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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Friday, May. 16, 2003 @ 1:09 pm
Slow and Humble
Like slowcooked soda bread
Pace life by, walk, clip, clop
Past stone walled farm houses
And wind twisted oaks
Freckled faces, a wave of the hand
Big Brown Mare canters
Over the seafield.
And the windmills turn beyond.
I am humbled. I sweep the yard, again and even again to please her critical eye. It is never good enough. My hands bleed. At night I can see my breath when we sit around the kitchen table.
What for? Why am I here, doing this work that is so far below me? To learn that no work is below me.
I now crave praise from her, any word of gratitude, and still not one thank you.
I strain further; perhaps I just did not hear her words. And then I see the praise. She trusts me to ride the horses down to the seafield. Then she paired me with Flash, a locomotive of a horse, and told me to gallop him down until he’d had enough. Sand spraying and hooves splashing pounding the beach, his ears pitch forward and he grunts in pleasure.
The saddle feels right again. My hips relax into the leather, and I close my eyes to feel each leg moving independently of the other. 1, 2, 3, 4. The lilt of the walk. The pace of life.
In one week I have honeymooned in a world of slow food and fast jokes. I’ve been surrounded with sheep, peacocks, geese and… people. The rain falls (of course) on the Isle of Green and tonight I fall asleep with an appreciation for the way things used to always be done.
I never planned this to be a vacation, but somewhere along the way this became a higher education more valuable than university ever could have been.