Falling in Love All Over Again for the First Time

Coming home, the washboard road is as close to a drumroll as we’ll get. We are bleary-eyed and dog-tired. I have a class to lead in three hours. Jolene needs to zoom in her yard like an Indy car. Mister sweeps the farm for stray cats who might need to be barked at. And the dismantling begins. There’s the unpacking, emptying the fridge, starting the laundry. The catch-up in the barn, the wellness checks on the herd, and spreading the giant pile of manure from my time away.

Soon, we were back to tinkering on the Dog Barn and Literary Lounge, my shed conversion out by the pond. The plan is to write out there but also sleep out sometimes. It has a giant 4-by-5-foot window onto the pond with Pikes Peak on the horizon. But I’ve had to redo the flooring and fix a window. Power is still a question. The generator drains too quickly, and my portable solar panels were a terrible idea. They have to face south, but the wind often comes from the north. So they face the dirt. We’ll figure that out, along with some landscaping next year because right now, we’re celebrating sheets on the bed. The dogs and I are staying out for the first time.

From the beginning, I’ve wanted to be closer to the pond. The pond is at the back border of my farm, far from roads with no close neighbors. It’s remarkably quiet and a little wild. I chose this farm for just this spot; the place I have stood and watched decades of sunsets. Now I can sit and even sleep here. Mister, Jolene, and I parked our gear wagon. Meanwhile, Edgar Rice Burro is hollering at me while trying to jimmy the gate. He thinks the idea of a dog barn is ridiculous. Since he can open the first two locks, I’ve added a third which positively needs a thumb.

Author’s note: I have a dilemma about now. My story needs some drama, so I’m going to add a second plotline. When the truth is, I just want to share a bunch of pictures of my farm. Humor me.

I also scheduled my next Mohs surgery for this homecoming week. I have a nasty eruption on my forehead that the usual needle-and-scrape job didn’t fix. A young nurse calls my name and leads me back while mumbling (speaking in a normal voice) on my deaf side. So I awkwardly twist sideways to see her lips, and finally tell her I have a hearing loss. We switch sides. She raises her voice for clarity because I am now one of those elders at whom people slowly yell. What’s worse, I appreciate it. You can tell she’s a pro because she remembers for the entire appointment. I’m flying high because the last time I was here, the target was my nose, leaving a gaping crevasse down the middle. Today it’s my forehead, which is as fat as a thigh compared to the bridge of my nose.

Coming out of the house, I see a Great Blue Heron surfing the waves on a power line. These gangly guys perch in trees, their legs looking like branches. I’ve never seen them on a wire, and they tend to be flighty. He spreads his wings to balance, playing in the breeze, and is in no hurry to go. You can tell because this photo is in focus.

It’s odd that there have been no ducklings on the pond so far, but the Canada geese have hatched some eggs. Only two goslings, which might mean there have been coyote raids. There is always a high attrition rate with youngsters, even as protective as these parents are. The dogs think birdwatching is for egg-heads. I used to agree, but I was wrong.

I’ve plugged in the portable hotspot and am digging out the computer. In an instant, all the red-winged blackbirds take to the air. The sky seemed to quiver, and then I saw him. A big, rusty-dark coyote sauntered by not five feet away. Just on the far side of the fence. He is healthy and big, and as I admire his tail… Oh, grab the phone. He was half gone already. I got a blurred photo, and my dogs slept through it. Mister would like you to know they are literary dogs. House dogs.

My Mohs doctor is someone I see often enough to share a worn joke. He faux-complains, wanting my sympathy for being a horse widow, claiming they’d been married 25 years before she told him of her addiction. I give very marginal faux-sympathy, to his utter delight. My feet must be higher than my head; I’d love one of these dental chairs at home, I’m thinking. Then I get this tingling feeling like a long cord is being tugged out of my forehead. Creepy and unpleasant. They are working fast, not talking. From the smell of things, there is a lot of cauterizing going on. Be water, I think.

When things slow down, the doctor asks if I am sure I don’t take blood thinners, and I answer no, as I have several times during intake. Apparently, I’m a bleeder now. The nurse showed me a photo, and it looked like a massive black hole into my brain. The tests said they got it all, yay. And then I bled all over when they stitched me up. The nurse applied a thick pressure bandage, and I repeatedly called oozy.

Back at the pond, the air is cooling fast. Mister rests on a Mister bench, meaning a long one. He poses when a camera comes out. Sitting on chairs and posing are things he does well. Jolene and I are filing her title certificates inside, but pause every few minutes to come outside. Dusk and dawn are the magic times for color.

Before I left the doctor’s office, he told me not to skimp on the pain meds because this one will hurt. I used to cowgirl-through-it, but I am wiser now. I take the pills. One eye looks baggy and one so absurdly wide open I can barely blink. They took a decent tuck in my forehead. It looks like I could only afford half a facelift, or like I am eternally skeptical. Even judgmental. Egads, I look like a railbird!

It didn’t get complicated until I went to bed. I’m remarkably good at sleeping sitting up after all those years of airports and long flights. But I can’t close that eye. It turns out you can’t actually sleep with one eye open. Finally, I draped a clean towel over my head to trick my eyelid into thinking it was closed. I woke up at three AM with what felt like bits of broken glass in my eye and a vice grip on my skull.

Next morning, my gigantic eye had festered to a jagged red, and the other eye looked shrunken and exhausted. My forehead was swollen, and I couldn’t feel the top of my head. One nostril flowing like a faucet, so add snotty nose to the list. I looked like I’d been in a bar fight. Hopefully, once the stitches come out, gravity will do to that elevated eyebrow what it has done to the rest of my body.

Back at the dog barn, it’s almost dark. The first star is out. I’ve taken photos every few moments as the clouds danced through every emotion. Perhaps the clouds and birds exist so that we might look up and out. Gaze beyond the solid earth to the realm of air and eternity. Test our limits. Be lifted by gravity.

I am a memoirist. A word I can’t pronounce cleanly. That’s a pretentious way of saying that I tell everybody my business. Not that my business is special. It’s just like your everyday business. The miracle is that our lives are made of ordinary things, but we forget magic is as common as the air we breathe. It only means acknowledging the world outside windows and beyond social media. Balancing bird time with screen time. I also confess sharing my business helps get through things like Mohs surgery. As uncomfortable as it was, I like to take it down a notch by making fun of it.

The trick is to make peace with change. Our bodies soften over seasons, but it’s a fair trade. Like the color change in a sunset, we’re letting go of a baby pastel for a richer jewel tone. Every bittersweet moment of joy or sorrow is counterbalanced by the exact opposite simultaneously. Brilliance and darkness coexist in a sunset, so we won’t get too stuck on one or the other, either chasing happiness or languishing in depression. We cannot stop the speed of light, or life. But each time we notice the natural world, we slow time in our favor.

Let go of the hurt. Let humor smooth the sharp edges. Then, fall in love all over again for the first time with all of it. Caress each detail, each scent, each tiny life. Sunset to sunrise and back again. Let go, surrender to the spin. We are all farm-grown at the root. We are the legacy of the land.

I’m awake before dawn, making coffee and throwing the door open. The heron is fishing now, and killdeer are race-walking on the pond algae. In the east, the moon is a radiant crescent with a scattering of stars twinkling below. The farm is holding its breath, aware of the birth of a precious new day. How can I not love this magnificent, contrary, chaotic mess of a place? It’s home.