Waiting

As I led the pony to the mounting block, ready for our ride, my mother yelled from the back porch.  Her voice didn't carry, only the sharp tone of urgency.  Mom-voice.

"Can't hear you!"  I replied as I settled in the saddle and moved my fingers to their mirrored positions on each side of the reins.

"LIGHTNING!"  She tried again, louder.  "Lightning from the clouds to the ground!  We're going inside!"

Were there other kinds of lightning?  I wasn't sure.  My parents, Floridians at heart, couldn't shake the habit of going into hiding whenever a storm hit.  "The lightning can strike a mile on all sides of the storm," I remember Mom telling me during one winter in the South.  This is Michigan, though, and I'm pretty sure our storms are underachievers, like just about everything else here.  Except for the storms that involved Mr. Ohboy's grandpa, who was struck by lightning on two separate occasions as he sat in the same chair in the same house.  That was clearly bad luck--it had nothing to do with the ferocity of the storm or taking proper cover.  Or the fact that he was wearing his tinfoil hat.  (Totally kidding about the tinfoil hat, but it sounded good).

But back to tonight...

Above me the sky reflected back a clear robin-egg blue.  To either side, grey clouds pushed forward with a rumble.  The pony didn't fret like an animal about to be deep-fried by a stray bolt of electricity, but something told me it might be part of her diabolical plan to be rid of me forever.  As the wisps of clouds advanced, I sighed and dismounted.  We waited out the blast of wind in the aisle of the pole barn, which struck me as probably more dangerous than being out in the open, but made me seem more responsible to anyone paying attention.  I'm not widely viewed as responsible.  I blame that on being the baby of the family.  And on being irresponsible, but whatever.

Eventually the sun broke through the clouds, and I led the pony back to the arena.  Our ride went well (in case you cared), though I cut it short because more thunder warned of another storm inching our way.  Before I could finish cleaning up and securing the barn for the evening, the canopy of sky overhead darkened.

Because I had walked down to the barn, I walked home.  The pasture stretched before me, the breeze tickling the tips of the grass, and all I could think of was my vulnerability.  The blackness feathering above me like the wings of a dark angel reminded me of my mortality.

If I died on that very spot, pierced through by pure energy, would my life have meant something?

Yes?  No?  I don't know.

My 35th birthday was a few days back, and I joked that I wanted warning if this was the year of the mid-life crisis.  To be honest, though, I felt like I've been in a mid-life crisis for twenty years.  Nothing is as I thought it would turn out, and that's not a bad thing, necessarily.  My younger self didn't dream, something I've grown to accept as the dreams have continued to elude me.  All I ever wanted was to be a horse trainer, rock star, and hopelessly in love.

My marriage does not resemble a chick flick, and I wish that was different, but we do the best we can clinging to each other as we roll with the punches.  Parents who have been dealt the challenging hand of children with special needs can probably understand.  To those who can't understand what that means to a family, to a couple, to a person--I pray you never have to understand, personally, but that you will understand anyway because others need your compassion instead of judgement.  Somehow, through it all, we're still here.  I don't know why we've been so lucky that way.  And I do know that we love each other, though it's not like 'The Notebook'.

Ryan Gosling.  Mmm.  Oh, sorry...  But, for real.  Ryan Gosling.

I'm not a horse trainer like I always wanted, though I train my horses every day.  In a way, I guess that one's true, too.  Sometimes it feels so pointless, especially when I try my hardest and there's still so much I don't know how to do.  Or when I spend my life building a relationship with a horse only to have to say good-bye, and usually on such tragic terms.  Every loss is a blow I can't quite put into words.

I'm only a rock star when I'm driving down the highway and belting out impossible notes along with Florence + the Machine.  Seriously, I am not sure what that sounds like to people who drive next to me with their windows down.  So, yeah.  NOT a rock star.

Writing was always a dream, but something that felt so utterly out of reach I never put much thought to it.  In this age of self-publishing and vanity houses, it's completely attainable now.  If I died tonight, I wouldn't be published.  For all I know, my manuscript is buried in an inbox somewhere important, awaiting a double-click that may never come.  If I died tonight, I'd spend the rest of eternity wondering if I'd ever have been worthy of an audience.  

In the end, I obviously made it to my home without being targeted by my very own lightning bolt, but the night is not over.  There are countless other things in my life that feel stagnant, blanketed in dust, ignored.  I've been quiet here because there hasn't been much to say, and that's how the inside of my head feels, too.  Still.  Holding.  Waiting.

But for what?

For dreams.  For direction.  For someone to tell me I'm better at this whole life thing than I think I am.  Is this what growing older is like?  Questioning and analyzing how differently it has all gone down?

Rain

A little bit ago, I looked out at the back of the barn.  In the drizzle, a chestnut horse was picking at the hay I'd thrown out earlier, taking a break from grazing in the pasture.  Out of habit, I wondered which horse it was--Moe or Trinity?  It's something I don't have to consider anymore.  No more counting white socks, face markings, or body mass.  There's only one brown horse left

It hasn't rained much this summer, but this morning it did.  When I went to throw down hay and open the pasture, Trinity's copper coat was dark, soaked with it.  In my mind's eye, I see him so clearly, drenched, his coat the color of deep mahogany, the little puff of forelock that seemed to be impervious to moisture lifting in the breeze.  When he was thoroughly wet, the whites of his eyes always seemed that more pronounced, transforming him even further into a caricature of himself.  Anxiety would wash over me whenever I noticed his muddy white legs, wondering if I was in for a battle with his longstanding skin issues.

I remember how upset he would get when I would ride him during a rainfall, how he would hold his head sideways to keep the drops from his eyes and the great fuss he would make until I was finished.  He wasn't always that way, and I don't recall a particular experience that brought it on--it was just something I learned and accepted about him, especially in his later years.  Just as I choose not to fully function at temperatures lower than 20 degrees Fahrenheit, he chose to shut down during a storm.  Unfortunately for him, it seemed I always brought him out for a ride on days when showers were likely.  Even though he probably thought differently, I didn't do it on purpose.  I enjoyed all of his antics--the mini-rearing and bucking--even less than he enjoyed water pelting him in his precious eyes.  On these occasions, I would call him my 'princess pony', even though he was neither.

The storm is welcome.  Moe can't be annoyed by it anymore, as much as I wish he could.  The grey cover of the clouds and the whispering of the raindrops reassure me that it's okay to be, to heal, in a way that sunshine and the cheerfulness of the birds does not.