The start of saying goodbye

(Written the fall of 2020 before our move in 2021)

It’s a beautiful New England fall day, and my list of to-dos at DunRoamin Farm is long. I need to complete the summer/fall clothes map, clean up emails, and research information on healthcare coverage for when my husband's unemployment benefits run out. I could catch up on paperwork for my at-home wellness business. Maybe catch up on some reading, do my PT exercises, or research crafts for pine cones I collected. So much to choose from.

It’s been a busy week. An eye doctor appointment determined my floaters can’t be safely, surgically removed. A veterinarian's appointment revealed that my new horse, Charlie, has a healthy back. A riding lesson, a saddle fitter, a hoof care appointment, hay delivery, and a vet appointment for the dogs.

The self-help routine I keep wanting to start has taken a back seat again.

My barn girl came to work with our horse, Mystic, this morning. Her saddle is not going to fit him, we realized. I hope she will know when he’s not feeling good. She’s been by our side through his whole journey, so she knows his quirks. She works part-time on our farm, mucking stalls once or twice a week, caring for animals when we go away, which is rare. She’s like family. She knows and loves our animals as if they were her own. Mystic’s intermittent lameness and my body issues that kept me from riding him were no surprise to her.

Mystic’s personality is big and special. He is sweet and lovable, but also independent and adamant. The winter season and static-cling shocks exchanged while blanketing changed our relationship. It terrified him.  His occasional outbursts at the turnout, more playful than mean, became too much for this “fifty-something-year-old mom” to laugh at.  Or safely manage.

Knowing he’s going to live with her and her 5-year-old daughter, whom he absolutely adores, is a big comfort. Especially because parting with him will leave a big hole in my heart. But we do what is best for each horse. And we are not what is best for Mystic.

The activity at the barn that morning was fun. Lovely, really. That is why we spent all the money and effort building and creating DunRoamin Farm. We thought we would be “done roaming” here. We thought this would be our last, forever home, and they’d be pulling our dead bodies out of here. Not so.

I think it’s fair to say, however, the animals who crossed our paths ultimately ended up “done roaming.” Either they lived their lives out here happily, or we found them a place where they would. So, there’s that.

We were now looking to make a move south due to a Covid-induced job loss. Some place with a better climate, more sunshine, and less work sounded wonderful. To enjoy the fruits of our labors after years of hard work. Have some fun.

I decide to sweep out my hay stall. It’s a quick project- sweep out built-up dust and hay remnants. Open the door and blow it all outside. Sweep away cobwebs. “Then I’ll go to the house and finish my clothes swap,” I think.

The sun is shining. The few birds that remain call out from time to time. An occasional car or truck whines by. The sound of overhead airplanes, who like to cut their engines above the property, then free fall, add to the autumn chorus going on outside.

I look out at my 3 horses happily grazing. They are so content. It brings peace to my whole body. They are doing what horses do. Merrily munching. Not a care in the world.

The clothes can wait.

I grab a large plastic bucket by the handle, and the 4 or 5 pine cones I collected months ago roll around inside, as I head out to the paddock.

I walk through the empty turnouts we have set up for each horse.

Charlie’s first. I pick up a pine cone here and there. Big ones, thick ones, skinny ones, and the adorable teeny-tiny ones. “I can do something with these,” I think. I’d seen wall hangings where pine cones were used to make human-like scenes. Whimsical. I decide I’ll make some crafts over the winter, for myself, family, and friends, with natural items from the farm. A nice way to remember this place.

I want to remember this place, and I want to remember it vividly. I imagine touching one of my creations and being flooded with memories. I dream of being transported back to exactly where I am, right now.

I pick up pine cones of all sizes, then a red leaf. A bright red leaf. I study it. So beautiful. “I wonder if people use leaves to match paint color?”

And then I am picking up leaves- small ones, big ones, yellow, orange, red, brown, and a brilliant, perfect green one. They spread out like a shag rug from the seventies, with bright, almost obnoxious colors. “I’m sure I can put these together to make something.”

They will all be a tribute to my beloved farm. It will be a great comfort after I have left. Even now, just gathering these things is a great comfort, knowing the day will soon come when I have to leave.

I make my way out to a section of the paddock behind the barn, where the horses are turned out.  It’s called a “sacrifice” paddock because you sacrifice the grass and turf, turning horses out on it more often than the grass can grow. The ground is mostly bare in spots, allowing me to see intricate tree roots and pine needles covering small areas. Rocks jet out here and there. It may be barren, but it’s still a beautiful picture of nature to me.

As I lovingly pick up leaves, sauntering through the turnouts, a small, sweet, purple flower catches my eye. The stem is soft and squishy as I pull it from its home in the dirt. I pick a small bunch of tiny white flowers, then a sprig of goldenrod catches my eye. It’s the only bright yellow goldenrod, as all the others are either wilting or dying.  It stands out like sunshine. “Yellow is such a happy color,” I think with a smile.

These delicate and precious flowers are things I have seen for the last 14 years on my farm, but it’s like I’m seeing them again for the first time. I want to remember every single one.

I hear a blow and turn to see my older horse, Dusty, ambling towards me.  A bucket in a human’s hand means something tasty to this boy. Not one to miss out on yummy treats, Dusty beelines for me.

 “Hey, boy. You wanna sniff?” I ask and hold the bucket out to his nose. A quick sniff tells him there’s nothing in there for him, so, he comes closer, right alongside me, which is how he requests a belly rub. I laugh and scratch him for a few seconds and then continue on my quest to collect the beautiful things that decorate my paddock in fall.

Next, I hear familiar, steady footsteps coming closer. Here comes Mystic. The clown of the barn. The funny, opinionated, strikingly handsome snowflake appaloosa. I never wrapped my head around the fact that this gorgeous boy was given to me. The reality of it, however, was despite his remarkable beauty, his confirmational condition was a constant challenge, costing boatloads of money, trying to “get him right” so he and I could become trail partners.

Sadly, that never happened. It took three and a half years to get him sound, and even at that, he was constantly throwing shoes. Constantly. The challenge was draining. He was certainly not our first horse or animal with a challenging health issue. But challenging health issues with horses mean you don’t ride. Fourteen acres, many, many dollars, blood, sweat, and tears, poured into creating this pristine horse property, and 14 years later, I had minimal time in a saddle. To say it was frustrating, defeating, and heartbreaking is only the beginning of how it feels to have your hopes and expectations thwarted, time and time again, after so much hard work.

“Hey buddy,” I say as I gently pat the white blaze on his face. He sniffs, adamantly, pushing flowers around, then drops his head to continue his search for sweet fall grass, which is dwindling. I scratch his withers, the way I know he loves, and he stretches his neck out, as long and as far as he can, twisting his head comically. This is how he does almost everything.

He knows how to entertain, how to grab hold of your heart.

“I’m going to miss you, buddy,” I whisper. No tears this time. “You are going to have a wonderful life with them. You’ll be so loved and doted on. You’re going to have a great life,” I tell him. My heart pangs, but this is the price we pay for love. And oh, how I love this horse. But I know the family I am giving him to will, in fact, love him tremendously, and he will have a great life with them. What more can I ask for this special boy?

We agreed to part with Mystic months ago, so I’ve had plenty of time getting used to the idea. That’s how I roll. I need to sit with something for a long time before I get comfortable with it. Band-Aids? I rip those off right away. Emotional transformation? I take a painstakingly long time.

I walked slowly past him, with no sadness over the notion that he will be leaving us in weeks, despite the sadness I know will follow.

I eye Charlie, our new guy off in the distance. My “far away boy.” I am still piecing together his background to understand his story. To understand why he shut down under saddle on me.

Horses are complex creatures. As are humans. This is probably the reason I have been so drawn to them ever since I was a child. I have always had a deep kinship with equines. They are flight animals. Prey. Sought and chased by predators. I can relate.

Charlie pays me no mind, or so he wants me to think. However, he knows exactly where I am at all times, and as I slowly walk in his chosen grazing area, his every step is to keep me in sight, at the distance he chooses. I see it. I get it. So, I slowly walk along, one step at a time, looking for, and picking up more paddock jewels.

I get to the proximity of his hind end, which is about 10 feet from the fence. That’s a tight space for me to pass between him and his hindquarters. If I hesitate, to him, it means I’m afraid. Which I’m not. However, I must be mindful of how aggressively I want to walk behind him, especially so close to the fence. That could signal too much pressure to him. It will most definitely penetrate the protective bubble of personal space he has set up for himself. So, I decide to walk behind him at a steady pace, but not so quickly as to suggest any emotion.

He doesn’t move, a triumph for our space-sharing! He doesn’t care that I was so close to his vulnerable area. And so, I continue to search for gems.

I slowly move around his back end, then to his left side, giving him a soft glance, moving in an arc, which, in horse language, means, “you’re ok, I’m ok.” I notice his eyes subtly following me, inspecting the elusive bucket his pasture mates solicited. So, I stop.

“What’s that?!” I say, in a high-pitched, baby-talk, sweetest voice I can. He stops grazing and lifts his head, just about 6 inches off the ground. “You wanna smell?” I say to him, feeling a warmth, as I see his eyes and face softening.

Horses, being prey animals, and especially ones with baggage, are always on alert, always suspicious of potential sudden dangers they may have to protect themselves against. Earning their trust is not always easy. Understandable, to me. Small victories are monumental.

His nostrils softly flare as he stretches his long, brown neck out towards me and my bucket. I creep it closer to him.  He inches his nose closer until the bucket and his nostrils meet. He takes a few sniffs, then a step closer, and breathes in the bouquet of special flowers; the purple, white, and the one and only bright, happy goldenrod.

His upper lip reaches in, snatching up one of the sprigs. “Hey” I softly laugh.

The elusive and brightest goldenrod disappears in his soft brown lips. I laugh, and reach out slowly, and scratch the half-moon white patch on his forehead. He sighs. I sigh.

I turn, walking away with my white and purple flower sprigs, and collection of pine cones and leaves. Charlie drops his head and continues to contentedly graze on the little bits of grass poking through dying foliage and bright leaves scattered across the paddock. I leave the barn, full of gratitude and peace.

I so love this place; the barn I meticulously planned and built. All the stalls have overnight run-outs, as big as some horses’ total turnouts. The barn sits next to a babbling creek, currently dried up due to a terrible drought.

The 12 x 12 stalls have special footing and are larger than average stalls. The heated tack room, with coveted hot water. A large hay loft, complete with barn cats, who keep grain bags safe from mice. Everything barn people cherish.

I briefly think about the clothes project waiting for me at the house, as the wind makes me pull my collar up a little higher. I need to get that project done. Temps have fallen, and I need my long sleeves and sweatshirts. The short sleeves and sleeveless tops will be missed, but their time has come to an end, temporarily, anyway. I should probably head to the house to take care of that project.

Instead, I round the corner, bucket in hand, on a mission to find another blooming late-season goldenrod. I’m sure there’s one somewhere. I don’t want to miss any blooms I’ve grown to love so much, even if I only realize it today.

I follow the fence line of the barn paddock, passing woods along the creek, the foliage, once vibrant and bursting with color just weeks ago, now drab and dying. It touches me. I feel kindred with the dying foliage.

Had I noticed this beauty in years past? Had I missed the breathtaking glory of fall these past 14 years?  Suddenly, a deep desire emerges to grasp every single living thing here tighter, knowing soon it will no longer be a part of my life.

“So much beauty to enjoy here,” I think.

Then a thought starts to repeat. “There was so much to enjoy here, there was so much to enjoy here.” Over and over, it rolls in my mind.  “There WAS so much to enjoy here….” over and over, and a feeling of sadness and regret sinks in the pit of my stomach.

That’s when it hits me. Repetitive recordings carve roads in your subconscious. I got so used to old recordings, things I’d been telling myself for a lifetime, that I didn’t even notice them anymore. But they have consequences.  I knew the results of negative recordings. I felt it in every cell of my body.

“Wait a minute,” I think, coming to a halt. Suddenly, I feel exalted.

“I can change that. There IS so much beauty that I HAVE enjoyed here. THAT’S what I need to be telling myself.”

I start repeating this to myself, over and over. “There IS so much beauty I HAVE enjoyed here.” Over and over. Determined to override the automatic, negative statements that had subconsciously taken over my mind decades ago. Replacing negative with positive, regret with hope.

The truth is, after years on my idyllic farm, it was only in the last few that I had begun TRULY to enjoy its beauty, to immerse myself in it. Surrendering to the realities of how things actually were, in letting go of expectations, I found peace.  When twinges of regret threatened to take over, I learned to recognize those demons and push them aside. “Regret is a wasted energy,” I would remind myself. I learned to intentionally enjoy right-now moments. Right-now is all we ever have.

I continued on, rounding where the woods got deeper and deer often hid. Striding up the hill, the huge shelter we built into the fence line is clashing with the paddock’s soft green grass. It’s smooth silver roof sings as an occasional acorn bounces off the metal, adding to the harmony of wind, birds, and rustling leaves.

Then, suddenly, there it is! Like a nightlight shining in the dark. Bright yellow, amidst the browns, grays, and dulling, dying vegetation. A late-blooming, glorious goldenrod!

I cup my fingers softly around it, feeling its smooth cone-shaped bud. Carefully, I place the large, three-stemmed flower in my bucket with the rest of my earthly treasures, smile, and head back to the house.

Meandering back to the house, I feel an intense love for every item I pass on the path. Flowers swaying, both blooming and dead. Leaves cover the ground like a multi-colored blanket. Towering, blowing trees. The way sunlight shines through the woods, flickering specks that shatter the shade. I feel love for every single blade of grass.

Why? Why now? Why so much love right now? So much that I feel completely overwhelmed?

Then, the criticism comes.

I hear, “Why am I collecting all these nothing things? Flowers and leaves and pinecones. What’s the point? I’m crazy. I can’t take this all with me. I can’t take this place with me. I have to learn to let it go. I have to let go. Soon, I will have to. Let it all go.”

The thoughts don’t drag me down, though.

Instead, they motivate me. I want to understand them. I want to understand this process I must go through. I need to know how to begin to leave.