Knit twice

About ten years ago, I tried to learn to knit.

I was working as a newspaper reporter in Palm Springs, and one of my editors suggested that a fun feature for the education beat would be a story about the newfound popularity of knitting among kids and young adults. That sounded kind of fun, so I reached out to a couple of local schools that started knitting clubs and dropped by a local yarn store to inquire about interviewing one of their knitting instructors. 

The knitting store woman was pleased that I wanted to write an article about knitting, and she was happy to talk to me about it. “But only under one condition,” she said. “You have to let me teach you how to do it yourself. You can’t write about it unless you can do it.”

Well, I’d written about lots of things without actually being able to do them–cancer surgery, anyone?–that’s a journalist’s job. But I knew what she meant. So I agreed. How hard could it be, I reasoned.

A couple of weeks later, as I struggled with a pair of unyielding knitting needles and a series of too-tight stitches, my husband remarked that he’d never heard anyone swear so much. You know, my husband, the doctor. In the Navy. 

“Oh, shut up,” I grumbled, as I tried awkwardly to stick one needle through a stitch. Backwards? No, wait, it was supposed to go the other way. Why won’t these stitches move? How am I supposed to get them off one needle and onto the other one? Who came up with this and thought it was a good idea?

I wrestled with that pair of size 8 needles and blue yarn for a few more days, then bailed. I still wrote the story, and it even turned out pretty well. Even if I never knitted more than about eight rows of tentative, uneven stitches.

Fast forward to…March of this year. William and I were wandering around Michael’s, looking for Rainbow Loom refills. William spotted a loom that supposedly made it easy to “knit” scarves. “Hey, we could do that!” he suggested brightly. He’s so optimistic, my elder child.

Hmmm. We were coming up on Spring Break…a very long two-week Spring Break, and it was going to be cold and wet. Maybe it’d be nice to have a project we could work on. I bought the loom (Knit Quick, in case you’re curious) and two skeins of charcoal gray yarn, and we headed home.

At home, I dumped everything onto the kitchen table and ostentatiously unfolded the set of directions. “William, we always read the directions when we are trying something new,” I pontificated. I’m trying to set a good example, see. And to make my point, I even read the entire set of directions before picking up the loom. This is progress for me, I might add. After a few failed starts, I started to get the hang of wrapping the yarn around the posts of the loom, then using a crochet hook to lift one set of loops over the pegs to create a row of “stitches.”

I had to stop at one point and start over, but I quickly got back into it. Wrap, wrap, wrap, loop, loop, loop. A few nights later, I had an actual scarf. That I made! With my own hands! William began agitating for me to make him one, so we dashed back to Michael’s, where he picked out some yarn. I worked on that one for a few days, and William even got into the act and did a few rows. And a couple of days later, we had yet another handmade scarf.

So this all led me to consider trying the real deal once again. One of my favorite Bible verses is from Isaiah 43:19: “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” And why not try a new (or mostly new) thing? Maybe it will be easier this time. If I’m trying to live by that advice in my ecclesiastical life, I probably should at least give it a shot in my regular life, too.

Here’s the funny thing. It was.

It helped that I was able to find some good beginning-knitting videos on the Internet. I watched, watched and watched again, as I held a freshly purchased pair of size 8 bamboo needles (I’d long since lost that original pair) and some coral yarn. In this way, I figured out how to cast on. I casted on a dozen stitches, took them off, casted on 15, took them off, and kept doing it ’til I felt like I’d gotten the hang of it. Then I worked on the knit stitch. Same routine, more or less. Watch, attempt, watch, reattempt. But it worked. I even figured out how to bind off, using this method. God bless the Interwebs.

I’m now working on mastering the purl stitch. I also am nearly finished knitting a dark pink scarf. I started knitting it on a larger set of needles that I bought after I developed some confidence. It’s not fancy. But I’m making it, and I’m proud of that. I can hold it, touch it, loop it around my neck. As a writer, I work with words. And these days, I write so much for online publications that I rarely even have a printed version of my work to hold in my hands. Somehow, is so satisfying to make something tangible and tactile, to have something that I made that I can hold and touch.

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March forward…just write

My seven-year-old son recently announced that he wanted to write a story. 

My little writer! My proud writer-mother’s heart soared…for a few moments. I sat him down at the computer, made sure he named and saved the new Word file that he opened, and then stepped back to bask in the moment. 

Then the professional kicked in. 

“Just start writing,” I coached. “It doesn’t have to be good. You just want to get your thoughts down on the page. We can come back and fix things later.”

He nodded confidently and began tapping away at the keyboard. Peck, peck, peck. 

I reluctantly backed away and walked slowly out of the room. In fact, I went back to my own computer and resolutely pecked away myself at an article I was writing. 

“Mom? Mooo-ooom!” his voice echoed from the second floor. “How do you spell delicious? Mom! Mom, I need you right NOW!”

I pushed my chair away from my desk and climbed the stairs. When I got to him, I spelled the word for him and then counseled him to not worry too much about correct spelling at this point.

“Just do your best. Try to spell it the way you think it should be spelled, but don’t get too hung up on it if you don’t think it looks right,” I said. “Just keep writing.”

And with those exchanges, I have passed along some of the greatest writing advice I ever received. In fact, I remember my delight when a well-known journalist told me and the rest of a group of people attending a Poynter Institute seminar that we should just start writing already. Just get started. Don’t get paralyzed by the empty page. Just start writing. You can start writing in the middle, then come back and write the beginning later. Just start. 

I think Tom Hallman’s exact words were “Lower your standards. At first.” 

It sounds a little shocking at first. I know it sounded that way to me. But think about it. You get started. You don’t worry if your sentences are the best you’ve ever composed. You’re just getting started. You’re not letting the old writer’s block get the best of you. 

Now, those of us who’ve been newspaper reporters pretty much already know this. You don’t have the luxury of time when you’re on a daily deadline. And that’s even more true today for people writing for online publications, given the 24-hour news cycle. You’re not just filing copy for tomorrow morning’s paper. You’re writing copy to be posted in ten minutes. Or you’re tweeting or posting on Facebook or other social media platforms.

You have. to. start. writing. now. 

But even if you’re writing for a corporate client or a website, or even if you’re just writing for yourself, it’s good advice. Just start writing. You can come (and should) back and tweak it later. You can edit, copy-edit, move sentences around, delete redundancies, add information, correct spelling, and scrap entire paragraphs. You can even start over, if you like.

So I’ve become sort of a broken record on this topic (how’s that for a cliche that will show my age?). Just start writing. Lower your standards–at first–and just start writing. 

As for my son, he’s still at the age where he actually listens to me. So that night, he wrote and wrote and wrote, and then he called for me again. We fixed the spelling errors, and I inserted a few punctuation marks. He ended up with about four long paragraphs. It was a pretty good start to a story, too. But he wouldn’t have even that if he hadn’t just started writing. 

So, that’s my pep talk…are you going to start writing now?  

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The aftermath of the plane crash in Bellevue

Last Monday afternoon, a small plane crashed less than a half-mile from my house in the Nashville suburb of Bellevue. 

That’s my traditional news lede. 

But I wasn’t a reporter on duty that day. I wasn’t waiting to rush out, with my notebook in one hand, a camera in the other. 

I was sitting at home, in my office, working on a project, with my seven-year-old son in the next room. As I typed, I heard a funny noise, like an airplane flying very low overhead. Then…a beat…and a heavy THUD. The kind you feel in your sternum. 

I thought to myself, “Oh my God, that sounded like a plane crashing.” Except that I’d never actually heard a plane crash in real life, and I assumed that that couldn’t possibly be what I’d heard. Maybe it was a car accident. A transformer blowing. Something. Not a plane crash, though.

A few minutes later, our neighborhood email list began filling up with messages. “Did anyone hear that?” one person asked. “A small plane has crashed by the YMCA,” one reported. 

Indeed, a small plane crashed into what the Tennessean reporter Adam Tamburin called “a tiny sliver of grass amid a sea of subdivisions, grocery stores and restaurants.” That phrase “tiny sliver of grass” is not an exaggeration. There is a wedge of grass in between a parking lot and the western end of the Bellevue YMCA building, right next to the part of the building that houses the indoor pool where both of my children have taken swimming lessons. It’s not even big enough for a softball game.

But by some miracle, the plane’s pilot Glenn Mull, 62, managed to somehow land…well…his twin engine Gulfstream on that grass, avoiding the building that was just a few feet away. He managed to avoid the Kroger and the assisted living facility that are the Y’s neighbors. And he managed to avoid the houses in the neighborhood behind the Y. 

Mr. Mull died in that crash. His beloved wife Elaine and his daughter Amy Harter and his 16-year-old granddaughter Samantha died, too. The family was traveling from Kansas to Nashville to attend the National Cattlemen’s Beef Associate Trade Show at the Opryland Hotel. According to reports, Mr. Mull was unable to land the plane at John C. Tune airport on the first attempt, so he was circling back around to try again.

But on that second pass, something went wrong, terribly wrong, and we don’t know what. The National Transportation Safety Board is investigating the crash, and a preliminary report could be released by the end of this week. 

We don’t know how much the Mulls and Harters knew about what was happening in those final minutes. We don’t know if they knew they were going to die. It makes my heart ache to think of them being scared, so scared, and yet unable to do anything to change their fate.

But everyone who saw the plane go down has spoken about how the plane seemed to wrench to one side right before it crashed, sending it hurtling into the ground…and not into a building full of people. I’m not the only one who saw the miracle in that act–because surely it was a deliberate act on the part of Mr. Mull, his final act, which spared others.

This is how blogger Lindsay Ferrier described the scene:

“I want you all to know exactly what what that busy area must have looked like to Glenn Mull as he circled our neighborhood in the minutes before the crash. He had reached the most bustling section of our community at the busiest time of day. He would have seen hundreds of homes with cars in the driveway. A Kroger packed with shoppers. An assisted living community. And an enormous YMCA, where hundreds of families were streaming in and out to swim in the indoor pool, exercise, and take classes.”

And yet…he somehow saw that tiny sliver of grass.

The people who saw the wall of flames rise up from the ground from their spots by the indoor pool are alive to be grateful to him. The people in the Starbucks and the Kroger and the assisted living facility nearby…they’re alive to be grateful to him, too.  My neighbors are grateful to him. I am grateful to him. 

But oh, how I wish it had been a full-fledged near miss. When I went back to the YMCA on Saturday after it reopened, all I could see was that swath of burned land right next to an intact building. Right next to it. Quite literally, just a few feet away. It took my breath away all over again.

It is a weird thing to mourn people you’ve never met. You read about them, you nod along with the reports about how much they loved their family and friends, and you see pictures of them that make you smile. You identify with them. They were people who might have been your friends. They were people who were a lot like you. And yet you never really knew them. But you feel like you know them somehow anyway. You miss what could have been. 

We are grateful here in Bellevue, but we are mourning, too.  We are glad to be alive and sad, all at the same time. We feel like we owe a debt to Mr. Mull for giving us the chance to be grateful. He and his family will not be forgotten. We won’t forget. 

 

That tiny sliver of grass will always remind us.

 

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Five Miles. Seventeen Degrees.

I’m not a runner.

Really, I’m not. My husband is a runner–the kind who’s both naturally speedy and who also really loves running and mourns the lost days when he doesn’t get to run because work gets in the way. My brother-in-law is a runner–the kind who was really good when he competed as a kid. Even my dad is a runner, although his knees prevent him from doing much of it anymore. 

Me? I’m more of a brisk walker. Maybe a dancer. I can even sing while I dance (and I usually do–ask anyone who’s ever attended a Zumba class with me). Okay, or let’s be totally honest: I’m a talker. My older son got it from somewhere, after all. 

But a runner? Not so much. I had phases during my teens and 20s when I ran a few miles a few times here and there, but nothing really serious. I never really felt that much-hyped “runner’s high” that I suspected didn’t really exist but gave runners an excuse to sound all lofty and superior.  Then I hit my 30s, and all of a sudden, half my friends turned into runners. Or maybe they were always closet runners but suddenly decided to come out and fully embrace the habit. I suspect that it’s not completely unlikely that it was Facebook that played a major role in this–at least when it came to my awareness of it.

But over the last year or so, I’ve started running here and there again. Typically three or maybe four miles. I don’t do it every day. Not even every single week. But more than I used to. I’m in much better physical shape in general now than I used to be, thanks to a well-rounded exercise diet of Zumba, kickboxing, yoga, and yes, a little bit of running. Suddenly running doesn’t seem as much of a chore. Sometimes I take a yoga class, run a few miles afterward, then do it again later in the week. 

So I decided to register for the five-mile Boulevard Bolt, an annual tradition here in Nashville when people take on a five-mile course on Thanksgiving morning before going home to gorge on turkey and dressing. I decided I was just.going.to.do.it. Five miles. I can do a five mile race, I told myself. I can plod along, if I have to. I even started thinking, “Hey, could I do this race in 50 minutes or less? I bet I could.”  I emailed friends who are runners (the real kind) and asked what kind of layers I should be planning to wear for a winter race. 

Except this year, Thanksgiving morning dawned clear and cold–colder than anyone could remember. That’s right. I had chosen a year with Record Cold in which to run my first official five-mile race. The temperature at race time: 17 degrees. SEVENTEEN DEGREES. Y’all. That is unreasonably cold. When I checked the weather app on my phone and saw that number, I began to have second thoughts. “This is bat-&*#$ crazy,” I told myself as I pulled on my running tights. 

But I’d already registered, paid my money, picked up the T-shirt and pinned the race number with the chip to my pullover. I was All In. From the warmth of our bed, my husband the runner said, “Have fun, honey!” and stayed right where he was. I really do love him,  I reminded myself. Think of all the mornings he’s pulled himself from our warm cozy bed to go see patients in the hospital and serve humanity. 

My shuttle from the satellite parking lot to the starting line was late, so I had to push my way through the crowds to even get to the line. I was slightly in shock from the temperature. It was so crowded that I couldn’t really get up to speed, and the cold was just smacking right up against my face, making my lips and cheeks feel stiff and numb. I think I may have been slightly in shock. 

(Why didn’t anyone tell me to get a neck warmer that I could pull up over my face? Oh wait, I think my friend Natalie did, and I blew her off. Natalie, if you’re reading this, you were TOTALLY RIGHT and I should have listened to you, given the six thousand marathons that you’ve run and all. I bow in your general direction.)

 “Oh my God, what have I done?” I thought, as I grimly pushed past the line of ladies jogging cheerfully and v-e-r-y slowly with their Starbucks cups. The seventeen degrees were making the toes in my right foot feel stiff, too. Every time I landed on my right foot, I thought, “Could my toes break off? Surely not….could they?”

Indeed, the first mile felt slow, probably because it was. For one thing, it really was crowded. I dodged people, trying to get past enough people to be able to achieve a reasonable speed. I looked down at the stopwatch feature on my phone and noted that the first mile took me about 10.5 minutes. Then, I spotted a woman about my age with a curly blonde ponytail and a thick black headband covering her ears, and I followed her forward. 

Gradually I began to warm up. My limbs loosened up. My toes felt better. My breathing felt more regular. I was able to get past the slower runners and walkers. I was even amused by Santa and his eight reindeer in brown fleece jackets and antler headbands. I was less amused and more horrified by the college boys who were running bare chested so you could see all their Indian warpaint. Yes. They were really shirtless. If I’d been walking, I’d have had to put a hand over my mouth to keep from hollering, “Put some clothes on!” You can put the girl in a pair of running shoes and gloves and turn her out into the frigid cold, but you cannot completely suppress the bossy mommy in her. As it was, I just raised an eyebrow at them and pushed forward. (What do we think? Do we think they were maybe not entirely sober? Or was it more of a it-sounded-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time thing? Do we think any of them thought it was crazy, too?)

Natalie’s email ran through my brain, coaching me to remember that finishing strong is more important than a particular pace.  And what do you know, when only a half mile remained, I managed to summon something from somewhere and made myself finish strong. I was hoping I’d managed to hit a reasonable average pace, too, of course, but at the moment, I was just wanted to be done.

And I was done. I’d finished the run, and I’d done pretty well. For a non-runner, that is. My official time was 47:32, which put me at a 9:31 mile pace. I was thrilled. I really was. I walked around and found the water stations, then snagged a banana–the best banana I’ve ever eaten in my entire life–and a cinnamon bagel.

The only bummer at that point was that I didn’t have anyone to celebrate my accomplishment with in person. I know that a five-miler isn’t that big a deal for many folks, but it was for me, and I was, yes, a little euphoric about it. So I texted my husband. “Good job!” he wrote back. (He may have still been in bed. I didn’t ask.) 

Then I realized I was cooling off, and good Lord, it was even worse being sweaty in the cold. I think I felt the sweat freezing my knees into a slightly bent position, which was a little alarming. I ran for the shuttle while I still could.

No, it wasn’t a marathon. It wasn’t even a half-marathon. Not even a ten-mile run. But it was a big deal for me. And I’m really, really glad that I did it. Even in the cold. Perhaps especially in the cold. No one can take away my crazy “I ran five miles on Thanksgiving morning when it was seventeen degrees outside” experience. I ran it. I ran the whole thing. It was damned cold. And I felt pretty good about it. Still do. 

 

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What does a writer look like?

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Can you spot the writer in this picture? What about the mommy?

Someone recently asked me what I do for a living. I think she expected me to say that I’m a stay-at-home mom (or SAHM). She often sees me with both my kids in tow, and we’d never had any opportunity to have a conversation about anything other than our kids. When I said, “I’m a writer,” the person looked surprised. Apparently I did not fit her preconceived notion of what a writer looks like or acts like.

At the time, I was wearing sweaty gym clothes and no makeup and trying to wrangle my active three-year-old son (see above in the furry monster costume). I was also carrying my son’s backpack o’ snacks (a wise parent never leaves home without lots and lots and LOTS of snacks; if you think you’ve got enough, toss some more in). Oh yes, and I’m sure I was wearing my current favorite gym shoes: bright purple sneakers with hot pink laces. I can see why my appearance didn’t match any of the ideas that many people have of writers. Heck, I don’t even drink coffee. (I know! Maybe someone should take my writer badge away from me.)  

The funny thing, at least to me, is that I probably do fit the mold of many a mommy blogger. Yoga pants, check. Sneakers, check. North Face jacket, check. Various flotsam and jetsam from adored but messy offspring, check check and check. I even have a mommy blog, since I love to tell a good story about my charming and delicious children who never ever misbehave in Target or fight over whether to watch “Dinosaur Train” or “Phineas and Ferb” or bite each other or screech so loudly that I nearly drive the car off the road.

But a writer, a real writer who writes about stuff other than her kids? Hmm. I don’t know. 

Then again, I don’t know many writers who sit around in their offices, dressed to the nines. We’re often a frumpy bunch. I mean, I started out my professional career in a newsroom. As long as you weren’t wearing pajamas, you were doing pretty well.  I tended to save my “nice” clothes for days when I had to attend meetings in hospital board rooms or conduct interviews in doctors’ offices. If I knew I was just going to be in the office on the phone, why bother with the good stuff? Who was going to benefit from my attempt to wear pantyhose? And trust me, I was not the only one with this approach. I had coworkers who (I suspected) wore the same pair of pants several days in a row. Or kept a rumpled tie in the trunk of their car, just in case. 

Today, the lines of citizen journalists and professional journalists have blurred. The perky mommy blogger in leggings and sneaks may also be a veteran reporter for a well-respected magazine. Or the seasoned newspaper columnist may have a cult following on Twitter, where he posts mostly about the Red Sox and recipes that incorporate tequila. You can’t really tell by looking at someone if they fit the profile because there doesn’t really seem to be a profile anymore. They probably all sit in front of their computers with messy hair and a coffee-stained shirt a good deal of the time. 

So, that’s where I am. Earlier today, I interviewed a health care executive from my home office, wearing, yes, yoga pants and a hoodie. Then I pounded out a lengthy article about a particular trend in the arena of federally-qualified community health centers. As long as you’re good at what you do, who cares if you look like what you are?  As long as you’re good at what you are, that’s what matters. 

 

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My song for Kathy

Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel used to perform a quiet, poignant song called “Kathy’s Song.” Perhaps you’ve heard it, as it was very well known and appeared on their greatest hits album. 

Paul Simon wrote another song, a song called “America” in 1968. Kathy shows up in that song, too. So in my head, it’s really the song that should have been called “Kathy’s Song.” The singer tells the story of how he and Kathy boarded a Greyhound and went out on the road, in search of America, of something nameless and abstract and missing. 

Remember these lines?  

“Kathy, I’m lost,” I said, though I knew she was sleeping /   “I’m empty and aching, and I don’t know why.”

I think of that song ever year in August. My friend Kathy died one ordinary night in August, ten years ago. I wrote about it on my family blog if you’re interested in reading the story, what I know of it. 

My life has gone on since her death. Obviously, it has. Ten years after her husband and mother made the gut-wrenching decision to withdraw the life support machines, I am ten years older. I have two children, a career as a writer. I’m an elder at my church, serving on its session. I pack lunchboxes each evening before collapsing into bed and hoping that no one throws up all over the floor in the middle of the night. I worry about how much those home repairs are going to cost, if we’re paying the right amount on our estimated quarterly tax payments, if the boys are going to need bigger shoes again soon, where we’ll send our second grader to middle school in a few years. 

Kathy never lived to see the age of 30. She never saw her only child crawl or walk or run. She never heard him say “Mama” or “I love you” or “I hate you.”  She joked about how all she wanted out of life was to be a tennis mom, and she never even got the chance to do that. 

Every so often, I realize that no, she’s really never coming back. Never. And it hurts all over again. It does. She’s not on an extended vacation. We didn’t grow apart, biding our time ’til we can plan a reunion. She didn’t move away.

She. Is. Gone. She has been gone. She is gone. She will forever be gone. As long as I am on this earth, she is gone. 

My friend Lena once talked about “thin places,” where the distance between heaven and earth was compressed, where you can almost sense who is on the other side. She lost a son shortly before his birth, and there are places and times when she says she can sense him. Those thin places. Those elusive, hoped-for thin places. 

Sometimes I long for a thin place, where I can nearly feel Kathy. Or a thin space, when I can feel her vividly again. Sometimes I worry that my  memories are getting duller as time passes. I know that they are. Kathy was so bright and lively and memorable, she was. But we are human, and our minds age.

And yet…

Every so often, I do feel a sense that Kathy is not fully gone from our earth, not in one sense. Her dear friend’s daughter’s middle name is Katharine. Her brother’s elder daughter is also Katharine. None of them have forgotten her. They miss every bit as much as I do. As long as she has that much importance in all their lives, there is a part of her that is not gone. We remember.

I recently read a series of blog posts about thin places on the Patheos website. And one part of the very last post stood out to me:

From a New Testament vantage point, Jesus serves as the ultimate thin place, the “place” in which God’s presence is revealed most directly. Those who follow Jesus carry on his thin-place mission. Thus the church should be a thin place, not only for its members, but also for the people to whom it has been sent.

The author, Mark Roberts, concludes by writing:

If you want to use the thin place metaphor, then perhaps you should say that the purpose of thin places is to help us realize that all places can be thin. Or, better yet, perhaps the purpose of a thin place is to train us to make the other places in our lives thinner. Moreover, when we realize that the Spirit of God dwells within us, we will come to believe that we are called to be thin places, as God makes his presence known through us.

And I am lucky. Perhaps I just need to be paying closer attention to how I’m living my life, since I am so lucky to have my life to live here. Perhaps if I make more effort to be a thin place, I can feel those other thin spaces, too. It evokes the famous Gandhi quote: “Be the change that you wish to see in the world.” I will be the friend to others that I wish I could still be to Kathy. 

I still miss you, Kathy. Every day. 

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Four Horses

Nearly every day, I drive past a meadow where four elderly horses live.

Rain or shine, snow or fog, the horses are always somewhere in that meadow. I’ve spotted them through my car’s headlights at night, and I’ve seen them through the mists of dawn. In the winter, I see them standing stoically in the cold, even when the snowflakes swirl around them. In the summer, my view of them is slightly hazy, as the field is covered in yellow wildflowers, lending a soft warm glow to the meadow. I presume that they go inside their barn sometimes, but I couldn’t tell you when. 

When I first moved here (almost exactly six years ago–happy anniversary to me!) to Nashville, six horses grazed in the meadow: three white and three brown, like a matched set of children’s toy horses.  With swayed backs and the outline of ribs beginning to poke through their sides, their best days and years were behind them. They truly were horses that had been put out to pasture. 

My toddler son and I started greeting them with a cheery “Hi, Horses!” every time we drove by the field. We still do. We look for them every time we drive by, and I feel like I’ve forgotten to do something important if I don’t say hello to them. Not that they can hear us, but for some reason, it matters to me.

Over the years, two of the horses died. I spotted one of the white horses lying down in the field–not altogether unusual, but this time, there were people out in the field around the horse, not just the other horses. The white horse was taken away, and then there were five. Later, one of the brown horses passed away, but I don’t know how or when, exactly. I just noticed that there were only four horses: two white and two brown. Like a children’s playset…but smaller. 

 

When the entire area that included their meadow flooded during Nashville’s epic 2010 flood, I worried about them. Were they all okay? Had their owners rescued them in time, before the waters covered their field? Where were they? Would they be back? Would they even be able to return to their field? 

The floodwaters receded. Soon, the horses were back from where ever they’d gone. The yellow wildflowers bloomed again. My younger son learned to say “Hi Horses!” from his carseat behind the driver’s seat. 

And yet, I’ve never once pulled over and parked my car in the driveway near the meadow. I’ve never once gotten out to go see the horses up close. I don’t even know their names. They’re just part of my landscape, and I expect them to be there.

How many things in our lives do we take for granted because they’re always there–or always seem to be there? How many things are we missing out on because we believe they’ll always be there? If I’ve never stopped to visit these horses that I claim to worry about so much, what else am I also taking for granted? 

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