Reflections

Skins and Bones

My love of animals has always extended beyond the living, breathing creatures that I adore. I also like the artifacts left behind when they depart this life. I remember begging my cousin for a “lucky” rabbit’s foot, like the one he had. And I was always a little envious of the things the boys in my class brought to school for show-and-tell…snake skins, pelts, bones, feathers, seashells, antlers, owl pellets….anything left behind by living creatures. It seemed like I never found those things on our farm; it just wasn’t wild enough anymore. I dug for dinosaur bones next to the front porch, certain that I was working on the femur of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. My buddy the cow skull from Larry's, circa 1988 - click to view larger version on Flickr My mom was not pleased by the fact that I’d ruined a brand new outfit because I hadn’t bothered to change clothes before playing in the mud. But I wanted that dinosaur bone.

Later, when I fancied myself a punk, skulls and skeletons were my favorite motif. They were harder to find then! I always preferred the stylized versions…flat white on a black background. Friends liked to contribute to my skelly collection frequently, but often didn’t understand that I wasn’t interested in the horror-show versions.

This week, my nephew was visiting and started telling me about his school lessons about bird feathers. I pulled down my jar of feathers and we sorted through them, first separating the curved wing feathers from the straight tail feathers and the downy feathers. “Aunt T, this is a downy feather. They’re like the bird’s underwear!” Then we sorted through them again, identifying the birds when we could, consulting the Sibley Guide for pictures of the animal that left the feather behind. It made me happy that he handled the feathers without reservation…I’ve seen adults approach them with a sense of revulsion…what if they’re dirty?

And last weekend I finally found a way to display the two goat skins (from another ranch) that J gave me last spring. Goat Skin Curtains - click to view larger version on Flickr Salted and dried, they’d been hanging in the yurt behind my shelves. They now hang as curtains over a window that’s been covered for the winter. There might be some who are surprised that someone who loves the goats as much as I do would have these skins, but to me it is another way to honor the animal.

Last spring, during the rainy kidding season, the real blood and guts of life and death was ever present here. I sometimes spent days without leaving the ranch, and began to feel a little feral. I remember heading out of town one day, passing some people at the graveyard. Dressed up in suits, ties, skirts, I suppose they were waiting for a funeral. A voice in my head said, “They should be wearing skins and pelts and feathers to show some respect!” I was so surprised, and nearly turned around to see if someone was speaking from the back seat behind me. Memorial with goat skull added But I understood what this voice in my imagination meant.

We don’t accept death in our culture. We’re all trying to look younger, to find the magic health plan that will let us live forever. We try not to think about death too much. We develop weapons that let us kill from afar. The kids are left at home with the babysitter for funerals. Bodies are sent to professionals who sanitize them and arrange them to look “lifelike” in caskets that seal everything out. Meat has no connection with something people know as an animal.

I don’t think it’s any coincidence that I have both a fascination and love for these skins and bones, along with addictions to disordered eating and alcohol. I notice an attraction to these same kinds of symbols in others who share these problems. I’ve often wondered if it’s symbolic of a death wish. But I’m also starting to see it in a more positive light as a reaction to modern culture in people who share certain personality traits with me, specifically those of us with an introverted intuition preference. To engage fully in this culture we are born into, we’re forced to ignore everything in us that seeks to connect us back to the full world…a world that includes the unconscious, death, the underworld. And then, like Persephone, we are captured by it, enthralled by our skull motifs, by throwing off fears through drinking and then dying to the unconscious by blacking out; the stuffing down of the feelings of life with food or becoming a picture of death itself through starvation.

We’ve given up the rituals that connected us to the symbols of death and the underworld, so we create new rituals that bring the symbols into being through our physical bodies. How do we stop that? How do we heal? We need to honor the rituals and the symbols, and acknowledge their meaning and importance to us personally. It is not necessarily an easy thing; it goes against the flow of where our culture seems to be heading.

I think a lot about that, and how it relates to my fascination with skins and bones, during this time of the year. It’s the time of Halloween, Samhain, Día de los Muertos, All Souls Day…the time of the year when the veil between the worlds is the thinnest. A time, perhaps, to honor the skins and bones and the departed, to celebrate Persephone’s descent that makes new life possible.

The Past

Not an Astronomer

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I’m not sure when it really happened, but I know that at a very young age, I became very manipulative. It wasn’t that I wanted to be evil. I just didn’t think I was worthy of getting what I wanted because I wanted it. I had to find another way.

What I wanted most of all, of course, was to be loved. But I had love confused with approval. (True fact: I actually had love and approval confused until just a couple of months ago…seriously! I still have to ponder the difference for a while to really get it.)

Perhaps, for me, the opposite of approval was anger. I dreaded anger, especially the anger of adults. I harbored a lot of fear that wasn’t really based on reality. I didn’t have a Toto to pull away the curtain that revealed that the wizard was only a man.

I got the idea that if I did the right things, I could keep the adults from getting angry. This wasn’t the simple, usual “if I’m good, I won’t be punished” kind of mindset. This was much bigger. I operated on a principle (that was not concious) that if I did everything right, everyone would be happy. So if I managed to chime in at the right time, or deflect attention in some way, I could prevent the anger that I dreaded.

A good example of this was during family car trips. If there was tension, I knew that the way to prevent a blowup would be to get a different conversation going. The best way to do this was to ask my dad a science question. Dad is smart and he loved to teach us. If I could get him going about something scientific, then we would just have a science lecture to sit through instead of an argument. “What is electricity?” was a really good one, as was (on stormy nights) “What is lightning?” I never understood the explanations, so I had no trouble asking those, time after time. I always pretended to understand.

In junior high school, our science class did a section on astronomy. For homework, we had to actually make little astrolabes out of protractors and go out and observe the planets and the moon, and chart their path from night to night. I loved it, or at least loved the idea of it. I was pretty bad at the follow-through, but found that I could look that stuff up in Sky and Telescope and mark it down on the charts on the day we had to hand it in.

I mentioned that, since I liked this so much, I thought that perhaps I’d be an astronomer when I grew up. This was met with lots of approval, and I ate it up. I couldn’t get enough.

Science fairs were another part of junior high school, and then high school. I got good at them. I won trophies and medals. It gave me the attention and approval I craved.

Me at Ritter Observatory.I got a summer job working at the planetarium at the University of Toledo. This was really a big bonus…not only did I get the approval for being so career-minded as a 17-year-old, but I got to move away from home a little earlier than most other kids my age. I worked there for four summers, sometimes getting to help out during real observation time with the big 40″ telescope on campus.

All this time, during high school, I was struggling with math. I hated math. I didn’t apply myself. I actually got some C’s, which shocked my parents and shamed me. I remember at an open house, my English teacher suggested that, when I got to college, I might find that astronomy wasn’t a good fit for me…the reading and writing in her classes came to me without effort. But I thought that was just silly, because I was clearly going to be an astronomer.

And off to college I went. My first quarter, I took Astronomy, Physics, and Calculus (and started a 20 hour/week job in the astronomy department, doing mind-numbing work for a professor emeritus who really had no idea of what to do with me.) I think I got a B, a C, and a D. That same quarter, I discovered binge drinking and hangovers. It’s a wonder I got grades that good, honestly.

To say that I struggled through college would be a great understatement. No matter how painful it became, how obvious it was to everyone else that I was in the wrong major, I would not give up.

I got pretty far in, and then started the electromagnetics course. I had this idea that if I just memorized the equations, I would be able to figure out how to apply them. But nothing made sense to me. When the first midterms were handed back to us, my score was “0”. That was zero points out of 100.

I dropped the class. I decided that I’d do better the next year; I’d take five years to graduate after all, as many did. I took some extra math in the meantime, because I had a crush on a grad student who I thought would help me. I did well in those courses, partly because of my interest in showing off, and partly because, at a certain point, all the numbers drop out of mathematics and somehow that seemed easier to me.

Next fall, I tried to take electromagnetics again. But it was more of the same. I never would understand electricity or lightning! I didn’t even make it to the first midterm…I just quit going and officially failed the course.

I decided to change my major. I went to my advisor and told him of my plan. I knew it was going to be a lot more work, and that maybe I wouldn’t even be able to swing it financially. But he looked at my record, and with some clever substitutions (“History of Astronomy” instead of “Electromagnetics”), I was able to graduate. I got a B.S. in Astronomy. Everybody was happy. Right?

Well, my friends at the bar I worked at said they would miss me, because somehow I talked my way into an internship at Hayden Planetarium in New York City. I definitely wasn’t going to graduate school, so planetarium work seemed like the only option to make use of my degree.

Hayden Planetarium

New York was a great experience for me. I lasted about seven months there, living in Manhattan, working days for the planetarium at the American Museum of Natural History and bartending nights at a club, “The Ritz”, where I got to see some of my favorite bands and swiped drinks for myself. If I had any energy left, my museum ID got me into any other museum in the city for free; I haunted MOMA and the Whitney whenever I could. I started looking more and more like a punk, which didn’t go over great at the museum. Eventually, it was all too hard to keep up. I also started having panic attacks. I finally admitted to myself that I really had no interest in astronomy. I missed my boyfriend terribly…he was living in Columbus, and I was grateful to move back there to be with him.

There was enormous freedom in making that decision. But it also felt like I was letting people down…my parents, and everyone who had helped me with jobs along the way. And, perhaps most painfully of all, it hurt to think that my college experience had been a waste. I worked hard and suffered for that degree, lousy as it was. It cost me a lot, in more than just dollars and time. But our path is our path. It shaped me in ways that I may still learn to appreciate.

I do know this: when I see parents celebrating the ways their child is unique, a part of me worries. Does that child understand that they are allowed to change? And when I hear about encouraging girls to go into math and science, I cringe. What about just not discouraging them from going into anything? Because I was on the vanguard of that girls-in-math-and-science wave, and I feel that, as a girl, I was very very susceptible to doing things for approval rather than out of my own true nature.

What was it that got me into all of this trouble over astronomy? It was my own need for approval, my own way of manipulating the world to love…or at least approve of…. this dumpy, clumsy girl with glasses. Because I myself didn’t think what was really inside was worth loving, and so I lost track of it.

And now I’m 46 years old and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

Goat Ranch Life

Recovering

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October means the approach of the Northern California rainy season. It was a year ago this month that I came to the goat ranch to talk about renting…the morning after the first big storm of the year. No one was here when I arrived; it seemed desolate. A large tarp on the yurt billowed and flapped in the wind; evidently put on in the wind and the rain as best they could, it gave the place a feeling of disaster. Something in me wanted to live here, but I worried about the situation.

Nonetheless, I’ve lived in this yurt for nine months now. During the first few weeks, I spent a lot of time on re-securing tarps and listening to loud flapping in the night; the tarps are required because the roof of the yurt has so many leaks. The first storms I weathered here were scary, but I soon experienced the stability of the yurt structure for myself and learned to trust it. After all, yurts originated on the wild and windy Mongolian steppe.

Yurts have a lattice framework for the wall supports. The beams from the ceiling are connected at the top of the wall by a steel cable that circles the yurt. The other end of the beams are connected to a center ring at the top. A traditional yurt “skeleton” operates on a system of opposing forces that create a very strong yet portable structure. The resulting shape is also extremely stable in high winds. My yurt (well, really my landlord’s yurt) was hand-made by a local who used it for a while, then sold and moved it to the ranch a few years ago. It’s 22′ in diameter (379 square feet).

Here’s a time-lapse video of a Mongolia yurt, or “ger” as they are called there, being set up. The basic structure of my yurt is essentially the same:

Modern western yurts are usually different than their Mongolian cousins in a few ways. The materials are different, usually vinyl or canvas instead of the traditional layers of felt and sheepskin. The heating source (a wood-burning stove in my case) is usually found on one side and vented through the side wall; in Mongolia, the stove is found in the center and vented out the top center ring.

Here’s a time-lapse video of the setup of a manufactured yurt from Pacific Yurts:

The interior wall of my yurt is different from others in a very significant way. When you step into a typical yurt, you’ll notice the lattice framework of the walls right away. yurtlattice But the wall of my yurt has an extra layer of bamboo screening installed over the lattice framework. In between the bamboo screening and the lattice is a layer of sheep wool from a local ranch. This acts as insulation in the walls. Of course, most of my temperature fluctuations happen via the uninsulated roof, but the wall insulation helps. It also means that I have the pleasant texture of bamboo to look at; to me, the one drawback to yurts is that the lattice walls can make me feel a little caged. In the photo to the right, you can see the lattice wall of my yurt in the window opening, and with the bamboo screening of the interior wall. For comparison, check out the swanky photo gallery from Pacific Yurts.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about this yurt and how to better prepare it for this coming winter. Tarps deteriorate in sun and wind, so it was clear that we needed to re-cover the top with a new tarp. I really wanted to use a tarp from Billboard Tarp Warehouse; they sell recycled billboards, made out of a heavier and more durable material than regular tarps. But my landlord deemed the cost too high. So I just got another heavy-duty silver tarp. I was able to find a 30’x30’s square tarp…big enough to cover everything, but no annoying overhang like the old rectangular tarp that was quickly being shredded.

So yesterday, a wonderful group of friends came to help put the new tarp on. You would think I’d be accustomed to asking for help after the past year, but it’s still tough for my prideful self. Fortunately, I have great people in my life who make that easier on me. Especially my brother Tony…he is always there for me. I’m grateful to all of them, both for their efforts, the delicious treats they brought with them, and (perhaps most of all) for their sense of humor.

Everything went great. Our team quickly got the tarp in place over the roof…the hard part was over.

Yurt re-tarping teams

We spent the rest of the morning and afternoon getting everything tied down securely. I’m very happy with how snug it all feels. I have better access to my windows, and am surprised that it feels much more quiet inside…the roof is definitely moving around less. After a few sunny days, I’ll go over it again and tighten down any places that might have stretched or settled, but I can tell already that this is a big improvement.

Yurt, snugged down for the winter

I’m looking forward to spending another winter in this big round space. The energy of living within a circle is very good for me; I feel that it is a very healing space. The soaring ceiling is especially calming for me, because I tend to be claustrophobic. Most of all, I love that I can hear everything happening outside…the birds and other critters are my companions here. Storms are dramatic and I feel their energy sweeping around my cozy circle home. I love living in a yurt.

Recently, I’ve caught myself a few times telling people, “I’m happier than I’ve ever been.” It astonishes me to hear it coming out of my own mouth, because just a year ago, I was more miserable and sad than I’d ever been. And I laugh when I realize I’m saying this while happily living under a $129 tarp.

Life doesn’t always go the way that I think I want it to go, but more and more I find that if I take a breath and surrender to what life really is, it ends up being better than I could have imagined. I am deeply grateful for my cozy re-covered home, and even more for all of the incredible loving people in my life, near and far. And, dear readers, for you. Thank you for coming along!

Eating Disorder

It’s Not About the Food

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I have a really clear memory of kindergarten, of standing in line at the door to the school, waiting to go back inside after recess. I was trying to talk to the girl in front of me when she stopped me cold. “I can’t be your friend because I don’t like fat people. And you’re fat.”

Even then I knew she was verbalizing something I’d already felt from other people. That didn’t make it any easier. But that feeling is something I’ve carried with me through life, even during the times when I got closer to or even achieved a “normal” weight.

I often felt like the adults in my life tried to push me in opposing directions simultaneously over my weight. I endured lectures about self-control and the simple, rational solution of eating less food. But when I tried to eat differently, perhaps trying out a diet book, I was told, “you’ll eat the same food the rest of us eat.” Or, if I managed to lose weight, special “treats” were presented…low-fat versions of ice cream or other goodies, that in reality only set binges off for me. In retrospect, it’s easy to see how food wasn’t just food. Food was an symbol of control, power, and, of course, love. No one was consciously trying to make things difficult for me; they were trying to help. But my problem wasn’t food. My problems were about things like control, power, and love.

In high school, I figured something out. I realized that the adults really weren’t watching as carefully as I thought. The chaos of everybody trying to get ahead, trying to keep up, the din of the constant radio and TV—all of these things created an atmosphere where I could retreat into myself. Not being noticed had always been a strategy, and I was getting good at it. Books especially were a solace; a good story could create a bubble of relief around me.

Running was a big craze at the time, and I had a crush on a boy on the cross country team. It seemed like a good way to lose weight. So I took up running. But, because of the crazy way my own brain works, just running wasn’t enough. So I quit eating. In the morning, it was pretty easy to get out the door without breakfast. And at school, it was easy enough to skip lunch. In the afternoon, the school bus dropped us off and I’d go straight into the house, change clothes, and go for a jog.

After that, I’d make tea. For a teapot, I’d use a 4-cup pyrex glass measuring cup. I’d put three teabags in it and then prop myself up on the couch with my homework or a book. Mom usually left instructions for getting dinner started, so I’d do that, too. At the dinner table, I’d take the smallest portions I dared, and skipped dessert. Everyone was happy.

I felt good during this time. Very light and airy. It made me feel very pure, in a spiritual sense. It was like becoming an angel.

It takes a while for weight loss to show, especially if you’re wearing the same clothing. One day, as we were getting ready for church, I found a skirt and blouse I hadn’t been able to wear before, but could wear now. I looked at myself in the mirror and knew I had changed.

When I went downstairs, I wasn’t able to escape notice any more. My brothers and sister even noticed. “Teresa got thin!” My mom and dad beamed. Everyone was happy.

During the next week, it was open house at school. I looked forward to wearing the same outfit, but worried that I’d already gained weight back. I’d started to slip on my eating. But of course, in reality I was still the same size; it had only been a couple of days!

I got lots of compliments and attention. My teachers were happy for me. And the boy I had a crush on talked to me a lot that night.

But something about all that attention worked against me. I couldn’t sustain the dieting anymore. I retreated back into my food underworld.

I would go through more phases of this as a teenager and young adult. And I would go on “sensible” diets created by giant corporations, or eating plans outlined by breathless authors who always seemed to hold the key to slenderness. My path in life has taken me through all of the big three eating disorders: anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa, and binge eating disorder. I always felt unlucky that anorexia was the least of these three for me…those were the lucky ones, I used to think…at least they get thin. But I know better now. I wouldn’t enter that hell again for anything in the world.

I’m not cured of eating disorders by any means. It may be like alcoholism: that I’ll never be “cured”, but can walk a path of recovery instead of being at their mercy. I can say that life is better than it’s ever been for me, particularly with eating. I don’t weigh myself anymore. I eat what I want, when I want it. I think more about the choices I make and what the food is going to do for me as fuel for my physical body. There are “good” days and “bad” days with respect to eating, but the good days are outnumbering the bad days. And when it’s a bad day or stretch of bad days, I’m more likely to remember to journal, to write, to do art, to get out in nature…and those things all help. I’ve lost some weight over the past few months; it both delights me and terrifies me. I try not to look at it too closely, because that’s fuel for the eating disorders. The size of my body really isn’t the important thing. That may not make sense to most people, and that’s ok. It’s taken me nearly five years of therapy and a lot of work to understand it myself.

The paintings that I’ve been posting here recently, those in the red thread series, are very much about my disordered eating, addictions, and a path to recovery and healing. Like many other addictive behaviors, eating disorders are a rejection of life, either by starvation or by dulling the senses into torpor. They seek to cut us off from our body and hearts; by giving us a sense of control, they separate us from our life force and our passions, especially those that might be frightening to others. They try to separate us from our true nature and destroy our feelings and ability to connect with the outer world.

It’s not about the food.

Goat Ranch Life

The Bodega Fire

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Yesterday afternoon, on the way home from Sebastopol, I was stuck in a long train of traffic behind a pickup with a fifth wheel. Not uncommon on the weekends, when the tourist hordes are out in force on my roads. But this time my anxiety was compounded by the smoke I could see in the distance. With every curve in the road, it seemed to be in a different direction. But as we got closer, it was obvious that the smoke was indeed coming from the Bodega area. And it was getting worse.

Wildfire near Bodega

When I got into town, the smoke was pouring over the hill near the cemetery. Traffic was being turned back. I stopped, as I’d planned, to get lunch at the Bodega Land Trust BLT fundraiser. I learned that the fire was near the turnoff from Route 1, and/or near the trout ranch, and that it had jumped Route 1.

Wildfire near Bodega

I got my BLT to go, even though no one in town seemed particularly concerned. The light was weird and polarized as I drove up the hill towards home. Laika came out from under P’s porch, looked at the car carefully, and when she was sure it was me, macaroni-danced her way over, nearly leaping in the front seat with me when I opened the door.

Wildfire near Bodega

The smoke was building and the air was full of planes and helicopters. The fire was about a mile or mile-and-a-half from our place. I took my BLT out to my garden sitting area and settled in to watch the show…not without some level of base instinctual fear, but certain that we were safe for the time being.

Wildfire near Bodega

Here’s a short video:

It was interesting to watch the aerial fire fight. Those guys are crazy; thank god we have them. The planes spread a bright pink-read substance, and the helicopters seemed to be carrying bags of water to release on the sight. I later learned that they’d been dipping into the ponds at the trout ranch. (Fish fry? Ok, I know, that’s terrible.) I also learned that a local firefighter was seriously injured. He is well-liked around town and by folks on the ranch, and is in everyone’s prayers.

This morning, the goats were quite skittish during milking time. Usually they just walk into the holding pen, but this morning they balked. Then, once I had most of them in, they stampeded out. On the milk line, they fussed at their grain but didn’t eat much and had no interest in hanging around the barn. Strange behavior indeed!

Of course in a situation like this, my thoughts turn to “what if”…what if there was a fire here? What would I need to do, how should I be prepared? I thought about making a “bug out bag”, but honestly the only thing I want are my animals and my computer, neither of which are packable in advance.

I confirmed one thing with Jordan: open the gates, and maybe even shoo the goats out. Honestly, I’m not sure how much that would matter; the whole ranch is fenced in except for the end of the driveway. And here’s the thing: we live near the top of a ridge, looking downhill to the southwest. If there’s a fire, it’s going to be heading up our driveway and road. In other words, we’re fucked. Our best strategy may be to get over the fence to the neighbor’s house, and hope we can get down their driveway on the other side on foot. Or go stand in the pond and wait it out.

The experience also made me think from a permaculture standpoint; I realized the wisdom of sitting on the land for a year before making any changes. I hadn’t considered the fire danger much before. Now it seems all too present. Tonight our sunset was colored orange from the haze that hung in the air all day.

I’m grateful to the firefighters who put out the fire before it roared into the town of Bodega…or further.

There are dramatic photos here on facebook, courtesy of the local paper.

Oh, and our all-volunteer fire department is having a Polenta and Beef Stew Dinner on Saturday, October 9th. Come out and join me…you can bet that’s where I’ll be eating that day!

Reflections

The JuJu Collection

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On of my favorite blogs is Los Farallones, written by the staff working for Point Reyes Bird Observatory on Farallon National Wildlife Refuge, a remote rocky island almost thirty miles off our coast. Recently, they wrote about Gull JuJu:

Here on the Island, we’ve noticed that the Western Gulls have a particularly unique and fascinating taste for edible-looking things and nest decorations. When walking through gull territories, one will often notice a collection of rib bones, regurgitated bits of plastic trash and other such goodies, brought back lovingly from the mainland, some 30 miles away. Over the years, we’ve collected our favorite findings and stowed them away into the Gull JuJu Archives. By far, the most common juju items found are decrepit plastic figures. A variety of army men, Winnie-the-Poohs, Lego characters, rubber duckies and many more have found their way into gull’s bills and stomachs.
Gull JuJu - photo from Los Farallones

I’ve been sorting through some of the junk and debris of my own life recently, and during this process I’ve dreamed of piles that look a lot like this, washed up on the beach at the edge of consciousness. I keep working through it in my conscious life. Rigorous honesty, as they say.
Juvenile Western Gull - photo by Marlin Harms.
Once I have my juju gathered up, sorted, labeled and cataloged, I take it to the beach with a friend. She brings blankets and scones. A juvenile Western Gull watches, eager for a piece of scone, or maybe hoping for a special bit of juju it can steal for its very own.

In the act that I have been dreading for weeks, I retch all my juju up into the sand, and we look at it piece by piece. We talk about my labeling and cross-referencing. It’s quite a collection and the themes emerge. Tattered family photos, old grade cards, broken doll parts, tampon wrappers, army men with their guns who’ve pledged to protect all this juju if only I stay silent. Stolen coins and candy. Piles of chocolate chip cookies. Little bits of colored plastic, melted into blobs by anger or worn smooth by shame. A proud little pile of junk that I guarded like secret, dangerous treasure.

My friend looks at it all without judgement. And she points out that I have one tiny army guy left, one I picked up over the weekend and hadn’t quite swallowed yet, and suggests maybe letting go of that, too. I’m not sure. Maybe he’s there to guard the next pile. But I know she’s right. I can’t let go of the juju without letting go of all the juju. I really do want that one tiny post-confession moment where I am free of all of it, before I start collecting it again, as all humans do.
Adult Western Gull - photo by Laura Gooch.
We put on our shoes and get ready to leave. The gull sitting and watching is now an adult Western Gull. I smile. Usually it takes them four years to do that.

I do feel older, as I go through the rest of my day. But the remaining army guy bothers me. It’s just a little thing, it seems so inconsequential…just one tiny failure to express my feelings honestly. And maybe everyone would be better off if I didn’t. But all day long, I keep stepping on that damned thing in bare feet. It annoys me. I vow to get rid of it when I have the chance. I don’t know how to do that without adding it on to someone else’s pile. All I can do is trust in something bigger.

At night I try to sleep, but toss and turn and yes, that stupid little hard jagged piece of green plastic is there, digging into my skin, until finally I surrender. I get up, swing open the door and send that army guy off, give him to the moonlight. Empty and unguarded, I finally find sleep.

Photo of gull juju from the Los Farallones blog. Photo of juvenile Western Gull by Marlin Harms. Photo of adult Western Gull by Laura Gooch.

Reflections

Grace at the DMV

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My last name has changed back as part of the divorce. I like to say that I’m taking the name of my niece and nephew, because they took such good care of me last fall, and because I hate the idea of going back to anything. Whatever the case, it now means a series of trips through bureaucracies to do the name change.

The social security office was my first stop, and relatively painless. In a few days, my new card arrived in the mail, and I was able to start the next round: the dreaded DMV. I didn’t mind having to get a new license; just last December I’d had to have my license renewed and a new photo taken. My photo was predictably horrible, my face swollen by weeks of crying and the last vestiges of alcohol. I felt lucky to replace it. That horrible version of my driver’s license had replaced the one I got when my name changed before, one of my best ID photos ever: a newlywed.

So I took the day off work, took a water bottle and plenty of things to keep myself busy, and sat in the DMV office for a couple of hours until my name was called. I approached the clerk and handed over my papers, bracing myself for bad news about something I missed or something I’d done wrong.

The clerk smiled as he took my papers, looked over my name change form and my social security card. Then he stopped, looked up at me, smiled, and said, “You’re a brand new person!”

“I guess so.” I said.

He looked through the rest of my papers, came to the court papers, made a couple notations on the computer. Then he looked up again, and said, quietly and sincerely, “I’m sorry for the reason.”

I thanked him but also innerly cursed him as the tears welled up in my eyes. I never know when it’s going to hit me again. And there’s something about this simple, heartfelt human contact that always makes me cry. I can stand just about anything other than a little tenderness.

Trying to lighten the mood and avoid having a teary photo taken, I joked with him. “Don’t you think I look better now?”

He agreed. “You’re all set now. Take these over to window 18 and they’ll get your new photo.”

2001 2009 2010
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Don Juan’s Delay

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We were going to give Don Juan his annual pre-breeding treatment this morning and then turn him loose in the pasture with his ladies. But it turned out there were other things to do, namely hoof and vaccinate the goats in the lower field. Those are the eight ladies that, for whatever reason, are not on the milk line currently. So that’s what we did.

Poor Juany…he’s been pacing the fence, threatening to climb over. And we really don’t want him getting into the next pasture, with our baby girls…they’re old enough to get pregnant, but if they do, they won’t be good milkers and may have complicated pregnancies. It was a big problem last year because of Leroy Brown, an accomplished escape artist.

I went into Don Juan’s pasture today and had a little chat with him.

Juany, I've got some bad news.

Juany, I’ve got some bad news. I know we promised today. But it’s looking more like Monday. You know how these things go.

Please don't head-butt me.

I know you’re disappointed. I’m very sorry. Please don’t head-butt me.

OH! Yes, I'll be sure to tell her.

Rozena Quail? Why yes, I do know her very well. OH! Yes, I’ll be sure to tell her. I know she’s looking forward to it, too.

Thanks for the kiss, Juany.

Thanks for the kiss, Juany. I know that kissing me is not what you were hoping for, but we’ll do our best on Monday.

Trust me, Don Juan. I am very sympathetic to your plight.