The Pendulum of Change Doth Swing. I’ll Be In the Barn.

It started snowing the night before last and snowed all yesterday. The wind speed was higher than the temperature. That means snow drifts over a foot tall. Then it snowed all night (another five inches) and all today. But the real snow accumulation will be tomorrow. Am I boring you? Well, if you live in town, weather is small talk and if you have a 26-year-old llama in the barn, it isn’t. But I have plenty of feed and this snow isn’t a catastrophe. It’s just January snow in November.

The weather has changed in the half-century I’ve been in Colorado. I believe climate change is happening everywhere. You can think what you like. Climate change doesn’t need you to believe in it.

I was 45 when I bought this farm. Those first winters, I bragged about my bad-assery during storms here on the high prairie. I let people know when a hydrant froze, and I had to carry water for the horses. It made me sound tough. Now at 70, I don’t let the hose freeze. And I have more bad-assery than my whiny-martyred-self even imagined back then. Don’t feel sorry for me, I have wardrobe. I layer myself until I look like an inflatable lawn ornament, snap on a headlamp, and move like a sasquatch in my winter muck boots. Then I get to stay in the barn for as long as my fingers can stand it. I feed mush and fill hay bags.

My mare, Clara, has a cut. Brilliant red icicles dangle from her fetlock and she’s limping. I bend over and pull off a glove. No heat in the joint, the cut is clean and not too deep. The bleeding stopped long enough ago to freeze. I chip off the frozen blood and let nature do the rest of the healing. She’s keeping it well iced, so I warm my hands under Clara’s mane and stay out longer.

My appearance has changed since living here. I like things that make my eyes wrinkle but at over 7k feet, I wear glasses that change to darken the glare of sun and snow. My squint muscles get all the exercise they need going to the feed store. Eventually I learned how to keep hay out of my bra. Can’t imagine what took me so long.

You could say I’ve let myself go since they cut the cancer off my nose. I have a crevice of a scar running down the center that makes me look like Carl Malden. But I didn’t care what my nose looked like before; so no real change after all. Not that anyone in my barn judges me.

I want to make friends with my wattle, the hidden language of my scars, and the saggy bits of me that are migrating south. I’m always embarrassed for the women who fight age and gravity. We’re supposed to think they look young for their age, but the thought of them having been accidentally embalmed worries me. Besides, I wouldn’t want my body to look like I only wore it to church on Sundays.

I’m dawdling now, sweeping bits of hay, because it takes less time to do chores in a snowstorm. I can’t muck in this weather, but I feed more hay to keep the horses warm. The result should be a disgusting mess, but magically, it isn’t. Fresh snow covers the piles of manure not long after they drop. The pen looks pristine under the yard light. Sparkling perfection, and I let it be. The poop isn’t going anywhere without me. The sun will come out again. It always does, and I’ll get to spend a whole day cleaning up. Call it a vacation away from mucking, followed by a muck vacation. I am blessed with ready entertainment and low expectations.

I throw some extra hay and put out more kibble for the barn cat. He’s a ginger tom with a wide flat head. He walks through the pens like a mercenary, knowing I’m the enemy. I fill a container that probably holds half of his body weight, but the cat is a humanitarian. He eats his fill and leaves the rest for whoever wanders by. Wild creatures are more generous than those of us who live in captivity. A tomcat can’t cure world hunger, but he does his bit. I fear this tough guy shares with mice because they are fat and seem a bit disgruntled if I move their bales.

There is a special quiet in the barn on a snowy night. A silent night. It’s not just that the roads are all closed. The flakes are huge and heavy, compacting the snow already fallen. There will be ice tomorrow, but now the world feels padded and safe. The horses are stock-still conserving their heat. I wish they’d stay dry under the roof, but then it’s not like I’m hurrying into the house. We all know what we’re doing.

Sometime late tomorrow, the clouds will break. There will be some farting and tomfoolery. The herd will buck it out, but soon everyone will hit the ground and nap near each other. This cold beauty takes a toll.

Some days, it feels like pain will never stop, but it always does. Trust the pendulum of change doth swing on. This dark season will give way to fluorescent spring colors. For now, hunker down and let the storm blow itself out.

Some people will think they’re lucky, while others will believe the world is working against them. It’s only fear that makes us speak in hyperbole. If we catastrophize life, and allow ourselves to dwell in worry about the worst likely outcome, we are truly giving away our vote for the future.

Trust there is justice in the long game. Better to ride out the storms knowing labels, like good or bad, obscure the view. As for the things we can’t control, we can howl, cheer, or despair. Then buck it out.

I attend the Church of Mother Nature. We have prayer meetings daily in the barn. Any donkey will tell you that the simple work is a prayer to life. Grazing or mucking or taking a dirt bath is praise. The wind will carry our voices away. Nature will have the last word. Let her hold you through the storm.

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