(Simon taking his medicine) Photo By Maria Wulf
I’ve been writing about Simon for nearly five years, ever since he came to us at the first Bedlam Farm. Many of you reading this have a better perspective on him that I do in so many ways, because I live in a kind of tunnel, I write on the blog every day, but do not read it, really, I am too close. I am always shocked by it’s reach and impact. I am not being humble, just oblivious.
Once again, I was taken aback by the enormous outpouring of grief, compassion and sympathy this weekend and today over Simon’s death Saturday morning, I was not prepared for it, even though I created it in some way. I just can only see things from this end, I don’t really like to think about the other end. I write my blog and take my photos, I am not really conscious of where it all goes, I don’t really want to think about it too much, it might get into my head.
So I was, as often happens, surprised by the e-mails, the messages, the comments from all over the world, the pile of books waiting for me to sign at Battenkill this afternoon.
Simon was not my donkey, I know, but your donkey, he belonged to many people. Thousands came to meet him, touch him, hug him, many more, hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions read about him, followed his life and his healing and the emergence of his powerful spirit.
What was it about Simon? First of all, a friend reminded me today that few people know donkeys or love them, our love for Simon was in itself unusual. Donkeys are humble creatures, they are ignored, overworked, mistreated and abandoned all over the world. They are forgotten, forced into the background by pets and more glamorous species. They are not beautiful creatures or fashionable ones, yet they have perhaps the most powerful spiritual and historic connection to humans of any animal, even the horse and the dog. Jesus did not ride a horse into Jerusalem, Napoleon did not ride a stallion through the Alps. They rode donkeys.
Simon was the humblest of donkeys. He was ugly, even by donkey standards, bow-legged, with ears that spun like radar, a long nose and a scraggly tail. He was a farm donkey, poorly bred, shunted from place to place until left to starve and freeze and die on a farm by a poor farmer who had lost his soul. They call them trash donkeys, they are passed around, sold, usually kept alive to keep horses company, to guard sheep, haul wagons and firewood, or are simply worked to death. It was my fate – and Maria’s – to find Simon, to heal him and bring him back to life, and, as many of you know, there are few more powerful connections between living things than that.
Simon responded joyously to his opportunity for a different way of life, and well beyond my imagination. He seemed to relish every moment of attention, every hug, every apple, every photo taken of him. He was alert, intelligent, affectionate, his soul and mine connected in the most elemental way, Maria said she saw me change right before her eyes when Simon came, he opened me up in a way that had never happened to me before, and I am opening up still
I see now that Simon was the Prince of the wounded, brother to the abused and mistreated, so many other people made the same connection to him that I did. People flocked to him, listened to his bray, made pilgrimages to touch him and bring him offerings – carrots, apples, cookies. Simon was a healing spirit, he made people smile, he gave them h ope. He and they touched one another in the broken hearts, their deep wounds and bruised souls.
Simon was the Prince of the Wounded, I am coming to see that, he came with the power of healing and hope, of salvation and second changes, of the better life that is just around the corner for all of us who dream and yearn.
