I begin with what began before and oh, such a long time before that. I begin because I feel that I have no other ground to stand on. I begin with a bit of numbness, void of feeling, knowing that this is a temporary state, knowing that this is the wall that has kept me safely imprisoned and the wall that, God willing, now will crumble because I am no longer able to live within its bounds. What lies on the far side of this wall, I have now tasted, smelled and stretched out my aching soul into and it is there that I want to be.
Cow Chronicles quietly emerged when I began to be with cows again and miraculously, I found a hidden doorway into my waking heart. I began to write, just a little, and when I dared to articulate that perhaps now I would start a web page, I stopped writing. It is the encouragement of the women’s group that has set me back on the path.
Now quaking, I begin with the cows.
I nestle my head into Sigunny’s side, my butt resting on the three legged milking stool. Zing! Zing! The first streams of milk ring into the bucket. At age 15 this satisfying Zing sound was tinny, as I “stripped” the cows, checking for mastitis, using an aluminum strip cup. This pre-milking ritual also got the milk flowing before swallowing the waiting teats with the milking machine that pulsed loudly as it sucked the milk hungrily before the strong vacuum surged the milk into the empty bulk tank.
Today, I’ve gone back in time to milking by hand.
Today, I sink my head into the warmth of Sigunny’s side and do my homework. Feel the Insecurity. The bravado has melted and I am in unfamiliar territory.
Where is home? What is home? I feel lost, separated from all that was so familiar, so warmly me. I have left the hearth, by choice. But I did not know just how vulnerable I would feel, each day, waking to a new bedroom, walking a new path, trying desperately to feel at home. I did not know just how comfortable my home of the last 20 was. I was always trying to change it, to make it more functional, more beautiful, more ‘home’. From afar, it feels like my favorite dress – comfortably elegant- and I feel naked without it.
My family of four- my two children, Frederic and me- has now doubled. We live with three young adults who have special needs and one helper. Our house is one of seven such houses, that together make up ‘Triform’, a community whose goal it is to provide a rich living environment for young adults who have special needs. We moved here because for many years Fred and I had worked towards and hoped for such a community in Vermont. For too long this ideal lived with in and between us and we decided that we needed to try it and see if it really is the best living situation for our family. We came into the community with our eyes open – we’ve experienced the downfalls of anthroposophical organizations first hand and our years of couples work and individual dream work therapy had laid out our pathologies pretty clearly. We thought we knew what we were in for.
Perhaps there was no way to prepare for what I am feeling now. I feel like a foreigner, an imposter. And I miss my home. I miss my dear friends. I feel incompetent. I feel uncertain. I feel scared. I feel what I have always felt but have covered up with years of skillful bravado. “I can do it.” I can do anything that takes me away from my own quaking heart, takes me away from the pain.
I drift into the “to do” list. I drift into distraction of people dynamics in this new life.I vaguely think of my friends back home in Vermont, of my sisters whom I now live close to and never see, of my mother who lives nearby. Still, the milk zungs into the ever so slowly growing white foam in the stainless bucket. The back teats are too small to grip full fisted and my thumb and forefinger grow tired. I rest by grabbing the front ones in a satisfying fist.
Back to my homework. Focus on the rising white foam. Breathe deeply. Open to feeling. Feel the pain of insecurity, the pain of loss, the pain of loneliness, the pain of standing alone, stripped bare, before Your humble eyes. I know not who I am. i am so small that i could crawl into the change pocket of your jeans. I weep with relief of feeling. I weep with relief of honesty. I can no longer hold up the banners of competence that shielded me from the gawking stares of a naked humbled woman. I am so alone in my pain.
Sigunny stands patiently as my head gently bumps up and down in quiet sobs. The bucket nearly full, stands beneath her sagging udder. Few last streams.
Milking’s over.