Hummingbirds, Mini-Horses & Heights

Dogs or cats?

Writing prompt #2002

I’ve got a dog, his name is Laser. But I’d rather get to other topics, like hummingbirds and mini-horses.

This post is a follow up regarding musings from trip to Colorado I returned from last night.

We spent a fair amount of time relaxing, enjoying mountain views with ongoing entertainment from a flurry of hummingbirds that flit, fight and feed all day long, buzzing about in a flurry.

hummingbirds

These fast little critters, full of energy, embody joy. Being surrounded by these feisty flappers was so uplifting, it felt spiritual. Some cultures see them as symbols of resilience, adaptability, joy, healing, or messengers from the spiritual realm, and I can see why.

I’ve learned that their brains are 4.2% of their body weight—more than twice that of humans. Their eyes can see significantly more colors than humans, and they have the largest heart relative to body size of any animal. They’re the only birds that can fly backward, rotating their wings in a figure 8 around 80 times per second.

They’re fascinating, and when I feel myself slipping I can think back on these little joy nuggets. Strangely enough, I ran into another messenger in the middle of the airport right after I got off my flight.

mini-horses

My sister now has three mini-horses. Not ponies, smaller.

She’s always loved horses, so it brings me joy to see her living in paradise with her not-ponies and mountain views.

Caring for horses seems like so much work. At first, I didn’t get it. It seems like such a commitment, so many extra tasks.

Then my son and I took turns training the horses, trotting with them and doing simple agility tasks. They are easy to love, easy to connect with, care for, know. Some may not understand why one would have kids, because of the layers of complication they can add to your life. But, be it a pet or a person, caring for others makes a life feel well lived. How we treat others is what makes us human.

One of her horses isn’t new to her since she bought this home. She had a couple of minis, one of which was this dark one in the foreground, back when we all lived in Texas, but she had to sell when they moved to their previous house in CO. Right after she had the new property and was in the middle of the deal for the second horse, the owners of this guy said they needed to sell and asked if she was interested in taking him back. I talked about how strange that must be to be a horse, and she clearly stated the nature of horse ownership: “that’s how it goes, they change hands.”

I feel like there’s something there regarding my recent loss, but I obviously won’t make a direct correlation with a farm animal, so we’ll leave that alone.

high again

The picture above shows the mountain on my sister’s property. My son and I explored it together. It was my first time ducking between barbed wire in three decades, and it hit different exploring private property rather than a public hike. Then we hit the top.

The views are stunning. I felt like a kid, so I took it a little further.

Even with the heartbreak, I have felt unshackled lately. There is no more external conflict, all is within. I am mending, I am healing, I am frequently jolted from my grief into the reality of the greatness that surrounds me. I wanted there to be one more person beside me as life flourishes, but he told me a million times over the last couple of years that he wasn’t down for the ride. It was time for him to go the way he desired.

And now I can do the same. I have much to be excited about, new heights to look forward to with my husband and youngest son: my art business, frequent travel, a mountain house in Vermont, home renovations. We’re going to go for these things together. Maybe my oldest will come back around, or maybe he’ll keep hanging out with his biological dad. That’s for him to choose. Love will be here, growing, expanding, reaching new heights. Climbing.

more grief?

I’ve had a lot of things going on other than the grief I keep sharing, post after post. I had two art workshops, a weeklong retreat, new moves being made left and right, but this heart has been so heavy, veins and arteries tangled in knots, cutting off my supply of passion and love for the other things around me.

I did reach rock bottom. For those without alcoholism but affected by the disease through loving others that are alcoholics, the addiction is to controlling others’ behaviors. After I reached rock bottom, I walked myself home and less than 24 hours later I was flying 30,000 feet in the air, The following day, atop a mountain at 11,796 ft, with the help of loving family members, celebrating the birth of one of my favorite people.

The night after, together we watched as a storm came, far off in the distance, a show more thrilling than fireworks lighting up the sky.

It came, and it passed, and we were together.

There’s another metaphor there.

These travel posts are intermingled with grief, relating every notion to symbolism and metaphor. It is not to overwork, rather it is because that is the nature of grief. It isn’t a separately-plated side serving of sadness that you pick at while shoveling down the main course of life: responsibilities, relationships, joys, pressures. It’s the sauce. It covers everything.

the end

The book I finished while on my trip was Joan Dideon’s Slouching Toward Bethlehem, a collection of essays written in the 1960’s. In Goodbye to All That, she shares about leaving New York after eight years.

It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends. I can remember now, with a clarity that makes the back of my neck constrict, when New York began for me, but I cannot lay my fingers upon the moment it ended, can never cut through the ambiguities and second starts and broken resolves to the exact place on the page where the heroine is no longer as optimistic as she was.

When you jump in a pool is when you begin swimming. Are you still swimming when you’re walking to the diving board or lounging on a chair between dips? Does swimming end when you’re no longer wet, when you unlatch the pool gates, or when you remove your bathing suit? I bellyflopped into this grief, and the droplets hang on, my hair still sopping.

I know that some of these feelings will continue to carry on. You can’t un-sauce. These writings are an act of blotting at it, like lightly patting a pepperoni slice with a paper towel, exposing translucent orange.

I do think it’s time I take another bite out of life.