Mission Control to Sanity

Mission Control to Sanity . . .

Come in, Sanity.

“Sanity here”

Yes, Sanity, what is your location please?

“Um . . . let’s see, there’s a tree to my left . . . I hear frogs . . . Wait, did I just hear a train? No, that was just the sound of unstructured thoughts running around my brain. Huh, weird, sure sounded like a train for a moment there.  Sorry, I guess I’m lost.”

Houston, we have a problem.

Since we moved to the country I’ve been pacing the halls of mission control like an expectant father in a hospital, eagerly awaiting the delivery of my little bundle of Farm Zen.

You know, Farm Zen, that magical state of mind with rainbows and butterflies and fairy dust. Where background music softly plays as you greet each sunrise refreshed, a steaming cup of coffee in your hands. Where the horses nicker affectionately with gleaming coats and spotless fields. Where the breeze always flutters your hair in that ‘I look fabulous and I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet’ movie-star-glamor kind of way.

Sigh.

Not only have I NOT received my lifetime supply of Farm Zen, but the sanity I traded in for it has not been returned. It has not been returned and I want it back. I’ll love it and hug it and pet it and squeeze it and it will be mine. 

I keep thinking about Private Benjamin, when she said there must be some mistake because she joined the Army with the condos and private rooms; I signed up for the farm life with perfect weather, well behaved horses, and dogs that don’t dig up everything you put into the ground. Good Heavens, my recruiter lied to me!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jWNyUq_iW50

But then I see this:

And this:

And this:

And I realize that it’s okay not to be in control of every variable, it isn’t the end of the world if the horses have the day off because one more thing wasn’t going to fit, and I’m almost certain that the sun will not cease to rise in the East and set in the West if I have to burn a moldy round bale. Really, who cares if my coffee spills on my lap in the Gator, or the UPS guy pulls in while I’m feeding breakfast in flip-flops and bed-head? I have horses in my front yard and wine in the fridge, life is good.

An adjustment? Heck ya. Worth it? Absolutely. . . . 

Knock, knock.

Who is it?

“It’s Sanity. I’ve found my way home.”

A move, a woodland creature, a tropical storm

In one week.  ONE WEEK.

What I expected was “hey, welcome to country life. We know you’re new to this whole I Have A Farm thing so we’ll take it a little slow. Relax, open a beer and enjoy the peace and quiet. Go on, build a bonfire, make some smores. It’s all good, dawg “

 

Okay, day one seems to be going well

What I got was “Oh good, you’re here. Listen, I know you don’t even know which box your raincoat is in but there is a tropical storm headed your way in, um . . . let me just check the radar. . . oh yeah, now.  There is an unfortunate doe in the drainage ditch in front of your house who appears to have been on the receiving end of a front bumper and when you go investigate you will find a day old fawn bleating pathetically nearby. And just one more little tiny thing, that cranky thoroughbred over there is going to kick the living snot out of your right leg (double barrel, even) because he wants to be in the other paddock. Ok, so . . . welcome!”

Here she comes!

 

After the swelling went down. Horses.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. More wine in, deep breath out.

Ever try convincing 3 teenage girls that they can’t keep a cuddly little fawn that is trying to nurse on everyone’s neck?

DD #3 with the baby

DD #1 bonding

“Pleeeeease???? Look, he loves us!”

Ugh, someone get this knife out of my heart. He was awfully cute and I admit I toyed momentarily with the idea. I mean, c’mon, just look at him.

But then reason grabbed me by the hair and said “Get it together, woman! You can’t keep this adorable, snuggly, loveable little baby. You don’t even have a place to keep it safe from predators. Now get your butt in gear and come up with a better plan before I have another tropical storm sent your way!” So I did.

He was delicious.

Kidding. I will likely never be able to eat venison again. I called the emergency wildlife number and they gave me the name of a fawn rescue in Wilmington. We loaded up little Walter and drove the 2 hours so he would have the best chance of a safe and happy life. Those people know their stuff and in no time had him drinking happily from a bottle (not as easy as it sounds).  He will spend the next 4 months growing with the other fawns and then move to a different rescue where he will be transitioned back into the wild in a protected area.

DD at the rescue, they see a bottle and come running!

It feels good to know we did the right thing, and now we can go back to figuring out farm life.

I will be busy trying to remember which box I packed my sanity in.

Walking in the Hoof Prints of Greatness

On a quiet Sunday morning, in the shy hours of a Kentucky day, I traced a path. 

Before the hum of sound system checks and the call of vendors, before the rattle of gates and the cheer of the crowds, before the sun had noticed the morning dew, and, most desperately, before the passing of time had allowed the magic to fade into crumbled dirt and workman’s boots.

I stood at The Start and felt the power of a hundred hooves. I looked down and placed my own foot gingerly in the print before me, still soft and perfect in its outline, feeling a pang of guilt as the form collapsed to accommodate my weight. I let my eyes gaze down that historical lane, and then I walked.

And I listened.

In the hush of that morning I listened to story of the prints below. I followed along like an eager child, stopping in my own tracks at the dizzying magnitude of obstacles as they came into view, an obscene combination of beauty and terror, and for a moment I became lost in a memory of imagination.

I hear the disconnected reality of thousands of voices muted into a faint echo. The law of time suspended as motion slows and each stride becomes its own pulse. Nostrils widen, breath quickens, a bead of sweat falls away. And for a fleeting moment gravity patiently waits and there is only air. Perhaps a spectator’s gasp escapes the silence and an ear twitches to follow the sound. But then hoof and earth reunite, the ticking of the clock returns to its proper pace, and the raucous joy of fans is left behind in the wake of effort.  A private conversation is shared with a pat on the neck in a single gesture of gratitude, encouragement, and trust.

I made my way around that famous course. Turn by turn, jump by jump, my own breathing becoming labored at times, until I reached the last. I paused at The Finish and looked back at the prints that had allowed, possibly even welcomed, my company.  I quietly thanked them and a subtle nod of respect passed between us.

And then I stepped beyond the boundary and it was over. A gentle wave of sadness rippled through me as I suddenly became just a girl occupying space on a random clod of dirt.  Around me there were dogs splashing, children climbing, workers coiling miles of cable, and memories of victory and defeat sinking into the earth to escape it all.

I traced a path of greatness that morning, a path built upon hope and struggle, of jubilance and sorrow. A path that many will dream of, but few will achieve.

As I walked away I submitted to a brief delay in my return to reality and took a sentimental glance over my shoulder.  I was surprised to see a man standing alone and quiet at The Start. He gazed downward at the rounded outlines in the grass and tentatively took a step forward.

And I smiled.

Be the Duck

Life is so sneaky.

Sneaky like when your little brother tapes the sink sprayer so it blasts your face when you turned the water on. Sneaky like when you run over a tiny nail; not a big enough hole to notice, but just big enough to let the air escape over the next 10 miles leaving you with a flat tire in the middle of banjo country (this is North Carolina, people, we’ve GOT some banjo country). Sneaky like when you think you’ve been rocking your favorite new dress at the Christmas party only to find out your underwear was showing the entire time.

Sneaky, sneaky.

And getting sneakier. Getting more clever, more…. Are you kidding me, what now???

I’ll show you what now:

Lame horse

Naughty puppy destroying the house

Like you could get mad at this face

That we’re trying to sell

Lame horse beating the crap out of himself on stall rest

Naughty puppy creating a league of naughty siblings to help destroy the house that we’re trying to sell

I would like to call my attorney now

Torn liner in pool at the house that we’re trying to sell (huh, it was full when I left this morning)

That's weird, where'd the water go?

It was most certainly NOT me

Serenity now!

Times like this we must Be The Duck. On the surface they are grace and softness, gliding across the water in an effortless dance. Under the surface, however, their little legs are paddling in a private battle to stay afloat. 

At least I’m not the frog.

Specifically, this frog:

This poor fella was probably hopping along, enjoying a nice day, and called back to his buddies as he jumped from the diving board: “hey guys, watch this! Half gainer with a twist, nothing but net”

I’ll bet his little frog posse was lined up under the tree saying “Should we tell him?" "Nah, he’ll figure it out. Someone get a video.”

Paddle faster, little duck, I think I hear banjos.