing in fall from inside a place that exists raw and pure? A park. A reserve. A spot saved specifically to ensure that nature is allowed to go on doing what it does best while undisturbed by the agenda of the human race, which at that point on Friday afternoon I was firmly convinced didn’t have a grip or a handle or an inkling about how to live gracefully among a world designed for us…let alone accept and live harmoniously among what we can’t control or may not understand–like the change of weather and the seasons and the sun beating down on the hard earth we wish would soften, or a body we wish would heal and function properly.

And I was guilty as well of taking this for granted. I was guilty of driving by this spot time and time again as it called to me to take a rest, to visit, to have a walk or a seat or a climb.

But not Friday. Friday I needed its therapy. I needed to park my car and stretch my limbs and take a look around from the other side of my camera.

From the top of Battle Ship Butte.

From the trail at the river bottom.

From the flat where the bison graze.

So as I pulled my cap down and took to the familiar trail that wound up that big, daunting and famous butte along the road, I took notice of breeze clattering the drying leaves together, the birds frantically preparing for the chill, the grasshoppers flinging their bodies at the dried grass and rocks…

and then I noticed I was alone.

Alone out here in this wild place I’ve visited before as a tourist, as a resident of the area, on dates and outings, family functions and educational tours surrounded by inquiring minds and cameras.

But I’d never been out here alone.

Alone as I scrambled and pulled my tired body up the steep and rocky and slippery trail toward the top of my world  as twobison grazed on the flat below the buttes.

Alone as I reached my destination with no other ears around to hear me catch my breath and then sigh in awe at the colors and solitude.

Alone as I watched those bison move and graze, a spectator in a different world, a spy on a giant rock.

Alone as a ran my hand along the cannonball concretions, scrambled to keep my footing and wipe the sweat from my forehead on the way down.

Alone to take my time as I noticed how the trees sparkled on the river bottom against the sinking sun. No one to tell me that’s enough…enough photos, enough time, enough gazing.

Alone as I walked toward the river, keeping an eye on the time, but wishing there was no such thing. And there was no one there to stop me from following it a little bit further, to see what it looked like on the other side of the bend.

No one there but me and a head full of thoughts and worries that were being pushed out of the way to make room for the scenery, the quiet, the beauty, the wildlife tracks and magnificent colors and trails before me.

And because I was alone, because it was quite, because in here there was no speeding or trucks or access to my phone, because unlike on the ranch, I was unfamiliar with the trails and the directions I was forced to really pay attention, to use my senses, to make new discoveries,  I was able to notice that after a few weeks gone missing I was becoming myself again.

The self that understood this was my habitat, my home and surroundings. The self that knows the weather will be predictably unpredictable, but the seasons will always change, the leaves will dry up, the acorns will fall, the birds will fly away from the cold or prepare for it, the grasshoppers will finish their rituals, the snow will come and coat the hard earth, then melt with the warm sun, changing the landscape, if only a little bit, as the water runs through and cuts the cracks in the earth.

And the bison will roam because we let them and the antelope will too knowing or not knowing that their lives are fragile.

Just like ours.

So we must remember to be present,  live in it…breathe.

Thank God I remembered to breathe.

Please, remember to breathe.

For more photos of my hike around Theodore Roosevelt National Park, click here to visit my Flickr photo album 

Oh, and if you missed it, take a stab at my North Dakota Trivia Game from last week’s post for a chance to win a prize! There haven’t been many brave attempts (I think you’ve all been out enjoying the beautiful weather), so I’m giving you more time!  Get your ND history hat on a play!

Sexy, sexy sky

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Let’s talk about the sky. Really. Let’s take a look at the one thing we all have in common and embrace it and love it with all that it deserves. Because frankly, I think it’s getting tired of being overlooked, acting out like it has been the last couple days.

So alright, alright I see you. And I apologize for ignoring your these last few months, eyes on the trees as they change clothes, eyes on the dirt, eyes on the road, eyes on this guy…

eyes on my work, eyes on the future and eyes on the back of my lids when I’m trying to sleep.

But really, I have been amazed at the show it has put on for us the last couple days. I mean Crayola doesn’t even make colors this spectacular, not even in the jumbo pack.  Yes, in some sort of grand finale to this harvest season the sky chose to feature a light show to spruce up the mundane landscape that has shed its leaves and has been feeling rather chilly lately, thank you very much.

How generous of the sky to strike a match to start a fire of fires–nice and toasty, no need for a sweater thanks, a light jacket will do. The sky has warmed us all up.

And made us look damn good.

Because, as my dear momma tells me, it’s all about the lighting.

And she’s right.

She’s usually right about most everything, especially when it comes to looking your best.

And it turns out, this landscape looks damn good naked as the sky casts a golden light upon its flesh and then softens it up with a bath of pink before pulling the silk sheets up over us and turning off the lights for the evening.

Sexy, sexy sky.

So strike a pose people (and pug), take off that wool scarf, let it all hang out and look up for crying out loud. The sky’s got your back, and you’re gorgeous, absolutely stunning.

And so is this guy, don’t you think?

October 14, 2010. My man

Have mercy.

Sometimes I think life is one damn masterpiece after another.

See ya out there!

It’s a jungle out here.

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I’m telling you, it’s a jungle out there.

Well, I’ll be honest here (because I am what I am) it is generally a jungle in here as well.

You know, with the four critters, two humans and occasional visitor popping over for supper…oh, and lovely brother in law who is living in his camper in our yard while on a job out here. Love him. He washes the dishes and brings me Oreos and grills us chicken.  I’ll tell you more about him later, because you are sure to like him too…

but today I want to tell you a tale about adventure—a tale of travel and danger and betrayal and close calls with death and rescue and heroism and reuniting, passionate, true love.

A real Indiana Jones type story…

Only this involves a pug, some disheveled horses, a couple humans and….a cat.

A damn cat.

Damn the cat.

Dammit cat.

Cat, dammit

Dammit.

Cat.

Ok.

So last weekend was lovely and I spent it with an old friend and a new friend and they came out to the funny farm to take a nice relaxing ride in the hills, breathe in the fresh air and take in the beautiful fall day.

I’ll note here that I was all alone out here last weekend with my momma down the road, because you know, it’s hunting season.

The boys didn’t even leave me the lab.

Anyway, so I was excited for a ride with the ladies, but unsure of the equine skill set my guests possessed. So I decided to play it safe, because, well, you know my track record with luck and injuries isn’t so great. I didn’t want to put them in harm’s way. I didn’t want a rodeo. I wanted peace and peace of mind.

So out to the pasture I went to retrieve our best-tamed broncs.

Well, broncs isn’t quite the word.

Nor is tamed really.

Old and relatively lame might be better adjectives.

Oh, and absolutely full of cockleburs and mud from spending their elderly days out to pasture relaxing, chomping on greens and pretty much letting themselves go.

But it was time that Stormy and The Mare earned their keep around here and after literally waking them up (I think I caught the entire herd snoring) and dragging their fat asses back to the barn, I proceeded to use my hair dressing skills (I have some sweet skills I haven’t told you about yet) to remove a field of burs from their manes. After much cussing and sniffing and scratching and chunks of hair flying, I decided they might be able to pass as dignified, although slightly older, members of the equine family.

They were ready for their close ups.

They were ready for a stroll.

They looked so good, I actually had to go inside and change to my fancy shirt so we matched.

 

Stormy and The Mare

 

Anyway, we were ready and presentable just in time for my old friend and my new friend’s arrival. I introduced them to their mounts and, after an explanation on why The Mare doesn’t have a real name, we were off into the crisp, clear autumn morning.

The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. There was a flawless breeze. Not a cloud in the sky.

Perfection, just as I had planned.

And then…

“Meow….meow….meow….meow….”

What the hell is that?

“Mmmmmeeeeeoooooowwww…..meow…meow…MEEEOOWWW”

Oh, ha ha, how cute, the cat followed us.

I explained to my guests:

“Oh, that’s ok, he’ll turn back. He’ll turn back. How funny. Ha ha.”

They weren’t quite sure.

The Mare started to cough.

The sun shone warm on our backs.

We took in the scenery and talked about how great life is and…

“MEOW. Meow. Meowmewomeowmeowmeow.”

“MEOW”

Well, I guess the cat was not only coming along, he was intent on weaving his little body between the legs of the old beasts’ feet. I mean, anything for a scratch. Anything for attention.

I explained to my guests:

“Here, I’ll try chasing him back. He’ll go home if I just encourage him with a little sound effect…you know, scare him home…..”

My old friend said:

“Good luck with that.”

I said:

“Pssst….pssstt….get back….go home….psst…shhhhhh…..pppppssssssttt…..you little sh…..hahaha…..get back kitty….ppppsssstttt…..”

The Mare groaned.

My new friend was reminded why she is allergic to cats.

Stormy fell asleep.

 

Stormy

 

The cat didn’t budge.

“Meow.”

We continued on our merry way and tried to ignore the panicked screams for attention going on below us. A cat that thinks he’s a dog. A cat that thinks he’s a horse. A cat that thinks he is far more adventurous despite the lack of appropriate outfit or gear for this type of wilderness travel.

Then our attention was diverted to The Mare who had somehow developed a major limp since the last time we took her on a stroll.

My old friend wasn’t so sure her horse was going to make it.

I told her it was an act, a ploy for sympathy and attention. She has to exercise. This is good for her. She really has let herself go.

My new friend sneezed.

“Meow….meowwwwwwww…….

Reeeeeaaarrrrrooooow…..REAAAR!”

Silence.

New friend:

“I think my horse just kicked your cat.”

Old, animal loving friend:

“Oh no! Is he ok…is he…”

“Meow, meow, meow…”

Oh, good he survived.

Thinking now would be a good time to head toward home and wondering how much bleeding would be involved with carrying a cat on a horse, we turned toward the corrals.

Barnyard bound, Stormy, who had been trailing a half a mile behind the crew (no doubt facing pangs of jealousy as his much younger rival took up the lead) caught up to give my horse a good kick, you know, to remind him to respect his elders and stop looking so shiny and sleek.

The Mare miraculously recovered from her bad hip or foot or whatever ailment she was faking and picked up speed.

And the cat disappeared.

Oh shit.

Me to my guests:

“Don’t worry, he’ll find his way home. Cats can smell home. Cats are smart.”

Me to myself:

“He’s a goner. Eagle bait. Coyote bait.….shit.”

My old friend was not so sure. My old friend was concerned.

My new friend sneezed.

Onward we pushed, my posse and I, mourning the loss of our adventurous little mate, sure he would pull through, sure it would turn out fine, weary and ragged from the drama of it all (or the dust and bur particles swirling in the air).

We arrived, unsaddled, picked our wedgies, brushed our beasts, gave them a treat…

 

The Mare, rolling off the drama of the ride, trying to get the stink off...

 

and listened for the cat….

“Oh, there he is,” old friend exclaimed pointing to brave cat’s identical brother, sleepy, lazy cat. “He made it home after all.”

And honest-to-a-fault me, who has been caught in every untrue story I have woven, pulled off the ultimate sin and lied to my old friend’s face.

“Uuuhhh, yup, there he is. What a trooper.”

I didn’t have the heart.  I didn’t want her to worry. I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to get in on the scavenger hunt that would ensue after her car pulled back into civilization.

So my old friend and new friend, who turns out was allergic to pretty much every particle at the ranch, but held it together so graciously and wonderfully for the love of the ride, despite a swollen eye and slowly closing throat, took off back to town, where there is no dirt and cats stay in the house and eat canned food from a fancy dish and there is no toxic dust.

And I convinced myself that the cat would come back.

And hummed that little childhood tune…you know:

The cat came back, the very next day.
The cat came back.
We thought he was a goner.
But the cat came back,
He just wouldn’t stay aaawwwaaayyyy!

I made myself some lunch. All will be well.

Took a bite.

Looked out the window.

Finished my chores.

Looked over the horizon.

Made some supper.

Turned on the yard light.

Read some pages out of my book.

Yelled for the cat.

Fell asleep.

Woke up.

Wandered around the barnyard.

No cat.

Damn cat.

Cat dammit.

Dammit cat.

Now I’ve done it. I’ve lied and will have to explain this to my old friend or risk living a life with one cat who has to play the role of two, you know, like the girl in Parent Trap, in order to convince my friend I’m not a heathen.

And I kinda missed the crazy cat. He was the yin to calm cat’s yang.

He completes….ok, well never mind.

Anyway, it was time to find him. After all, how long could he survive out there with out a proper hat or cargo pants or canteen at least?

So I rounded up Chug the pug (who would have to do in the absence of the lab) and put on my scouting outfit and we went on our own hunt, thank  you very much.

 

My search partner

 

We backtracked and marched diligently along yesterday’s route, staying on course, except for an occasional pause to take a picture or chase a bird or pet the horses, we were thorough in our efforts.

Through the thick brush, up to the tallest hill I scoured the landscape with one hand on my hip, one to shade my eyes and point, Lewis and Clark style. The pug sniffed the ground and followed hot on the trail…oh wait…not a cat, just a jackrabbit. Keep it together man!

I listened in the silence for brave cat’s cries for help.  I scoured the earth, high and low…oh wait, what a beautiful tree….oh, the sky is just stunning today…beep, beep, click…

FOCUS!

The pug slapped me. I slapped the pug. We were back on track, traipsing past where brave cat was allegedly stepped on, past where he meowed, and meowed, and meowed and finally, past the place I was sure he disappeared into the mist of that fine morning.

Oh no, could hope be lost? This was my last resort, my last chance at retrieving this animal that was stupid…I mean loyal… enough to follow his beloved human out into the wilderness….

Oh cat, our time was brief together, but so full of love and life…I’ll miss you…good…

“meow…meow…meow…”

The pug stopped in his tracks. That never happens.

“mmmeeeooowww….mmeeoowww….mmmeeoowww.”

I turned toward the snarly brush behind me…

“meow.meow.meow.meow.”

I looked down. The pug followed. I dug through the brush, moving closer to his pleas for help…

“meow meow meow meow.”

Close now, I looked to the sky to catch a glimpse of two little eyes blinking with worry and anticipation. Our eyes lock and the pug went crazy and started chasing his tail and brave cat, way up in the highest tree, where he undoubtedly built himself a little cat sized hammock and settled in for the night in the middle of the most gnarly brush patch on the ranch, came barreling down to the ground at full speed.

The pug gave him a nuzzle. I gave him an apology and felt really guilty for giving his instincts too much credit.

Brave cat started purring, so I think he forgave me, but wasn’t over it enough to let me carry him home.

 

Not my biggest fan...

 

He chose to follow the pug.

 

"Don't worry buddy, I got your back."

 

The entire way.

To hell with me.

And Chug the pug proudly lead the way…

 

Homeward Bound...Milo and Otis...anyone? This is my life....

 

 

"C'mon buddy, don't give up, we're almost there..."

 

And when we finally made it, I got in my car to head to the big city and found that a mouse had taken up residence in my glove box.

What did I say about the jungle? Yeah, it’s out there.

 

Reunited and it feels so good.

Reunited, and it feels so good...

 

Damn cat.

 

Thanks for the help buddy...I really should get you that cape I promised...

 

Bittersweet-pain and peace

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I woke up this morning to a sort of dull haze that had settled into the valleys of this place. It is not a fog, or a mist, just an indescribable thick kind of air that is veiling the bare trees and sharp grasses.

It is a mysterious way to showcase a season that has greeted me every morning from outside the tiny windows of our bedroom with a magnificent sunrise of red and gold and pink and yellow peeking through the snarly, ancient, hibernating oak trees that hug our tiny house.  Every morning this world I live in has taken my breath away. Every morning I have been grateful for this.

But this haze took me by surprise as I ventured out onto the landscape to clear my head and put a flush in my cheeks—the very thing I do every day to ensure myself I am alive, to remind these lungs and these legs and these eyes and ears that I sprung from this dirt somehow and that I belong here under this October sky.

At least that is what I hold on tight to, especially in the hardest times, the times when the unanswerable questions scream at us until we fall to our knees.

I am thinking about those questions today as I march across a landscape that was, just months ago, soft and lush and full of life. The trees stood tall, limbs wide and heavy with leaves, the creek beds flowing and moving with the heartbeat of the green moss that lived out brief lives on its surface; the colors of the wildflowers flashy, fertile and bursting with luxury; the green grasses bending and swaying with the rhythm of a warm wind.

Bountiful, beautiful, enchanting life.

But today, under the same sky, the same sun that helped spring life from the earth has stayed long enough to strip the mesmerizing landscape of its inviting softness, turning it harsh, more brittle, sharp and dry and brown under my feet.

With the blanket of green stripped away, any human with a pumping heart could easily be convinced by looking at the pieces left on this bare landscape that all hope is lost. That this is it. That there is life–glorious, colorful, dramatic, passionate, unforgiving life–but it is fleeting. It is over. The green will never return.

But of course every human with a pumping heart knows that this is no time to lay your head down and give up hope of ever smelling the wildflowers or reaching out your tongue to catch a spring raindrop. Every heart who has lived understands that this is just a change of season, the spinning of the planet and from the deep depths of winter there will always be a thaw followed by a crocus pushing through the mud and reaching its pedals to the sky.

And this purple flower will live a life  full and proud and fragile, until the love of the sun dries out its face and stems and one day it withers away to return to the earth.

Yes, this is fair to us. This is nature, the circle, the seasons defined. And we accept that we must harvest the wheat, breathe in the fall air, appreciate the inevitable nakedness of the trees and bundle up for the winter. We understand and only morn the loss of a season briefly, because it is sure to come back again.

But as humans who possess a warm, beating, passionate heart, we are confused and thrown off balance when other beating, passionate hearts around us cross over to a different season.

We do not accept.

We do not understand.

We grieve, and scream, and hope and look to something, to someone to tell us where this heart went.

“Will I ever see her again?”

“Is she happy?”

“Where is she?”

“Why not me?”

“Why her?”

“Why?”

So I want to offer something here to all of us who are struggling to find peace in a world that challenges our faith every day. I know when faced with insurmountable loss and grief and pain there are no answers, there is no grip that is tight enough, no kiss warm enough, no clock that moves fast enough. But maybe this can help. Maybe it will resonate with someone as it has with me….

See, as a woman who has lost friends too soon, family too young and who has been a mother, although only briefly, to children who never made it outside of my body to breath the air of this world, I have asked these questions inside of church buildings, in books, in doctor’s offices and while holding on tightly to family.

And I have walked the silent trails of tangled brush and bugs buzzing and abandoned nests and broken branches and have screamed to the sky that we trust so much to hold us together, to remain predicable, to provide the nutrients for the cycle of life.

I have asked:

“Why did I fail?”

“What happens to us now? “

“How do we move on without the hope of  an extension of our hearts, taking care and planting feet on this earth?”

And I cried for my loss.

I was angry.

I was scared.

I was aloof and unsure about God.

I was unpredictable.

I was fine.

I wasn’t fine.

And then it started over.

But I kept walking. Because in all of the places I looked, without question, I have found the most comfort under the branches, feet in the mud, face to the sun, hands touching the grasses and lungs sucking in the air.

Because here, I began to understand that nature, under this sky, isn’t as predictable up close as it is from afar. Once I began to come down from  the hills and the trails and into the prickly, dirty parts, I found that if you pay attention you discover there is suffering out here that looks just like ours.

Grass blades get torn and consumed by wild beasts, the tiny mouse doesn’t always outrun the hawk, the water cuts ruthlessly into the hillsides, thorns and burs tangle and take over the land, the greenest and most luscious of crops can poison and even the mighty oak can’t run from the storm.

No, there are no guarantees; there is no certain compassion, no protection for the weak, no sympathy in the dirt and no assured shelter from the sweltering sun. It all could very well be hopeless.

But when I take a step closer I notice among the bare, black, snarl of the brush in the dead of the fall, a vibrant, hearty vine wrapping its way toward the sky, holding out for the season, shining bright against the gloom.  Bittersweet.

And that mighty oak, despite the eminent snowstorm, with blind faith, releases its acorns with the hope that one of her seeds might take root and touch the sky.

And a weight is lifted off of my heavy heart as I take from the crocus, who has been absent from this season for months, the lesson to live this brief life with passion and vulnerability and beauty and color–and be the first to welcome the light.

Then I take from the oak her hope that those we release into this world will come back to life again. Come back to us. Maybe not in a heaven as most have understood it, but back to the earth, through the crisp clean air, on the scent of a rose, the glisten of dew on the grass, in the breath of a horse, the sigh of a newborn child or the sunrise through a bedroom window each morning–a quiet sign that those heartbeats still surround us.

And from the bittersweet that clings tightly to the thorns, wrapping its beauty around the dark, hard limbs of the tangled brush, holding strong to the splendor and hurt of it all, I take from her the understanding that one day our broken human, pumping hearts will make enough room for the pain…

…and the peace.

Bringing the horses home.

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One of the things I am trying to do here is give you a glimpse into this colorful, peaceful (well, except for the cats), muddy, middle of nowhere life we lead. So hang out for a second and I’ll take  you on a ride dad and I took the other day to bring the horses home.

Right now we have 6 1/2 horses (the 1/2 being the horse part of the mule…so technically we also have 1/2 a donkey…is that confusing?).

Anyway, my dad has an obsession with horses like I have an obsession with, well…every animal. So at any given time he will be training from 1 to 4 young horses. I got in on the action when I was growing up. This usually involved me on the back of a green horse during the summer when dad was at work, riding out in the open space in the heat of the day. One of three things would more than likely occur:

1) I would get bucked off and horse would run away, leaving me pissed, bruised and walking my sorry butt home.

2) Horse would run back to the barn while teenage version of myself (think Olive Oyl: arms and legs flailing) would remain in the saddle, yanking and yelling “hoe, hoe, hoe” (that’s what we say around here to get a horse to stop…get your mind out of the gutter).

3) All would go perfectly well, causing me to trust a little too much, which would, in turn, lead to item 1 or 2 occurring on the next ride.

So, when you have all these horses, you need to ride a lot to keep them nice and trained and in good shape. That is why you see lots of pictures of us riding out in the hills and not so many of us chasing cows. Because when we are strolling out in the pastures, I have lots of time to take pictures of my beautiful surroundings.When we are chasing cows, apparently shit can hit the fan at any given time and I am expected to pay attention. In order to avoid more accidents than I normally create without distraction, I leave the camera at home.

Maybe someday I will learn to multi-task and then you will see some pictures of cows.

Anyway, I promised you a ride with me, not an explanation of my shortcomings, so here we go…

Some views from the clay buttes in the horse pasture…

I love how the sky looked that day and the way these trees stick out on the horizon along the road…also, I think after walking a good mile, this is where I realized I wouldn’t be finding these hiding horses on foot…

So my dad came over on Tucker and brought me a horse from his place and off we went…

We didn’t find the horses yet, but did see this spotted fawn, just standing as still as he could, watching us as we passed by. I got as close as I could to him and then he spooked, revealing his brother who was laying, invisible, in the brush below him. Adorable.

Dad took the camera. He thought there needed to be some pics of me in my flannel and dorky vest on Stormy. Oh, and I skipped the saddle, which was impressing him. He thought I was getting too old for daring adventure. Not so I say Pops. Not so!

Some of the trees are turning gold, but my favorite are the splashes of red you see in the brush…

We watched a couple deer on the sidehill and then waited for them to run up and look at us from the horizon. The cowboy’s always hunting…

Again, the sky that evening was killing me…it was like the big man was pulling the fluffy covers up over us, getting us all warm and snuggled down before the cold season.

Found ’em. When horses see each for the first time out in the open hills, they get excited and whinny and neigh and sniff and snort and cause all sorts of dramatic scenes.

Oh, Colonel, aren’t you a gorgeous boy? Yeah, he knows it.

Let’s go boys (and mule…).

I taught them to line up like that. Horse whisperer? If you believe it, it must be true.

I think this is dad’s shot of the barn. Nice skills Pops.

This is what your butt looks like after sitting on a horse’s bare back for an hour…sexy…

These are horses who expect treats for good behavior…

And this is home.

On a totally separate topic, I saw this spider the other day on my walk “off road” with my momma. This spider was huge, and he was fastening his bib and sharpening his knives, getting ready to have a delicious butterfly for supper.

Fall Spider

I guess I think he’s beautiful, in a creepy, arachnid sort of way. I came home to tell husband and this is what he said…

“Where did you see this?”

“I dunno, somwhere along the road.”

“No, exactly where did you see this?”

“Why?”

“So I can be sure to never go there.”

Husband hates spiders…bwahahahaahaa!