Turning Toward Life

What do I want to write about? It’s something. Something nudging at me, tickling around the edges. I think the thing is that I’m happy. It’s been long enough now since I’ve felt this sense of well-being that I almost don’t recognize it. But there it is: happiness. And it’s been occurring and reoccurring over the last number of days. I think it’s because my doctor and I keep whittling away at the pain enough that, this morning, I’ve been almost pain free (see previous posts Stick and Grief First). And what a difference that makes.

I walked further today (see previous post Time). Down the hill and up the hill, rounding the bend…

… until, before I knew it, I was standing in front of Rickie’s place, Davida’s place. Many of you will remember that when I first moved to Truchas on the edge of a deep, cold winter, I ended up caring for a small herd of horses that were pastured, at first, in front of my house. It was while they were there that one of the mares, Mariah, gave birth to a foal in the middle of the night, in the depth of a blizzard. It was by luck that a friend and I saw them at sunrise, through the blowing snow and, with the help of a neighbor, ended up saving the little one who came to be called Davida. The herd belonged to a man named Rickie and he moved them away from my house, out to the llano, where I ended up today.

I was listening to a piece of New Yorker fiction on my iPod and it just carried me along you see.

I don’t know how to say it so that it is important enough, but these glimmers of happiness are turning me back to life. Experiencing wonderful writing, pieces spoken or printed, something as small as finding and buying a special tea referenced in one… is it right to say that these things can bring meaning to a life–give a life purpose again? Because they seem to be giving me reason, enough reason to exist.

We spent a couple of seasons together, “my” horses and I, before they were split up and moved to other pastures. I’ve only found Davida once, through all these passing years, reaching over a foreign fence to pet her.

But this morning, on a cool spring day, things just coming to bud…

… grasses beginning to green…

… I walked back out to her old pasture and there they were, two of Rickie’s horses far afield.

They glanced up at me and I clapped my hands as I used to. And one of them came running—dancing really, tossing her tail and mane.

And then the other. They came to see me at the edge of the fence, these nearly wild, wary horses.

Neither of them was Davida. Was one Mariah? I honestly couldn’t tell–Mamma as I used to call her.

But I wondered, as they let me touch them, if our genetics carry memory. Could it be possible that these two horses, perhaps several generations from those I loved and cared for, have a collective unconscious that carries a memory of me? And I actually think so.

But whatever the cause, these two horses knew me.

And, once again, they have done for me what they always did. They have reminded me of who I am. Of why I am.

And whether it is art or nature that touches us, touches me, these things, these very special things, are enough of a reason I think.

So I turn, once again, toward life. And I am grateful, emerging after another deep, cold winter, to find myself back among the living, welcoming spring’s promise of renewal.

But why should this matter to you? Why am I writing this to you? Because I think we are universal and the struggles I fight are the same as those you do. Because we are human. And there is no escaping it, my friends. We are in this together and whatever any one of us can do to help with that, matters.

Love to you all,

Jeane