Molting

Post 2
THURSDAY, JANUARY 27, 2013
9 AM

"And now my fur has turned to skin, And I've been quickly ushered in
To a world that, I confess, I do not know..."

This is a bitter exercise. I have stayed closer to the house hoping to be served by the windbreak of wood and siding, the knowledge that a warm room is only yards behind my back. I assume it's well below freezing this morning. My mother and I only rarely reach for the distinction of numbers to tell us exactly our predicament. Occasionally, she will check the weather to see if it will be cold enough for the horses to have their blankets. Most times, we watch the pond and check the faucets at the barn for frozen pipes. Every pump, save the one on the front lawn with its deep buried lines, is holding back its water this morning. I'm sitting behind the house with the barn well behind me, choosing a chair in the shadow of the house rather than being bare in the sun on the open, exposed section of lawn. 

It is a wide stretch of backyard, a foolish name for this expanse of dried grass and margin of trees. Backyard seems like such a suburban distinction, a fenced-in, weed-free enclosure for dogs, plastic swings, and sheds. The only man-made boundary surrounding this wide open part of land is underground, hidden wires to keep our basset hound from following his nose beyond our ability to bring him back. We buried Winston years ago in the trees past the open grass. We imagined he would have brought himself there.

We consider this area the back of the house, but like many, our rear door is our front entrance. The driveway deposits most visitors to the brick walkway that leads along the side of the garage and up to the sliding door into the sunroom. Only true strangers walk up the cement path to the front double doors and the houses's bald face. Back here, there is a lovely crab apple tree splitting the two sections of brick, one leading to the detached carriage house and its apartment, the other to the driveway and side door of the gray blue garage. My mother feeds the birds along these paths, becoming more dedicated to the tossing of seed since two of our best mousers died--Madigan struck by a car last year and Lulu dying of old age just months ago. Just three days ago, I returned home to see three great bucks standing beyond the bricks, interrupted from their forage. I've locked eyes with the deer that roam the property many times and there is always something else in their blackness beyond the fear of prey. They regard me with a curiosity I occasionally recognize in my own eyes. What are you doing here? and What now?

I don't remove my gloves to write, trying to stay protected from the wind that cuts around the house. I have on a shirt, sweater, coat, thick socks, knit boots. I have chosen my fabric walls carefully since I assume being stationary could cause me to freeze. I remember the deer's thick furred throats giving them the necks of body-builders. Their pelage, like a bird's plumage, insulates and identifies them, guards from injury, and conceals them from enemies. This fur naturally protects them from the dropping temperatures while instinct prods them to eat and relocate. Such impulses are often more arbitrary and emotional for me. I have occasionally misjudged the outside temperature and wished for a thicker coat, insulated shoes, gloves. Such regret is never experienced by an animal; their bodies grow what they need as the length of the day dictates, generously and without thanks. There is none of the indecision and conclusion that follows my own processes of dressing for the weather and occasion. What would it be like, I think, to venture outside knowing I was made to be there, just as I am.

I am numbing slowly and cannot bear to write anymore. I check the time, guiltily, and it is passing slowly. I decide to put my notebook and pen down and pull my hands close to my neck, drawing my scarf up over my lips as I often do in winter. I huddle even closer to myself and wait for the sounds and smells that will come with patience. I hear a bird far off in the trees, cheerful even and wonder when they will venture closer to eat. I notice the gentle sway of the bare maple branches far on the edge of the field, peaceful. I see the waves of the yellow grass, their knee high stalks marking the border into the trees, their shaking arms quick like a child's frantic hello. I'm moving less, but am beginning to be filled by an unexplicable warmth, my body more effectively conserving the energy it's producing. I am grateful. I see sunlight spreading beyond the house as the sun continues to rise. I feel a quick urge to leave my seat and endure the wind if only to feel the warmth on my face. I rise and gather what I need to go back where I belong, inside.