Masquerade

I don't want to go outside where the temperature dips below zero. I'm wearing my new nightgown and socks (thanks Mom and Fran) and red robe (thanks sis). The house, cozy and warm, with a ray of sunlight filtering above the Christmas tree, casts a shadow around the stained glass horse and prisms off my gorgeous amethyst window pendant, smells like Mayan coffee, which I just brewed.

I'm glad the girls pushed back one of the boards separating their side of the barn from the hay, so they can pull down pieces of grass to quiet their rumbling, fat and furry bellies.

Ok, I finally went out to feed the girls and get wood. Thank goodness the wind has no howl in it.

I'm taking Sandra out to lunch this afternoon, and when I come home, I'll hem up my velvet black pants and get ready for the Masquerade Ball.

I purchased a hand crafted mask in Cabo San Jose for the occasion, but really, sometimes I feel like I always wear a mask to cover the question mark that squeezes my heart like a vice.

Thirty-eight women were selected to attend Hedgebrook, an all female writing retreat. My name did not appear on the list. I use the skin cream that my niece Amin made to salve the new wound created by another rejection. I’d hoped to work on “Sifting Through Ashes” there, perhaps find a mentor or editor to help me complete it.

My demons have escaped from the attic and dance with delight. What makes me think I deserve such an honor? Who cares about my words, my story, my heartache, the demons chant. Did I not murder my son by buying him the car that killed him? Instead of setting up more boundaries, I gave him his freedom and as a result, he died.

Words elude me, so I finished two oil paintings. I kept painting the same image, the beaver pond where DaNae and I scattered some of Nik's ashes. The oil paint has a rich, thick texture that feels good on my skin. I couldn’t get the grass right, so I composed "Storm Horses," inspired by one of Viggo Mortenson's photos. And I actually like the results.

I'll don my new mask this evening, relishing the heavy leather that covers my grief. I’ll haul food to the Masquerade, help Jean set up, hang out for awhile, get a couple dances in, drive home, stoke the fire, and then head to Jenny's to play Bananas and watch fireworks when 2011 dawns.

Cabo

I am a reluctant traveler. But Nik's death has at least taught me to jump over my fear, to say yes to adventure and to friends and family. And so, without any hemming or hawing, I flew to Cabo with my daughter DaNae, fabulous friend, Monique, and her daughter, Kendra.

Cabo was wind and surf and sand and alcohol. The Sea of Cortez stretched out across my horizon. Ad infinitum. Everyone went out drinking but I sat inside and relished some alone time to savor the experience of walking through shop after shop where vendors said, “Senora, come inside to buy something you don’t need,” and the heat of the day sat on my shoulder like a warm hand.

I kept seeing Nik in the Cholo’s, the Vatos, the surfboarders and the ninos that sold trinkets on the beach. I saw him in the dark eye brows, the taste of seviche, the full Mexican smiles and in my daughter’s grin. And thoughts of Nik always leave an empty space, a question mark, next to my heart.

The sand filled my sandals and stuck to the crevisses of my skin, between my toes and in my underpants. A textured roughness that reminded me, yes, I am alive here in this dimension, with the blue skies burning my skin, trudging over this terrain, tripping over cobblestones, trotting horses with the sunset, snorkling with sea lions and skipping with waves.

We took a glass bottom boat to the great arc that divides the Sea of Cortez from the Pacific. I saw Nik on top of the arc—a halo, an angel, an illusion created by the sun filling this place in time with his memory. And I wish he was there on that spot, laughing and body surfing with his sister, the two of them tied together into eternity, safe and sound.

Colic

The pies look excellent. I had to make the pie dough twice, and even though the filling looked to thick, I poured it into the dishes and stuck them in the oven. After they had baked for five minutes, I realized I had doubled the amount of pumpkin, but not the rest of the ingredients.

I pulled those pies out of the oven and scooped out the filling, adding two more eggs, another cup of cream, brown sugar and spices. It looked more like pumpkin pie goop, so I poured it back into the dishes and baked them for 45 minutes.

Patches must have gotten into some pumpkin. When I went out to throw the horses their dinner, she lay in the barn and wouldn’t get up. Darkness descended and the temperature hovered at one degree.

I offered her oats, but she wouldn’t stand, so I kept bothering her until she got to her feet. But she would not move. I ran inside and called Greg.

“Desire`, do you have any banameen?”

“No, I have some bute, but it’s in pill form, and I’d have to mix it with water and oats, which she won’t eat.”

“Do you have a winter blanket?”

“No. I buried it with Heart.”

“Give John a call. I’m sure he has some medicine for her.”

I thought Patches had slipped on the ice and hurt herself. But when John said colic, I knew what I had to do. By the time he arrived, I had haltered Patches and was walking her in the roundish pen.

The kids didn’t show any interest in riding horses, but whenever an equine needed vetting, they always assisted me. Especially Nik. He didn’t mind holding a horse for me or applying salve. He hosed down wounds and mixed medicines. He helped me load them into the horse trailer and if necessary, he walked them in circles until they pooped.

I didn’t have Nik or DaNae around to help me, but I had John. He listened to Patches stomach and determined she had a mild case of colic. He gave her the shot, looked at her lips, and put the blanket on her.

“You need to walk her for 10 minutes, then go inside and warm up for 10 minutes, and then walk her again until she poops. Tie her up when you go inside so you’ll know if she’s gone. Are you cold?”

“Not yet. I have this great airmen suit my brother gave me.”

“Here’s the number for the vet. If she goes down, call your sister over here to help you hold her up, and call the vet. And call me, too, if you need help walking her. Give us a jingle when she poops.”

At 8 p.m., the temperatures dipped to -5 degrees and Patches still hadn’t taken a shit. I added a layer of clothes to my ensemble, staying inside for 15 minutes instead of 10. By 9 p.m., we were down to -8 degrees and I stayed inside for 20 minutes and only walked her for 8. On my last outing, I prayed to Allah to let the horse shit, and she complied at 9:57 p.m.

The cold seeped through my layers of clothes like a wet rag. My knee, back and shoulder ached, so I didn’t dance a jig. The lead rope latch had froze, so I unhooked the halter and set Patches free for the evening. An almost full moon provided light, and I watched the steam rise from Patches patch of horseshit. Thanking Allah and John, I crawled under the wire and trudged back into the warmth of the house.

It’s cold this morning. I’ve kept the water in the kitchen sink dripping to prevent the pipes from freezing, and I have both electric heaters roaring. I’ll need to purchase another one if this weather is a forecast for the future.

All the windows but the ones in the living room are covered with plastic. The view, limited, matches my mood, gray and foggy. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and Nik should be here in the kitchen making his famous fondue. Instead, it’s just me, Cholo and the cats, huddled together to keep warm.

Cold

Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I thought I would have to plow this morning, but the wind blew the snow away, along with the tarps on my hay, a cardboard box, the top off the horses’ oats, and for a short time, the power to the house. The weatherman promises single digit temperatures with a wind chill dipping it into the negative zone. Cold.

Last night, as the power flickered on and off, I dug out stubs of candles, matches, a flashlight, extra batteries and the kerosene lanterns. I filled up a jug of water and the teapot right before the power forced me into total darkness.

The wind sounded like it had a voracious appetite and I feared it would rip the roof off. Cholo curled beside me on the couch and the cats wrapped themselves around the base of the wood stove.

When we lived on Samuels Road, the power went out for 24 hours. Our pellet stove required electricity to generate heat, and it didn’t take long for the house to feel like the inside of a refrigerator. The next-door neighbors, who for some reason still had electricity, called and invited us over to spend the night. I drove DaNae and Nik over, it was that cold, but came home and bundled myself up in a sleeping bag and quilt. To the kids, it was an adventure; to me, one more thing on my plate to survive.

I plan to warm the house this afternoon by baking home made pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving dinner. I turned the three pumpkins I grew in Nik’s garden into pumpkin mush, and bought the ingredients from the grocery store yesterday afternoon.

DaNae and Nik grew up on Grandma’s pies, and she would grow pumpkins and render them into delicious pies that the kids drooled over. They would go over her house to help her bake, and would make sugar lollipops with their fingers. They took turns sifting, measuring, stirring and beating. She spoiled them, and they wouldn’t eat store bought pies or pumpkin pie made with canned filling.

When Nik lived in San Pedro, he carried on the tradition by making pumpkin pie for their Thanksgiving dinner. He called me for Grandma’s recipe, and I read off the ingredients and directions over our cell phones. They couldn’t find any pumpkins at the store, so he had to resort to canned filling. But he filled the pie with his love, and I was told it was delicious.

I bought Nik a Thanksgiving apron one year, and I will don it today in his honor. I will fill the pies with our love, coveting our traditions and his memory.

Get into the game

Ok, get into the game. Stop taking vacations from yourself, take a vacation for yourself. The meds haven’t worked, don’t work, won’t work. Get over it. Get over yourself. Get on with your life. Dance with the gypsies, study the stars. Buy yourself a nice treat. You don’t have to spend a lot of money. Peruse the dollar store. Better yet, shop at the local thrift store. Dress up for Halloween. Go to the movies, one you want to see. Eat some popcorn with extra butter and brewers yeast. Take a walk and skip through the fallen leaves. Go ride a horse or a bike or a skateboard. Go to Mexico if the opportunity arises. Say yes to friends and no to takers. Stay away from doctors and shrinks, they will brainwash you and hang you out to dry. They don’t have the key. You do. Ride the wind. Snowboard. Clear off your drawing desk and put pencil to paper. Don’t say you are an artist and a writer, be an artist and a writer. Do the work. Create. Take a nap. Read a book. Love, laugh, avoid clichés, like stop to smell the roses. Be a rose. Take a hot bath. Drink ginger tea with honey. Go to meetings. Be true to yourself.

Slipstream

Everything flies into the slipstream on overdrive, hurling evil thoughts at my core, chiseling away with a hammer of venomous ideas--things I'd rather not think about. My failures and losses. No one listens because they don't want to hear.

Thanks

I'm so grateful for my family, friends and support groups for holding me up when I can't stand. I love you all.