Okay, I’m heading out to Oklahoma to teach a class at the Nimrod Literary Conference for Readers And Writers and where – hopefully – nobody will ask me about housebreaking their dogs or talk about furbabies and the Rainbow Bridge. I think not, it sounds like one of those literary things I have avoided most of my life (and the feeling has been mutual) but will explore with an open mind and heart. We might actually talk about writing. I love teaching, it is in my heart.
I’m bringing my Canon to try and capture something of Tulsa and my Ipad and a Kindle Paperwhite chocked full of books I have been waiting to read. I love the Kindle when it comes to traveling, otherwise books seem better for me these days. The farm is in good and loving hands, the blog will be silent for a few days, giving me and you all a rest from my insights and observations and stories. Red is all set, Maria is herding sheep with him, he will hardly know the difference. I will go out and kiss Simon on the nose.
This afternoon, Maria is taking me to the airport, we are going to be apart for a few days. It isn’t the first time we’ve been separated, I’ve taken many trips by myself and so has she, but there is always a sting and ache about our parting. On the eve of this trip, I see more clearly than ever how much we both have changed since we came together in that bleak and cold winter of 2008, both of us broken, alone and terrified.
I remember when we first parted, my middle-of-the-night phone calls to me as I lay crying or vomiting on bathroom floors in distance cities, she always told me to breathe, breathe, breathe. I remember calling her on those trips and she would be falling apart, drinking wine, feeling so achingly alone. I don’t like leaving Maria, but this trip brings so clearly to the fore what has changed since then. When I used to leave, Maria was never quite sure what to do with herself, she avoided friendships, she didn’t go out, she would read her books late into the night until she fell asleep. She had just started up her art, but had no one to sell it to.
At lunch we were laughing about her life now. I pointed out to her that she has what the philosophers and Buddhists call a life “in balance.” She has a lot of work to do – her art business is busy and growing, she has a backlist of things to make for people. She has many friends – she is booked up already through half the weekend – dinners, walks, lunches, excursions. She has a farm to run by herself, dogs to walk, a three-legged cat to care for, donkeys to brush and feed, manure to shovel out of the barn. And she has love, something we both wanted to badly.
And she is safe and feels safe – we all feel safe with Frieda on the job, the Secret Service couldn’t do better. Maria has been alone for much of her life, as I have, neither of us has any trouble with it.
We both acknowledged while I was packing that we will surely miss one another, but we are no longer terrified of being apart, no longer living in panic and loneliness. She agreed that the wonderful thing about this trip is that she can see so clearly how her own life has evolved, it is rich in work, friends, animals, meaningful tasks. Saturday, she goes to the dump by herself.
I think of love as a never-ending series of partings and coming together. There are always separations, partings, cold spaces and misunderstandings. Where love lives, there is always a coming together, both a renewal and affirmation, the partings are never too long or too deep, the cold spaces short-lived.
I confessed to Maria that I called some our friends and told them I was going away and asked them to keep an eye on her – I knew this would tick her off but I wanted to be honest, we are always honest with each other. The people I called all laughed at me. Don’t worry about Maria, they said, she can sure take care of herself. I know that, I see that every day, but whenever I travel, I hear those echoes of loneliness and despair.
There is a bittersweetness, I know, about my love for Maria. I am older than she is, and the odds are good that we will part long before either of us is ready. I know that, even if she does not yet know that. Partings have special meanings for me, so does our time together. There is no greater champion of love than a lonely and loveless life.
I went out and bought a present or two and hid them in the house, she will find them as she goes about her business and perhaps think of me and know that I am thinking of her.
It is good in any relationship to leave once in awhile, I look forward to sleeping late, reading a lot, seeing a new place, teaching my memoir class. There is something sweet about aloneness for me, it is my natural gear, my default position. I will text and call Maria and lot and when I get lonely, I will think back on those echoes and smile at her long and hard and painful pursuit of a life worth living, I perhaps am the only person who knows what she paid for it, she does not speak of it. Maria has earned every second of her balanced life, and I am so happy to be coming home to something I miss and appreciate so much. The only thing worse than missing someone is not having anyone to miss.
And the best thing about this trip is this: when I call her up, she will most likely be out with her friends, rushing to fill orders, or out brushing donkeys. Maybe I’ll text her.
Maria was away this morning, I was sitting down to write and tend to my blog, and I decided it would be good to let Minnie out of her crate and move around the house. I decided it was time to let the dogs in with her, to trust them and give them the opportunity to work out the new arrangement under supervision. I opened the crate door and Minnie walked right around the corner and into my study and right onto Frieda’s bed, just as one letter writer suggested yesterday. Then I let the dogs in.
Frieda came in, looked at Minnie, appeared thoroughly disgusted and then went off into the living room. Lenore jumped up onto her sofa and went to sleep, Red took up his usual position right behind my chair (I step on him a dozen times a day, it is his spot) and he looked at Minnie once or twice, then went to sleep. So the three of us, I guess, just settled in, I blogged, wrote, made some preparations for my trip to Tulsa this afternoon and forgot Minnie was there.
Then I thought to get a photo of this warm and surprising scene – unimaginable to me just a few days ago. Animals adapt, they learn from one another, they sense what we want, given the opportunity. They can be brutal, but not pointlessly as humans are. They become what we need them to be, if we are open to it.
I have never had a cat sit with me while I wrote, a completely new experience. Like the dogs, Minnie seemed to intuit the meaning of my work, my need for peace and quiet, my own sense of focus when I write. I am eager for Maria to walk in the door and be surprised, she did not think Frieda could ever be near Minnie. Meanwhile, I am surrounded in a warm cocoon of wonderful animals.
My new Post Office Box 502 (formerly P.O. Box 2) was chock full of letters today, none for Minnie, all for me. The first one, the only one I have time to read today, came from Maggie, who lives far away, and I think I’ll take it with me to Tulsa.
“Jon,” she wrote, “this heartfelt message to you is long overdue. Your books and blogs convey so much goodness to so many readers, of which I am one. Not the least of which is the critical subject of the journey toward a meaningful life. Thank you for helping me to be brave in my own pursuit of a life worth living. It is a daily choice, a willful focus on the present.”
Maggie asked me to accept a virtual hug for Maria and the animals here. “I would send hugs for the chickens and sheep, but I’m not sure hugs have meaning for chickens and sheep. You’ll have to fill me in on that someday. Be well and happy!”
This was what I call a cleansing message, and after watching some of the news last night, I need to cleanse my spirit, to renew my own daily pursuit of a life worth living. It is, as Maggie suggests a daily choice, a willful focus on the present. I cannot stop others from pursuing lives of hate and anger and fear, I can only do that myself, one thing at a time, one act at a time, one deed at a time, one word, one photo, on visit with a donkey. One letter. My post office box will nourish and sustain that work, it already is. We are now trading messages with one another, you and me, in the new way, in the old. Letters live, and so do the many wonderful people who send them. Bedlam Farm, Post Office Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816.
Minnie has a lot to say these days, she has gotten even more vocal than usual since the amputation of her leg. If all goes well, she will have her stitches taken out tomorrow – her wound seems to be healing beautifully. We let her out of the crate as often as we can, she goes from room to room complaining loudly about her plight, staring longingly out the window, eager to get back to her barn and her many hunting and hiding places.
Minnie is a very sweet creature, the vets and vet techs all talk about what a good cat she is, I am connecting with her more than before, and she is thriving under Maria’s tender and faithful love. I hear the two of them talking to one another at different times of the day, Minnie talking in the kitchen, as she explores the house, wanders around, looks for a way out.
We let her walk around with Red and Lenore, but not Frieda – too much prey drive there. I have never been totally easy with cats, dogs are simpler for me, but cats are quite fascinating, once you pay attention to them. They are the strangest combination of affectation and mayhem, they are lap creatures one second, wild animals the next, you can surely see the tiger in them.
As Minnie walks around, navigating around her hood, she meows regularly, it sounds like a complaint or lament, Maria seems to know what she is saying, I don’t really.
I suspect she is saying “get this thing off of my head. Let me out of here.” As I write this, she is sitting at my feet – the dogs are in the yard – commenting on my work. Minnie has a lot to say, I keep telling her one more day, she will be free again, although Maria says she might wait until I get back from Tulsa to let her out.
