Today he frolics,
and my heart.
Strength arising.
Living, playing, growing.
Mama’s close by.
Sure, I see the danger out there,
and too close for comfort.
They could break his bones;
it could break my heart.
But, maybe, like glow sticks,
we’re brighter when broken.
Meant to be that way, when the night comes.
Maybe this is all a mosaic–beauty from shards.
Maybe that’s why I hope.
Or maybe it’s because I write stories. Because I know things have to go wrong
for everything to turn out right.
I don’t know why it is that way. But, somehow, it is.
Things start off good. Better only comes after worse.
Best only comes when it’s all done.
And it’s not done, yet.
So I hope.
Outdoors
For shepherds
Outdoors, StoriesSunday after dinner, I’m standing at my kitchen sink watching a two-day old goat standing alone, unprotected in my neighbor’s field…
He’s tugging at my heart-strings as he stumbles over tufts of grass, bravely testing unsteady feet. I can’t tell if he’s limping or not, but the lurch of his gait is adorable.
Did I mention?–he’s brown with white spots and my heart is melting.
Mama goat is nowhere to be seen.
He’s over by the miniature horses now.
I won’t tell you what happened next, only it was bad, and I was angry, and I almost couldn’t watch, and I was standing there helpless and then running out the door even though I knew I couldn’t get there in time.
And I’m yelling, “Hey! Hey!”, trying to scare off the bigger animal. Now I see my neighbor in his field hurrying over. And I’m seeing it’s going to be okay…for now.
Still–where is Mama?
I want to pick him up and cradle him in my arms and hold him close and keep the danger away.
I watch the field for the next half-hour or so. Only once do I see him try to nurse. He has barely gotten the hang of it when a rooster came over and started pestering him. However inattentive she is, Mama’s body at least provides good cover. Baby ducks under and to the other side. The rooster leaves, but he doesn’t try nursing again.
It’s been a while since I’ve spent much time with goats, but I know what a good, experienced mama looks like. And I know what a bad mama looks like.
A first-time mama who doesn’t quite get it–she’ll catch on. It’s the older, indifferent mamas who make me mad.
They’re goats, I know. Maybe they can’t help it.
But when I see that baby standing there by himself and think about the sun going down, I get angry.
And I thank God for shepherds.
Our neighbor puts Baby and Mama in a separate enclosure, sheltered from the wind. I know it’s best if he’ll suckle from Mama, but I offer to bottle-feed him if it comes down to it. I doubt my neighbor will ask me to, but it makes me feel better anyway.
And then I think about shepherds and human mamas who bring baby goats in the house, cradled in loving arms. I think about a spunky old German woman and Gabriel Oak and the Good Shepherd.
I think about going out in the cold at 2am to bottle-feed a tiny spotted goat. And I hope I’d have it in me, if I needed to.
I think about all the babies in the world whose mamas can’t or won’t take care of them, and it tears me up inside. And I think about the people who do take care of the helpless ones, and my heart fills to the brim.
I think of grandmothers and foster children and brave, big-hearted people who show love whenever it’s needed. The kind of love that’s there for you even when it’s inconvenient. Especially then. When it’s needed most.
And then I think about joy. Tables where all are welcome and the hungry ones get to eat. Loving hands abound; there’s no stumbling along on your own.
My neighbor reports that Baby Goat is eating, nursing from Mama. And I think about hope.
Maybe she’ll be a good Mama after all.
And then I thank God once more for shepherds.
From a Bench in Brenham
Outdoors, Poetry, PonderingsThe frontier is in the air today.
I’m out exploring.
A country drive took me here.
But then, I can’t leave home without a country drive.
Sometimes it still amazes me that I get to live in such a beautiful place,
the quiet of a country lane.
It’s not where I grew up.
But then, it is, I suppose.
In a way. A lot of ways.
I glance down at my “Made in Mexico” cowgirl boots.
I brush aside a windswept strand of hair–
rusty-raven like I could have been a San Antonio señorita.
I think about cisterns and cattle auctions.
The buildings facing me still have false fronts.
1887 is branded on the peak of one.
Below it, I can’t take my eyes off
the prettiest shade of blue I’ve seen all day.
Better than denim and bluebonnets
and the Texas sky in April.
It looks like promise.
Blue like water.
Life, on the prairie.
Almost like the ceiling of an old Southern front porch.
Blue like “let’s put down roots.”
A spring, a hope.
Bluer than eastern ocean, bluer than western sky.
It’s the blue of a frontier lullaby,
the blue of dreams a mile high.
Dreams you chase down with a covered wagon and an axe.
It’s an unseen destination.
A journey yet uncharted.
It’s an eastern girl realizing she might just be a western girl.
And she’s not sure how it happened,
only that it’s who she is. Somehow.
Whatever that means–a western girl.
She feels it–a happy kind of blue.
The pioneers who look back never make it.
The ones who paved the west weren’t born westerners.
It’s who you become.
Life out here, it’s still a little bit younger and wilder and freer.
A happy kind of blue.
When Lettuce Dances
Outdoors, Poetry, PonderingsLettuce didn’t have to be beautiful.
It didn’t have to poke up from the earth
curled at the edges like a flamenco dancer’s skirt.
Did you ever wonder how something brilliant green
emerges from water, sunshine, and dirt?
Have you ever contemplated the volume
of detail packaged in a single, insignificant seed?
Instructions for a showy leaf in that mysterious purple-green–
curly and elegant enough for white tablecloths and bowties,
or one flat and peppery–bistro ready.
Did you ever wonder?
Ever contemplate a salad?
I walked in the garden this morning.
At noon, my fork played with lettuce,
and I gave thanks.
Truly gave thanks.
It didn’t have to be beautiful,
but it is.
Courage and Delight
Outdoors, PoetryYour words are
Dew upon the fields,
Coaxing the violets to leap
Forth with joyful color—
Hue upon the fields
Where once the thorns held sway.
The violets now rise to greet the day.
Your words are moonlight to the ocean,
The warbler’s morning song,
Sunlight bending through the trees,
A river swift and strong—
Watering the desert,
Bathing crags in light,
Showering savannas,
Courage and delight.
Wind that dries my tears away.
Music in my chest—
Your words flow steady as the tide
And form a cove to rest.
Too, give me wings with which to fly,
To fly and never fall—
To rise upon the southern wind
All soft and warm and new.
Your words lead onward to the sky;
The wind, it croons a lullaby,
And beaming sunlight rules the air.
Your words are golden, faithful, fair.
I dwell on them and soar the higher.
They are fountains, they are fire
All ablaze to light the way—
In the dark, eternal day.