I don’t even know where to start. Shit has gotten so
incredibly weird that I feel I’m actually just living a very bad 80s spy
thriller. And I’m not at all optimistic about that happy ending. I sign
petitions and contact my Congress-critters and plan for the next march and try
to comfort my completely freaked out mother and then put on lipstick and go to
work and design software and act like I’m cool and in control. I come home and jog
or take the dogs on really long walks or row on the rowing machine for hours
and sort my closets and cabinets. Sometimes, rarely, I break down and sob. Then
I remind myself that I am a warrior. I pick up my dumbbells and do some curls,
watching my muscles flex. Then I get back to work. It’s the only way I know. It’s
the only way I’ve ever known.
Today I went to the barn for the daily grooming and exercise
of my little rescue horse, Petra. She has arthritis and can’t be ridden, but
she refuses to accept her limitations. Every day when I arrive, she neighs in excitement.
A hug. A thorough grooming. Then I lead her to the round pen for a little
exercise. Today the wind was gusting and she was full of nervous energy. She
ate a few bits of grass, then suddenly dug in her heels, bucked, wheeled, and
ran for the fence, stopping suddenly in front of me, thrusting her nose into my
hands, looking for carrots, then lifting her head to sniff the wind, spinning,
and running another circle. Seeing that it was near feeding time, I clipped her
lead rope to her halter and opened the gate. She surged forward, trying to
pull free. When I held her back, she gave me the side-eye and started running
urgent circles around me on her short lead, snorting with frustration. I let
her gallop around me for a few turns then pulled her in, attempting to comfort
her with a calm touch, but she turned away from me. We walked to the barn, me
holding her back hard, my shoulder in front of hers, pushing into her, pitting
my puny strength against her magnificent muscles. Some days it’s like that.
After
I put her in her stall, I always stop at Big Mac’s stall. He’s a big old ugly
horse, as gentle as a teddy bear. I put my hands on either side of his massive
head and press my face into his. He bows his head and gently nuzzles me. He
always does this. He never has an off day, never has a moment of fear or doubt.
Big Mac is a wonderful horse. But it’s quirky, unpredictable,
fiery, damaged, slightly dangerous Petra that I love. We understand each other.
Even when she infuriates me, I end each visit with a gentle touch and the
spoken promise that no one will ever hurt her again, that she is safe forever
in my care.
In a world that feels increasingly dangerous, I’m no longer
able to make that same promise to my own children. All of my strength is not
enough to hold back the tide of fascism and self-destruction that is sweeping
our country and our planet. Like Petra, I sniff the wind and rear back against
the ropes, muscles trembling with helpless suppressed energy. Someone once beat
her for that fiery spirit. They damaged her but they didn’t break her, and they
won’t break me either.
