Life is a series of events that turn into memories that you sift through while waiting for further events to unfold. This is how I have always seen it. I believe I formed this idea due to the fact that we watched the Neverending Story series about a million times.
In The Neverending Story II Bastion is being tricked by an evil Sorceress into wishing for things and every time he does he loses a memory. She collects these small marbles filled with memories in a large tumbler thing on her evil table. Every once in a while we watch her as she picks one up and looks at it. Makes perfect sense right? Whatever.
Basically I’m dancing around something I’m trying to deal with so I mind as well do it in a semi-public platform. I deal best when talking things out, and there’s no one to talk to really who gets this, and who mourns the way I do. So I’m trying to make myself feel better.
When I am very sad I get introverted. I am a natural extrovert and usually I get my energy fill ups by hanging out with my people. Talking an laughing and generally being the annoying loud table in the restaurant filled with those people who haven’t ever heard of the “inside voice”. When I am faced with a reality I wish weren’t I can only really deal alone, or in very select company who understands I don’t really want to talk about whatever “it” is.
My horse is being put down. She is 24, and a cripple, and in pain. It is the right choice. I just wish there wasn’t a choice. I was thirteen when she was given to me, she was seven and pregnant. Whore-S! get it?? Horse? I though it was funny. I use humour to deal ok?
Horses aren’t animals to everybody. To some of us they are partners, sisters, mothers, best friends, teddy bears, safe places. There are some things you can only tell your horse, while choking back sobs as you ride through the rain in the middle of the forrest. Hi-Lite is this to me and more. I was watching a little girl at a horse show last year. She was so tiny and she was walking through this big field while leading a Palomino pony and she was just chattering away. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I didn’t need to I knew. She was spilling out her heart to her pony and her pony was watching her with those big soul filled liquid eyes and she was totally getting all of it.
Hi-Lite is my childhood, she is me discovering that I did like boys, that I hated boys, that I wished I had blue eyes, was slimmer, had purple hair and a tongue ring. She taught me how to endure intense physical pain, how to fly, how to swim in the ocean without even thinking about sharks. She is my secret keeper. How do I say to someone “it’s ok, we need to put her down” when she is me?
Because she is in pain. Because I love her. Because I am no longer a child, I am an adult and that fucking sucks.
Now as I deal with this I am far away, alone, and trying not to feel guilty about that. I said goodbye, I said thank you, I said I love you. I said “get back you’re crowding me and try to breath between bites you pig eat slower”! Because she has bad manners when I am trying to feed her treats. And then I drove away. There is no right way to do this so I’m trying get to being ok with that. I heard a great quote today that started me thinking about this whole thing:
“You can’t force people to mourn the way you want them to just because it’ll make you feel better.”
So I guess I should let myself off the hook a little for not mourning they way I think mourning should look like. But hey, I broke down and sobbed through the Disco last week while watching So You Think You Can Dance… the Disco, the world’s happiest dance. I hate being a grown up.
“It’s a mind game”. “It’s all in your head”. “It’s a mental challenge”. Never have I understood what people were talking about when it came to exercising, until now.
Some time in April I was five minutes into my third jog ever when I had a breakthrough. A “mental” break through. You see I like to work towards small goals. I had done this job a couple times and I knew there were little markers along the way that I would blessedly allow myself to walk for ten to fifteen seconds at. But not that day, that day a super fit exercise nut friend of mine was jogging with me.
“Jess you’re really doing well!”
*gasp* “…..thanks, I’ve made it farther than ever before my break!….. I’m gonna walk at that fire hydrant”.
“What? no way! you can make it to the gate”
I made it to the gate, and then the tree, and then the end of the road. All because I was too darn proud to let this guy down. That’s the day it hit me right between my sweaty eyes. It’s all in my head.
How many times had I hear Tony Horton say “If you think you’re beat, you’re beat”. Now I knew. I can jog all the way to the end of the road. That quickly turned into I can jog all the way from the barn to the end of the road AND back without stopping. Just two days ago, after a month of inactivity, I jumped on a treadmill and jogged 13 minutes straight while increasing the speed the whole time.
It’s time to kick your own ass people. No excuses, you’re the only person you’re helping or hurting. Get over your fat self, I’m trying to.
I am in pain, every joint, muscle, rib. Breathing is stretching, moving my hands sends splinter feelings up my knuckles, getting out of the chair is what I imaging 90 must feel like. I am crippled and I love it.
Monday to Thursday I spend 85% of the day on my feet, I spend 50/50 of that either under a (most likely difficult and unruly) horse and at the forge learning how to hammer steel into shapes. I have blisters ON my blisters, and they are all in the creases of my second and third knuckles. Breathing reminds me I need to see a chiropractor to get my rip placed back where the good Lord intended. I am so happy.
Last night, while attempting to fall asleep in record time I lay awake thinking about quotes on pain. “Pain is beauty” is the one that pops to mind first. Indeed often it can be, but honey, my hands look like a 50 year old loggers, and that ain’t beauty. I read a haunting book last year called The Secret History, by Donna Tartt. Read it. Here’s a quote that struck me:
Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming…Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.
Beauty is terror. Interesting. So I went on a “it’s 12 am I now have 5.75 hours left to sleep” rabbit trail in my mind. You know the ones. Here’s the long, run-on sentence that it turned into.
Beauty is Terror, Terror = fear, The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, I always thought the truly wise knew what and how much to fear, therefore Wisdom = managed fear. Wisdom is beautiful = wisdom is terrible;
Wisdom is Pain.
I’m sure it was the late hour and the fact that every time I rolled over my bones creaked like an old snag tree off the west coast but this meant something slightly awesome to me last night.
I’m n half a bottle of cab sav in, Something’s Got to Give is playing in the background, and I am getting ready to brush my teeth before getting into bed. Once again, before ten.
Life is beautiful
I’ll spare you the long drawn out apology as to why I’ve not written because, hey it’s my blog not yours. However it is the first of 2013 and I felt the need to resolve some things. Go figure.
To update the previous years list:
8.) Make a sour dough starter. Keep it alive forever.
9.) Harvest. Cultivate. Enjoy.
10.) Make epic costume.
11.) Bake every weekend. Of just this month… maybe.
12.) Go to Sudbury for Christmas.
I made bread in August, not sour dough. Also I got into Kombucha and have nearly made my own batch. I feel fine about that.
I harvested amazing tiny grape tomatoes off my tomato plant, (obviously), I realized I do not know how to cultivate, I did enjoy.
I made a spectacular Steampunk costume. Someone must have a picture of it somewhere. I used all my own clothes and realized I have some kick ass taste. Oh ya.
I baked three weekends in a row, then on the fourth our lab ate my rolling pin, and on the first weekend in December both dogs broke into all the baking, and ate it. All of it. I cried.
We stayed in BC for christmas, we just got married, we’re broke.
I’m half way through a list of things I’m thinking of updating you on soon. I’ll let you know later as I plan to get back to publishing a post once a month at least. I may not though, as I have recently discovered pottermore.com and I am a bigger nerd now than ever. I am a 28 1/2 year old Hufflepuff, and I’m bad at potions but I rock spells. You looking at me?
Peace and have a super year! Hey we survived an apocalypse, that’s at least two now for me, I feel like Buffy.
My super cool cousin is living one of my alternate existence dreams. She’s in the Maritimes, spending $$ on education, going to such shows as Joel Plasket, Dan Mangan, and, if she knows what’s good for her, The Wet Secrets.
Read about why you shouldn’t feel bad about learning.
Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend. She was frustrated with someone and didn’t know “Why they won’t change”. I had an “OhmygoshIhavetheperfectadvice!!” moment. You see I watched Dexter the evening before; Deb is in therapy and she has issues with Dexter being “distant and unsupportive”. (Seriously I can’t belive Deb is STILL surprised about that.. it’s been like six seasons already! He is who he is.) The therapist said at one point;
Therapist: Would you expect a chair…suddenly become a… table?
Debra: No, but…
Therapist: No, because a chair…
Debra: …is a chair.
So I got to feel all smart because of my television adiction. I’m not sure if it actually helped my friend but… I get it if it doesn’t, she’s a chair.
One thousand twenty five hundred six hundred minutes… dum de de sum
Okay more like three thousand one hundred thirty three kilometres, that’s how long it takes to Calgary and back. (From McNeillio anyway.)
I am home!