water-bugs dancing

Ghosts--they come in all shapes and sizes and forms. This week we discovered the image of a bird on our window.  Our theory is the bird--probably a dove--was fleeing from a hawk and in its panic mistook the reflection of the window for the sky.  The image left on the window is ghostly.  I can see individual feathers.  I can see the eye.  I can see the life and the fear.

Ghost of a bird
Photo by Wes Reid 11/2014

This ghost, this moment, is captured in an image.  Some moments are captured in sounds (those songs from middle school dances take me back every time).  Some moments are captured in taste--chicken soup at Grandma's house. Some moments are captured in smell.

My observations this week seemed to center around smell.   The smoke drifting from the chimney takes me back to backpacking trips--those chilly mornings when I build a fire while Wes is off fishing and Marisa sleeps in the tent (field-notes 11-8-14).  Earlier in the week, I raked leaves and again it was the smell that stood out to me.  I found myself raking the leaves with Megan and Marisa and watching them jump in the leaves, laughing and squirming when the itchy bits of leaves crawl into their clothes (field-notes 11-4-14).  I'm sure the act of raking was, in part, what took me back to those days, but I think the thick, decaying smell made the memory more real.

I'm not sure if everyone is moved by scent, but it seems to be a strong catalyst for me.  I know that when I run down the Sparks Boulevard path past willow bushes and cattails, the smell of the willows takes me back to the ditch banks of my childhood--building forts with my brother and cousins, looking for wild asparagus, watching water-bugs dance on the ditch water.   These smells seem to carry moments from the past that hover over the present, merging the two.

In many ways, I think the past is always hovering waiting to remind us of previous joys, previous sadness, previous life.  In the novel Beloved, one of Toni Morrison's characters, Sethe, is explaining to her daughter, Denver,  that places hold memories, that the past lingers  In the novel, Denver asks Sethe about the past:
                        "If it's still there, waiting, that must mean that nothing ever dies.'
                        Sethe looked right in Denver's face.  'Nothing ever does,' she said" (Morrison 44).

I think the point is that memories have life; they linger like ghosts, and, I believe, there are triggers that evoke those memories--wanted or not.

Morrison, Toni.  Beloved. New York: Vintage, 2004. Print. 

leaning in

the second barrel (actually a traffic cone)
Photo by Wes Reid 10/2014

Ok, well my blog just took a turn (no pun intended).  I spent some time at my parents' ranch and was able to ride my horse, Riley. Riley is actually my dad's horse, but I fell in love with him years ago (like I've loved no other horse), so my dad and I have sort of--without words--agreed Riley is my horse.  Over the years people have offered quite a bit of money hoping to buy Riley, but, well, I guess, my dad loves me as much I love Riley, because he continues to refuse to sell him.

Riley is a registered quarter horse and is quite talented as a roping horse--which makes him valuable. For those of you who don't know what a roping horse is:

from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zqmk-_88wKU

me on Riley, my dad on Biscuit
Photo by Wes Reid 10/2014

So, let's get this straight--Riley can do that; I can't.  I ride for fun, mostly on long quiet rides with my dad who rides his new horse, Biscuit. My dad can rope.  In fact he was a national champion cowboy back in the seventies.  I have, however, in the last couple years, decided I love to barrel race.  I am not fast, but Riley plays along and digs in around the traffic cones that my dad got for me.  Compared to competitive barrel racers, Riley and I move very slowly but the adrenaline and power of the run are exhilarating and I always cross the finish line laughing in pure joy.                                                                                                                                                                                         

coming to the finish
Photo by Wes Reid 10/2014

Well, like I said, I got to spend some time on my horse, and my plan was to blog about how much he loves his after-ride-apple, how he waits for me to return to the barn and would bite my fingers in his joy if I didn't palm the apple, how he gets jealous when I pause to give Biscuit a slice, how his lips smack in joy as he chews. 

Riley eating an apple
Photo by Wes Reid 10/2014

That was my plan.  Then, I got home with my notes and my photos and decided to post several photos on Facebook.  I got one comment that changed my mind about the blog.  A friend posted about my photos, "Courageous (I don't trust horses)."  Honestly, I was a bit shocked by his comment. I know people who don't ride often see horses as big, intimidating creatures, but I never feel any kind of fear when I saddle up Riley.  I don't feel courageous; I feel lucky. 

Then, I began thinking about the parenthetical comment--actually, I couldn't quit thinking about it.  I realized that the key is not only trusting the horse, but also the horse trusting me.  

Riley trusts me; we trust each other.  I'm not sure why--perhaps due to years of consistency and apples and laughs; perhaps due to years of cattle drives and "booney bouncing" (galloping through the sagebrush) and loping in the arena and laughs. As I was thinking about this, the familiar comments about teaching high school started echoing with the comment about Riley. 

Similar to this friend's comment, people often say that teaching high school must be scary, must take courage. I can't count how many times people have asked me, "Aren't you afraid?"  when I tell them I teach at a high school.   And similar to my reaction about courage in riding, I usually am astonished by these questions about teaching.  It does not take courage to teach, but I do think it takes trust--both from me and from my students.  I don't mean that without trust, students are going to attack me with knifes in the hallways or that without trust they are going to...I honestly don't know what people think my students might do to me. 

But, I do think for learning to happen there must be that mutual trust.  Perhaps this trust is built out of weeks of writing and comments and frustration and laughs.  Perhaps this trust is built out of weeks of apologies for misstatements and epiphanies and success and growth and laughs (all of these are hopefully both on my part and my students'). I do know that I trust my students.  Again, when I get ready to go to work, I don't feel courageous; I feel lucky. 

leaning in
Photo by Wes Reid 10/2014