Currently, it's raining in Napa. I sit here writing to you while listening to the gentle patter of the drops on the skylights. Occasionally, the tree overhanging my room will spray and send a shower down to clear my thoughts and soothe me. As I sit here, winding down before bed, I cannot help but reflect on this last week. There have been struggles, but they are overpowered by the beautiful life that is unfolding before me in a place where I blend into the local population; in a place where I feel I truly belong.
Almost three years ago I received the worst phone call that I have ever taken in my life. That morning I had awoken to my mom shaking me to tell me that the family friends taking care of my horse while I was away at school had found him down in the corral, unable to get up. In the horse world, that's bad. He is struggling and in pain, they said. The vet was on his way and they would call me with any new information as soon as they knew more. "He'll be alright," I reassured myself as I got ready for school, "This has never happened before, so he'll pull through."
Hour after hour I waited, sitting in class and absorbing nothing but the changing time on my phone display. While I normally sat in contempt that those who spent their time in classes on their phones and laptops, this morning I could not help but join them. Finally, in the middle of Economics, the call came. I picked up the ringing phone and ran out the door, not even bothering to excuse myself. When I answered, it was the vet. "He's all twisted up inside," he said. "We could attempt surgery, but it will cause his a lot of pain and might not help. What should we do?"
"Is there any hope?" I begged, but I already knew the answer.
"It's not likely."
"Then please don't let him be in pain any longer. Go ahead and administer the euthanasia." I choked.
And with that, a moment of silence absorbed me. I closed my eyes and felt the needle go in, the breath begin to shallow, the muscles relax, and the pain ebb away as the life slowly leaked out of the magnificent creature that had been the center of my universe. My beautiful Lema was gone.
Last Monday, I finally did what I had been making excuses to avoid for years; I got back on a horse.
The horse belongs to the owner of the house where I am staying. When I first moved in, she said that I was welcome to ride when I wanted. Last Sunday evening, I put the offer to the test and was elated when it still stood. Monday morning arrive and I pulled my saddle out from it's case. The saddle pad still had Lema's white coat woven into it, but I was determined to finally use it. To start fresh and add another coat to the mix.
I got down to the barn, saddled the horse up and after about a half an hour of struggling, jumping, clawing and staring at the saddle in a perplexed manner (I need exercise too) I found myself (somehow) on the top of a horse.
From there, my body instinctively took over and began to move us through the paces. Up-down-up-down. As the horse fell into a steady rhythm, I stretched my legs down her barrel and began to post the trot. Up-down-up-down. We continued with nothing to break the silence but the sound of hooves padding over fresh grass and horse and girl breathing in sync.
That day, I remembered who I was; I felt whole again; I felt a deep connection restored that I had thought was gone forever. Regardless of where I have been or where I'm going, I know where I belong: in a barn.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Chapter 2: A New Beginning
When I arrived back in the United States (three years ago- wow!) I didn't feel compelled to journal or blog much. My life turned towards one goal: finish my stinking degree! As of this May, it's all done! Yay! *pause* YAAAAAAY!!!
While I was completing my studies, my thoughts kept turning back to those relaxing mornings in Barcelona wandering the Ramblas, the afternoons spent dancing through the labyrinths (don't worry! I didn't talk to the fawns), and the evenings spent studying scripture with my friends from the nearby international church. I LOVED Barcelona. And though I enjoyed my time in San Diego, I had a sneaking suspicion that my travels were not over; that San Diego was not the town I would ever feel content to dwell in for the rest of my life. So, I did what any recent graduate in the throes of THE GREAT RECESSION did: peppered my resume EVERYWHERE. Luckily (seriously, unbelievable, it-could-have-only-been-a-God-thing luckily) I landed a job. In Napa. 500 miles away from my family.
Maybe this story deserves some background... I had never been to Napa before. On wait! Correction. I had gone once at night to play a boardgame at the house of a friend of a friend with said friend and the boyfriend and his friends (Farkel, anyone? Also, confused?? You'll figure it out. If not, don't worry about it). Other than seeing Napa once at night, which looks oddly like just about everywhere at night, I had never been. I only knew that they're rather fond of their wine, that it's pretty and that someone wanted me to work for them. I can work with that. Fast forward two months... two weeks into the job and three weeks as a local and I'm actually doing pretty well here.
The funniest thing about moving is that my perception of who I am seems to always change: when we lived in Birmingham, I was the tough girl from Arizona; when we lived in Nevada, I was the belle from the South; when I moved to San Diego for college, I was the country bumpkin from Nevada; when I lived in Barcelona, I was the beach goddess (just kidding! No, but really) from San Diego. Now, I'm back in a small town again, and realizing just how used to city life I had become. Despite being assured over and over again that the neighborhood is safe, that the police chief leaves his door unlocked at night, that the worst crime committed in the neighborhood happened 20 years ago and it was a boy picking flowers out of his neighbor's garden (okay, maybe not that extreme), etc. etc. etc. I still feel a certain dread ingrained in me from those nights spent in San Diego that urges me to lock my doors and think about submitting a request for pepper spray when I sit on Santa's lap this year.
Needless to say, this place may take a while to seep into my veins, but each day has held an exciting (yet safe) adventure. In the meantime, "Hello! I'm Michelle from San Diego, and I just moved here. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
While I was completing my studies, my thoughts kept turning back to those relaxing mornings in Barcelona wandering the Ramblas, the afternoons spent dancing through the labyrinths (don't worry! I didn't talk to the fawns), and the evenings spent studying scripture with my friends from the nearby international church. I LOVED Barcelona. And though I enjoyed my time in San Diego, I had a sneaking suspicion that my travels were not over; that San Diego was not the town I would ever feel content to dwell in for the rest of my life. So, I did what any recent graduate in the throes of THE GREAT RECESSION did: peppered my resume EVERYWHERE. Luckily (seriously, unbelievable, it-could-have-only-been-a-God-thing luckily) I landed a job. In Napa. 500 miles away from my family.
Maybe this story deserves some background... I had never been to Napa before. On wait! Correction. I had gone once at night to play a boardgame at the house of a friend of a friend with said friend and the boyfriend and his friends (Farkel, anyone? Also, confused?? You'll figure it out. If not, don't worry about it). Other than seeing Napa once at night, which looks oddly like just about everywhere at night, I had never been. I only knew that they're rather fond of their wine, that it's pretty and that someone wanted me to work for them. I can work with that. Fast forward two months... two weeks into the job and three weeks as a local and I'm actually doing pretty well here.
The funniest thing about moving is that my perception of who I am seems to always change: when we lived in Birmingham, I was the tough girl from Arizona; when we lived in Nevada, I was the belle from the South; when I moved to San Diego for college, I was the country bumpkin from Nevada; when I lived in Barcelona, I was the beach goddess (just kidding! No, but really) from San Diego. Now, I'm back in a small town again, and realizing just how used to city life I had become. Despite being assured over and over again that the neighborhood is safe, that the police chief leaves his door unlocked at night, that the worst crime committed in the neighborhood happened 20 years ago and it was a boy picking flowers out of his neighbor's garden (okay, maybe not that extreme), etc. etc. etc. I still feel a certain dread ingrained in me from those nights spent in San Diego that urges me to lock my doors and think about submitting a request for pepper spray when I sit on Santa's lap this year.
Needless to say, this place may take a while to seep into my veins, but each day has held an exciting (yet safe) adventure. In the meantime, "Hello! I'm Michelle from San Diego, and I just moved here. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
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