The winter pasture is somber, lonely, timeless. It is not subject to the change, connection, frenzy and obsession with money and fear that grips so much of the world around it. It is patient, waiting for Spring after Spring. It is not busy every minute, used every second. It is beyond technology and texting. It has its time, and waits its time. I love walking the winter pasture, until my fingers ache, because it seems to be waiting for me.
I love walking the winter pasture. It seems to be waiting.
The winter pasture, Bunker Hill Road, where the cold meets the sun, and the snow and the sky.
The winter pasture is enchanting, and whispers to me about the passage of time, and the meaning of each day. Just a few days to the library tour. A reader called up the Pember Library in Granville and they said I spoke there last week. Hmmm…I will actually be there this Sunday at 2 p.m. The high Sunday is supposed to be ll degrees, so we’ll see who turns up in Granville. I will. It will be better next week, although still cold.
Lots of great publicity for the tour, and I gather lots of reservations and seats already taken. Maria is going to be sketching and doing library tour potholders. We are making some noise for libraries, and I am very eager to get out there. Got some paking and loose ends. I want to write a children’s book about “The Secret Life Of Barn Cats,” and I think I might just write it first, and then try and sell it (through my agent.) We’ll see. I’ve been mesmerized by the barn cats every since I got them.
Gives everything a nice crisp feel, and a challenge. My new Toyota SUV is up to it. I am taking an old camera, just repaired. Ipad. Ipod. Cell. That’s enough.
Frieda love. Talking to us.
This photo speaks for itself
In my experiments with fear, I had a breakthrough of sorts. For me, the worst times have always been at night, when the voices in my head whisper of death, health, money woes, failure and desperation. For as long as I can remember, I’ve awakened in the night with bad dreams, fears, my mind jumping from one danger and fear to another, until it finds a good place to rest. I am doing much better. I am sleeping longer, and more peacefully, and waking up differently. And I’ve reached a milestone. A great thing I have to pass on when it comes to voices in one’s head, fueled relentlessly by anxiety inside and the Fear Machine’s continuous campaigns outside.
I gave the voice a name. A friend suggested it. Lighten it up, give it some identity. So I did. I call him Herman. And I have to tell you that little I have done these past few years in my continuing efforts to understand fear and put it in its valuable and proper place was better than talking to Herman. So at 4 a.m., when the first notion of collapse, surgery, suffering ruin and catastrophe creep into my head, I found myself saying, “Hey, Herman.”
And he answered. “Hey. I’m right here, as always.”
“Look,” I said. “I know you have been with me forever, and I suspect you can even be useful at times. But I wish you’d just go away right now, I have to sleep and you are boring me. And you don’t make sense anymore. You sound a little crazy to me, like those people who send angry e-mails.”
“What!” he shouted, stunned. “Don’t you know you are playing with fire? Saying no to blood tests? To insurance. To the news? To other people’s ideas about what you should say and write? They’re gonna getcha. Who knows what could be happening inside you? Who knows what pills and surgeries you might need? Who knows what will happen to publishing, and to your sorry career? Don’t you care about the Tea Party? Obama? Socialism? Extremism?Terrorism? Storm Center! All the things I bring you, you ungrateful wretch. All the ads about aging bodies? Liver trouble? Prostate cancer! HIGH CHOLESTEROL! What is WRONG WITH YOU! What would become of Maria when you croak and she doesn’t have insurance? When you are in a nursing home? Don’t you dare send me away? You need me more than ever! You need to be afraid! The system – the whole economy, the political system – depends on it, along with me.”
Herman has always used exclamation marks, which I have not, and he uses capital letters, which I NEVER DO!
I have to admit, I chuckled at Herman, who has been with me longer than any other thing, real or ephemeral. “Hey, I don’t have time for you now. I’m in a relationship. I want to write a children’s book. I’m going on a library tour. You’re getting old, tired. Get a life, or somebody else’s life. Lot sof people are anxious to be frightened and stay frightened. Go hang out with them. Really, you should try living, Herman. I hate to think what your insides are like. Go find yourself a good partner, have fun, some sex maybe, take walks in the woods. You don’t have to go away, you’ll always have a home here, and I would feel bad if you had noplace to go. But let’s just shut up in the night, okay? I have to get back to sleep.”
And there, instead of freaking out in the night, which I have done for almost every day of six decades, I smiled and laughed and kissed my former girlfriend on the nose, and closed my eyes. Goodnight, Herman.
And I slept.
