Cowboy, Take Me Away

A couple weeks ago I went to my very first rodeo. Thoughts:

1. Advertising by horseback. Every half hour or so a girl on horseback would dash around the arena with a sponsor's logo on a flag. I found this amusing. I think they were the rodeo queens/royalty/whatever too, so I wondered if they felt like sellouts or if they just enjoyed the chance to ride. I know I'd like a chance to ride a horse, ad flag or no!

2. Um, I'd like to marry a cowboy. Not only because there were some good-looking ones out in the arena, but because I sat next to this ranching family, and the cowboy husband sat next to me and told me about the events going on, how they're scored, etc, which I really appreciated. Even more impressive, though, was that his four-year-old daughter began whining less than halfway through the rodeo that she wanted to go home NOW, and instead of scolding her to be quiet, he kept her on his lap, pointing at the rodeo clowns or the horses or the motorcycle show, keeping her distracted, as patient as can be. I was amazed. I'd marry a man like that in a heartbeat.

3. Someday I'd like to own a horse. Not that I've always adored horses like many girls in my generation; I only watched "My Little Pony" once or twice growing up (when the Disney channel would broadcast for free for a week or two, soliciting subscriptions—remember that?). It's never been the horses themselves that I'm interested in necessarily, it's the idea of riding. That romantic vision of man and horse moving seamlessly together across the sward to the rhythmn of hoofbeat and heartbeat. I've been horseback riding a few times and loved it, though of course I've never been much over a trot. I'm fascinated by how much there is to learn about riding, both the skills and the less tangible techniques of attuning yourself to the horse. I would love to have it said of me that I can seat a horse well. Anyway, watching the rodeo reminded me of this whole other world that I've wanted to be a part of for a long time. I was slightly embarrassed to be a pansy city slicker among people to whom horses and bulls and sheep—and riding, wrangling, and herding—were as natural as breathing.

4. Hm, manure. We were sitting right over the bullpens the whole time, so I was reminded in the midst of my fantasizing that poo still stinks. I forgot about that part. So . . . someday I'd like someone close to me to own a horse and just let me ride it all the time . . . ?

The rodeo left me with a lot to think and dream about afterward. At the same time I was laughing at myself for watching it with fascinated, anthropological/folklore/mythological-oriented eyes when maybe it was a perfectly ordinary sports event to most of the people there.

The Grudge

Scapegoat (name has been changed) and I are roommates. We're both very different people, but we became good friends under trying circumstances. When those circumstances improved, then we started bugging each other. By now we're too close to think of simply ending the friendship, so we have to push on through these spats and annoyances, bruising, breaking, sometimes making the right choice, sometimes not, but making it through and (hopefully) learning a lot along the way. It's been a pretty new situation for me, because I don't usually get so close to roommates who can rile me like she does sometimes. So instead of squeezing my eyes shut and repeating "it's only a few weeks more, only a few weeks," I need to help work things out.

The hard part is, we have completely different ideas about the best way to work things out.

Here's the latest. This weekend an event happened that we both perceived differently.

Scapegoat's POV: She was doing me a favor. I freaked out for no good reason. Then I got mad and stayed that way for a couple days.

My POV: I was doing her a favor. She blew up at me for no reason. Then she got mad and stayed that way for a couple days.

In previous spats, I've felt like I'm the one who usually gives in first and apologizes. This is because when something goes wrong, I want to talk about it, and she wants to exchange gifts and forget it ever happened. Scapegoat doesn't apologize if she can possibly help it. I've reminded myself that this is her way of doing things; I've accepted her peace offerings for her sake and tried to brush aside my dissatisfaction that words I wanted to say weren't invited, and words I wanted to hear weren't offered. I say I tried to brush it off, but I have to admit that I didn't really succeed. It still rankled, a little more each time, when I did the apologies and she did the offering and forgetting all about it.

This time I decided (and it was foolish, I know) I was going to wait it out and see if she would move first. I didn't expect an apology at first, even; just to have her come to me, ready to admit that she might actually have done something wrong and willing to talk it over. I wanted to know that she considered our relationship as more important than her pride or having her way and that she cared enough to listen.

Well, it's been kind of a long wait. Yesterday I found a note taped inside my bathroom cupboard, telling me to "have a splendid day!" I was glad to see that Scapegoat was feeling reconcilatory, and Scapegoat is free to leave nice notes for me anywhere she likes, but it wasn't the right bandage for the wound. It reminded me of a certain steak dinner a certain other roommate once made for us. I love a free meal as much as the next person, especially one so delicious, but in no way did it resolve the underlying issues in the apartment the way she seemed to think it would. "Nice try, Scapegoat," I said to myself. "Keep thinking."

We didn't really cross paths the rest of the day, but yesterday evening I overheard Scapegoat discussing the situation and her frustration with me on the phone with a friend (because, Scapegoat, a) I'm not stupid and b) you talk loud). It stung a little, even though she wasn't vicious about it or anything; she would rather discuss things with an uninvolved friend than with me. About ten minutes later she trotted over to my room on her high horse to ask me if I was still mad at her. Essentially, my answer was "yes." There were no further questions.

It was discouraging, and this morning I'm tired in a few different ways. Mostly I'm tired of holding onto this grudge. This isn't the most direct way, but maybe it doesn't matter, because it seems I'm the one who needs words.

Scapegoat, I give up. I apologize for being prideful and for dragging this out in the name of teaching you a lesson. I ignored the fact that it's not my job to teach you these things, and even if it was, holding a grudge is a pretty dumb way of doing it. I forgive you for hurting me, intentionally and otherwise; I hope you'll forgive me too. It's more important to me to be your friend than to be right.

And . . . I hope you have a splendid day.

Stay Tuned

In two months' time what nether shores will I be standing on
with purse and scrip and pen in hand? Albion, Albion!

Hi everyone. Sorry for the lackage of new entries lately. Don't despair, however: change is imminent. I'll be traveling to England in early September, armed with hopes, dreams, pen and paper (and laptop), and a new, good-quality digital camera!

More details to follow. Don't touch that dial!

Navigating a Crossroads

No matter how much I hem and haw over the details involved, I'm pretty certain I'll be heading to England this fall. I'm thinking September. I've thought about waiting until spring, saving more money to pay for the ridiculous cost of rent over there and giving myself more time to make arrangements, but I'm getting that swooping sensation of Great and Eternal Purposes aligning over my head, and I don't think spring's gonna cut it. I've talked to a few people about my slowly forming plans, and they all tell me the same thing: "This is really a crossroads coming up for you, isn't it?"

Yes, yes it is.

I was talking about it to my visiting teachers on Sunday. "I'm planning to go to England, hopefully in the fall," I said. "I want to go for two months if I can, but at least six weeks, the idea being to finish up a manuscript—or at least a good first draft of one—so I can start maybe sending it off to publishers. The hard part is that it would mean quitting my job, so essentially I'm launching myself into the unknown. But I really want to write, and since the setting of my stories is pretty much medieval England, that's where I want to go."

My visiting teachers sighed like I had just told them a sweepingly romantic tale. "Wow!" said one of them. "That sounds so awesome. You sound like a real writer, like Jane Austen or somebody. I didn't know people still did such things."

The awestruck reaction surprised me. Most of the time people are either doubtful of my ability to pull it off or of the wiseness of my intentions, or they scarcely bat an eye and begin launching into tales of their backpacking trip through Asia and Europe. Awe was a refreshing change; I felt like a character in my own fantasy story, about to embark on my own adventure.

"Heh, well, it's something I've wanted to do for a long time, and I've been saving for quite a while," I said, trying to be practical again. "There are so many things I have to figure out first, though. I don't even know where I'll be staying yet." I sighed. "But I am going. I'm kind of on a plateau here and it's time to move on. Probably in the fall." I stared ahead into space for a moment as if I saw the future laid out before me, as yet shapeless fog in a glass.

My visiting teacher looked at me with wide eyes, shaking her head slightly. "Can I . . . touch you?"

Ha ha, no, she didn't really say that. But she did say the bit about crossroads, and that struck me.

You see, I had just given a Sunday school lesson on Guiding Children as They Make Decisions, and the parental mandate to "be at the crossroads" was a key element in it. I've been forming a picture in my head of the quintissential crossroads scene, like something out of Jane Eyre: two narrow, intersecting dirt roads cutting across a field in the middle of nowhere, with a signpost standing at the cross, pointing out the two roads but with lettering worn off by wind and rain. Each path carries the weight of the experiences lying farther down, out of sight. Actually, not much is visible beyond the crossroads, like the whole world at the moment revolves around this small place. Storm clouds are building overhead—for good or ill it's too soon to say; they're just growing like your ponderous thoughts, like greater forces you don't yet understand, those hovering purposes you act on without fully comprehending—darkening the sky so you can see the ground clearer.

I had imagined this scene before, but this time I wondered, was anyone standing at the crossroads for me? I realized that I had not been expecting anyone. I've been sitting there in the wild grass under that signpost, trying to figure this out by myself. Only a few hours earlier I had taught my class this: "You're not always going to be there with your children when they make decisions, and this is where the Holy Ghost comes in. Teach them to hear and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost, and they'll have guidance in their decisions for the rest of their lives." I have been taught, I have a gift of constant companionship and the promise of direction when I ask for it in faith. I should probably take advantage of that.

There's plenty of work to be done before September rolls around. I don't know what consequences will stem from this journey, but I feel like this is an important time in my life. I hope to carve a few discernable shapes out of that fog before I walk through it. But you know what? I'm excited. In spite of all the solemnity involved in trying to make wise, mature decisions, going to England and writing full time really would be a dream come true. And no matter how it all unfolds, I'm comforted knowing that God stands at the crossroads.