Sometimes it’s a man calling a feral cat. “Fritz!” Wait a beat, “Fritz!” for ten minutes or so. One night it is a different male voice a little further down the road shouting something unintelligible and later, a barking dog. Two plus two says he was calling the dog, found it, and hooked it up to the yard tether.

On another night, I am alarmed by something rustling fiercely among the big fig leaves outside our bedroom. I pat Bob’s arm, but he is deeply asleep and does not wake.

In the morning, I tell him I heard something as big as a bear in the fig tree, but we agree it was probably a trash panda or a deer. Then I fold myself into his shape and we lay, warm beneath the covers, breathing cool morning air, thinking about nothing but the feel of our bodies.

We are both a part of and impartial to the world around us. We are elements within a greater context, like a crossed “t” on a handwritten page, one letter out of many, isolated components of a greater whole.

Later, I look for ripe figs but find only remnants.

The next morning, I pull on a sweatshirt and take my half cup of decaf to the back porch to welcome the day. The high whine of a motorcycle traveling way faster than the 45-mile-per-hour limit obliterates the morning stillness. I stiffen against the sound, thinking, That guy is gonna end up killing someone, but by the time I settle into my rocking chair, his noise is a distant buzz.

It was just a sound, I tell myself. Not to be judged or reacted to, but noticed and dismissed along with everything else. Along with the baby bird chirps, the damp railings, and the little squirrel giving me side takes from a crepe myrtle. Perhaps the squirrel is deciding whether to react to my movements or dismiss me.

As a child, I learned to use a critical eye while watching my brothers play. My mother dubbed me “her centurion,” her guard in the doorway ready to sound an alert should kids’ play turn dangerous as it often did. Those boys. Playing wilder and rougher until someone got hurt. I leaned into her praise, embracing my role with relish. I would catch the mayhem in its first syllable before anyone got hurt.

In my thirties, I sought professional help. I would sit with a compassionate woman in her intentionally unremarkable therapy room and talk about my problems and my dreams. She taught me, among other things, the difference between observation and judgment, and I vowed to, one day, completely shed my sentry cape. So this has been my life’s work: to detach. To sense, accept, and be at peace with everything the world sends my way.

I look up and the squirrel is gone.

Here is a short list of things I have learned:

First decade, birth through 9 – Bodily Functions
I learned to walk and move my body without smashing into things, to ride a bike without holding on, to sit in balance atop a horse, to swim in the salty waters surrounding City Island, to write, and to read about Lassie, the Black Stallion, and the holy martyrs who willingly allowed others to violate their bodies.

Second decade, 10 through 19 – Independence
I learned to change a diaper, look after my little brothers, hitchhike, clean up my room and paint the walls, run away from home and return with my tail between my legs, make pancakes, body surf, pass a blastocyst, go to the hospital, leave home, drink a pint of scotch in one sitting, get a job and then another and another, and rent an apartment.

Third Decade, 20 through 29 – Healing
I learned what it feels like to get your head shrunk, to dry out, wait tables, drive a car across country and back, and start thinking of others. I began amassing a tool kit of coping strategies for living without fear, pain, or avoidance. I learned to laugh and help others see the funny.

Fourth Decade, 30 through 39 – Consequences
I learned about marriage and how one shouldn’t take it lightly and marry the wrong person but most of us do anyhow and have to get divorced. I learned to pay attention to my body and feed it with exercise. I started jogging, then learned to stretch first after getting plantar fasciitis. I learned how to start a business and later, why owning a business is not for me.

Fifth Decade, 40 through 49 – Enlightenment
I learned about life after divorce, how to recognize my soul mate, about true love, second chances, following my heart, sharing a life, shaping a life, and how it feels to live off the grid in a developing country.

Sixth Decade, 50 through 59 – Maturity
I learned about forgiveness, how to connect with my parents, nurture a marriage, feed family connections, move and settle down, move and settle down, give everything my all, stay committed, and be kind.

Seventh Decade, 60 through 69 – Self Care
I learned to say no, slow down, ask for help, take it easy, make French Onion Soup, self-publish, learn from others, take nothing for granted, and focus on the people who bring me joy.

Many of you have learned these lessons and more. Perhaps you know how to make a Souffle, or knit a sweater, or not use swear words in front of decent folk. Like you, I am still learning and like you, I did not learn these things without help.

My father nurtured my intellectual curiosity, my mother took me into the water, held my hands, and told me to kick, my grandmothers gave me unconditional love and cookies, my brothers taught me to be gentle, my friends helped me listen and learn, and my husband, Bob, proved to me the power of hope over experience.

Once upon a time, a child was born into an imperfect family in an imperfect world and spent their entire life trying and failing to be perfect. Amen

Once upon a time, there was an imperfect child who grew into an imperfect man who went on T.V. and told millions of children that he loved them just the way they were. Merry Christmas!

I had not seen Allen’s daughter, Olivia, in years but remembered her as a respectful, intellectually-curious young lady. And now she was a grown-up seventeen, ready to take on horse husbandry.

“Are you asking me to go horse shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Count me in!” I said.

It had been six years since I had any meaningful involvement with horses, but this year, I told myself I would get back in the saddle.

So I contacted several riding establishments in February and found only closed doors. None could give me riding lessons regardless of what they had posted on their websites. I gave up.

After a long, dry summer, I decided to resume my search, and now opportunities were raining down.

“Also, would you be willing to give Olivia riding lessons?”

I fumbled a head of cauliflower, just barely catching it before it hit the floor.

“Wow! Yes! I’d love to!”

On the big day, the three of us rolled into Intercoastal to find a diminutive zebra tied to one of two hitching rails, whisking at flies. We blinked. Can this be for real?

The young proprietor, Isaiah Boyd, strode our way in cargo shorts and knee-high muck boots, his blonde hair cut summer short. Allen stepped forward, they shook hands, and Isaiah steered us towards a covered pen with at least thirty horses—mostly drafts—jostling for a turn at the hay feeders. He pulled out a kind-eyed, black draft mare and tied her to the rail.

“Look around,” he said, “I’ll be back,” and went to service a second cluster of soon-to-be horse owners.

I stared up at the mare, her massive neck and withers well above my head. Somewhere on the other side, Allen and Olivia were doing the same. I walked around the back end of the horse to find Allen grinning. “Yeah, this one’s a bit too tall,” he said.

Our criteria were as follows:

• Height: 14.2 to 16 hands (4’10” – 5’4” at the highest point of their back)
• At least one needed to be big enough to carry 200 pounds
• Between 8 and 18 years of age
• Dead broke

When Isaiah returned, he helped us choose a chestnut gelding with a white splash running down his face. “Would you be willing to take him to the barn?” he asked, while he went to catch a palomino mare. I grabbed the halter, breaking the rule about always using a lead rope.

The red gelding was placid and easy to handle, until he spotted the striped alien—the zebra—and then he dragged me in a perfect 180. I hung on, talking nonsense in that soothing tone we horse people all think works, until he calmed down enough for me to coax him over to the other tie rail. Isaiah handed me a lead rope, and I secured the poor fellow, taking note of his dinner-plate-sized feet. Then, with a flourish, Isaiah whisked the zebra away to the other side of the barn.

Later, when I asked Isaiah about the zebra, he said he paid $10,000 for him and regretted the investment. He’d bought him to stimulate sales, but the horses were all wigged out, and he needed to sell the little guy. I was sorely tempted to hand him my American Express card but knew we’d never get the other horses home if we threw that zebra into the trailer.

Indeed, after watching the red horse drag me around, Allen shook his head no when Isaiah asked if he should saddle him up. Next we ruled out the palomino because of her long back, a liability in an animal that carries you on their spine.

Apparently, we were going to be higher maintenance than hoped.

Done with the drafts, we asked if we could shop the large pen of finer-boned animals on the other end of the barn. So we marched through the barn and past the zebra.

Isaiah pointed out the horses that qualified as beginner material, and we huddled a few feet away. “How about those two?” Olivia asked, pointing towards two greys, and as she said this, the horse on the left swiveled his ears forward and began walking straight towards her. “He’s a beginner horse,” said Isaiah, “Should I bring him in?”

In addition to the grey, we picked a fine-boned bay gelding, and when Isaiah went to fetch him, I walked over to pat the zebra. The tiny beast rolled his eyes and lifted his head, mouth opening and closing, but not all the way—clacking— like a foal appealing to the mercy of its elders. A clown, I laughed.

Isaiah saddled the grey, put him through his paces, and invited Olivia to climb on. They looked made for each other. Then he hopped onto the bay bareback and showed us what he could do. Satisfied, Allen pulled out his checkbook and Isaiah loaded them up.

Olivia named the grey Gallen (Gay-lin), and we kept the bay’s given name as Buddy.

I’ve been out to see the four of them several times since, my mulch pile at home, untouched, my kitchen running on fumes. I will bake later, I tell myself, or (gasp) I could swing by the store and pick up a loaf of bread like an ordinary human.

This is once-in-a-lifetime stuff—a fairy tale of wish fulfillment—and I’m not letting wheelbarrow or apron stand between me and my new paddock boots.

Twenty steps, a hundred, and everything disappears—the unfinished bathroom, the circular saw on the front porch, the tile saw in the back yard, and the stacks of tile and grout and lumber. Your new reality becomes a distant memory.

It occurs to you that this is last year all over again, and here you are seeking refuge amid the trees again. Last year they took Bob apart, then put him back together, and finally sent him home to recover inch by slow inch until he could walk to the bathroom unaided.

This year your contractor friend, Trip, and his sidekick, Jerry, opened up your floors and sistered in new lumber to make them well again. They tore everything out of the master bathroom and rebuilt it from the subfloor up. A complete re-do requiring ear protection and thrift store sheets over furniture and daily vacuuming.

The trail you made three years ago hardly needs to be marked any longer. You nudge a toe under a fallen branch and flip it into the tangle. No dusting necessary out here, only flinging. You snap off a leafy limb that might have made you duck. Nothing is going to slow you down. You can smell the water in your mind.

When you reach the creek, you listen to it gurgle for a few seconds before stepping onto the rocks. You choose one in the middle and sit facing upstream. So much lazy water. You wonder when the drops sluicing past your rock fell from the sky and how far they have traveled.

You realize you are looking at the flow of time, and you try to imagine what your life would look like rendered as a creek. All those years funneling towards the trickle beside your outstretched feet. The water talks itself over the little gap and spills past.

You stand, turn, and sit facing the other direction. Now you are looking into the future. Water flowing downstream towards the Cape Fear River basin and out to sea. You see a lot of rocks and not much water and you laugh at the allegory. The life ahead won’t be so wide-open easy. You are slowing down, hurting more, remembering less.

The creek turns and vanishes, refusing to tell you what happens next. You sigh and push your body back to standing. Push past your new creakiness, shake off your lofty musings—the justifications and the doubts—and point yourself towards home.

Leaves dance above your head, and you straighten, lengthen your stride, happy to be part of this day. Just another trickle of time to be savored, then released and sent along its way.

If you enjoy stories about nature and inspiration, please get yourself a copy of “Nature’s Healing Spirit: Real Life Stories to Nurture the Soul.”

Carl lives on a wooded promontory with a view of the flood plain. Mainstay in an ever-changing world, he’s been standing tall for decades. Yesterday I walked the half mile through the woods to spend time with him. I went in the morning before it was hot, armed with a spider stick, and prepared to retreat if accosted by too many black gnats and mosquitoes. But summer storms have reduced the spider webs to bearable, and mosquitoes and gnats were also at a minimum.

My legs are strong and sure on this familiar trail. I hit my stride about five minutes out. I’m drenched in living earth, fragrant with pine needles and leaf mulch. Generations of trees surround me, from tiny sprouts to giant sentinels. The air hums with woodpeckers and cicadas. I swing my head to the left when a squirrel rustles in the undergrowth. Sometimes deer startle me, leaping up and blasting away like gunshots. Once I came across a fox, scratching fleas. Another time, a Barred owl swooped down to take a better look and flew back to its perch to keep an eye on me.
Carl receives me in his reassuringly taciturn way, eyes forward. He reaches out with solid, steady limbs and I feel safe. Without a word, Carl and I are in our happy place once again. He is a beautiful example of his species, an American Beech. Or perhaps he is, as I often joke, a son of a beech. Nature gave Carl markings that resemble a human face on the side facing the stream. He has a jaunty mustache with a twig sprouting from the corner, like a pipe stem or cigarette. This year a praying mantis chose to build an egg case on his cigarette.

Old forest lore referred to the majestic beech as Queen of the forest. Their trunks are smooth and straight, mottled with white and gray spots. They have the peculiarity of retaining their leaves all winter, only losing them when new growth pushes them out. Their leaves provide a spark of ocher in the cold, monochromatic months. Surely this tenacity is one of the things that appeals to me as I walk towards the winter of my life.

The neighbors pooled their resources a couple of months ago to build a cedar bench for my sixty-second birthday. Lyle and Amie loaded it in the tractor bucket and carried it to Carl’s side. Jason and Doug dug holes and sunk the legs into the earth. It is sturdy and wide and smells like my mother’s cedar hope chest.

I climb on and sit, legs dangling. The size of Carl’s bench turns me into a youngster. I lay back and peer up through the understory at the sky. My heart swells and my eyes get moist. Time stops. I’m alone and connected. There is only this moment and this place and yet I’m aware of all the moments of my life. All the good ones, anyway.

I think about my friends who cared enough to add this bench to my favorite spot. I recall our many shared meals, the birthday candles and wishes, and remember delicious Sunday dinners at Nana’s. My thoughts wander forward to our daughter Emily’s wedding and our first glimpse of her baby boy. I think about Bob and how lucky I am to have a partner that gets my twisted sense of humor, and how relieved we both are that he is well and recovering his smile.

I caught part of the TED radio hour the other day. They were talking about aging and time. As we age we become more positive, yet joyful occasions often bring a tear to our eye. We find ourselves experiencing the past, present and future simultaneously. Surely holding our grandson for the first time will trigger a montage of feelings; all the way back to Emily as a tiny girl, and fast forwarding to imagine little Nolan as a grown man.

This is why I visit Carl in his special place. To think, remember, imagine, let go, connect, rejoice and weep. Carl seems to understand, he never questions. He just stands there with his cigarette and looks off across the ages.

(Twenty-year-old me)
So, you’re me in 46 years, eh?

(Sixty-six-year-old me)
Yep

I can almost see me in you.

And me in you. Good lord, you still have baby cheeks!

And you’ve got old lady jowls. Plus, look at your hair!

Hey, I earned these silver tentacles.

You look like Dad.

Fine. So, hey – is there anything you’d like to ask me?

Not really.

Okay, wait – did you find someone you could trust? Someone worth loving?

Boy, did I. Wanna meet him?

Maybe later. Tell me, how did you know he was the one?

Well, he had the look.

What look?

You know, the twinkle in his eye. I could tell he was real smart but didn’t take himself too seriously. Plus he has an irresistibly irreverent presence.

Okay, if you say so. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.

Don’t hold your breath. You’ll be kissing a few frogs. Start looking in about 15 years.

Fifteen years! I have to wait 15 years! I’ll be dead by then.

Oh no you won’t.

So, did you make it to college?

I did. I went and got a two-year degree in Communications. If I had it to do over, I’d have hung in there and gotten a Bachelor’s in Behavioral Science.

How come?

Because I’m fascinated by what makes people tick.

Sure. I already know what makes them tick: hormones and fear.

There’s more, trust me. It gets real wonky. Wait until you get a load of the 45^th president – hoo boy.

But enough of this — there are things I need to tell you.

Why bother? I’ll figure them out eventually.

Well, I’m going to give you the benefit of my wisdom whether you want it or not. Why do you think I came all the way back here?

Ok, shoot. But it’ll be a miracle if I remember anything; I’m high as a kite.

(Laughs) Okay, here’s the main thing: Everything comes and goes.

I already know that. It’s in that song: Everything comes and goes, like my lovers and styles of clothes

You know how your hip hurts all the time?

Do I ever.

It’s not permanent. Your hip will stop hurting one day in your late twenties.

Great!

So don’t go looking for a diagnosis or god-forbid surgery, because it’ll just go away.

I hate doctors.

I know, me too. But here’s the bad news: your other hip will begin hurting in your sixties.

Get out.

Anyway, the next time you feel like killing yourself, give it a few days and it’ll pass like a bad rainstorm.

There’s going to be a next time?

Sure, and hear this — EVERYBODY thinks about it, so you’re not alone.

You’re bringing me down, man.

No, this is GOOD news! I’m trying to tell you this is good news! Don’t I look happy?

Not really. You look old.

Stop . . .

Okay, you look content.

I’ll take that.

So, is that all? Just the Joni Mitchell song? I have that album, by the way.

I know. She’s the best.

Nope, there’s more.

Fine.

You know how you felt when you were five and at Nana’s for the weekend?

Oh yeah. I had everything: the dogs, the woods, my cousins, the clipped lawn, the drawer full of chocolate chip cookies, raspberries and cream, my own little chair and my own little pillow. Yeah, those were super duper weekends.

Well, you can make every day feel like that with a little practice.

How much practice?

Um, thirty years or so?

Get out. That’s enough! I mean it! You aren’t giving me any kind of hope. This is ridiculous.

I’m sorry. You’re right. You’ll just have to get there on your own.

Thanks for nothing.

I love you.

Sure you do.

Okay, one last thing.

Geez!

Don’t lose your sense of humor.

What sense of humor?

Ha ha!

Okay, yeah. That does make sense. Thanks for reminding me. And really — you need to go. See you in forty-six years.

Not if I see you first.

Hah hah!

I don’t feel so smart. While others quip astute remarks, I’m wandering the side tracks, digging into the nuances of what was just said, or wondering why they pronounced that word in that way or trying to picture Aleppo on a map. I miss a lot of conversation in this way.

I think my mother assumes her children are all smarter than she is, just as my brother James believes everyone is older than he is, or how I perceive everyone, nearly everyone, as shorter and younger.

Mom, like me, married a smart man. Men who are quick in their mind, and don’t forget dates and details like we do, or flounder down side roads. Live your life around smarter/taller/older people, and you will feel dumber/shorter/younger. It doesn’t matter how much brighter they are. It can be only a tiny bit.

I saw the horse standing behind the steel panel run outside his stall, watching me approach. With a piercing, steady gaze, he commanded me to look up. I stared at the royal arch of his neck, his alertly pricked ears, and nodded.
Inside the barn, in a chilly, cavernous arena with one whole wall paved in mirrors, my friend was riding her young dressage prospect. The instructor stepped towards me, smiling. “What a magnificent horse,” I said, nodding over my left shoulder. “How tall is he?” She laughed. “Oh, he’s only 16 hands. But he has a big ego.”

And so we perpetuate illusions, fooling both ourselves and others by acting the part of long-held assumptions. Because my mother assumes I’m smarter than she is, she lets me throw my weight around in disrespectful ways. She refuses to argue. Rather than go toe-to-toe, she’ll tell a story, or even break into song as any simple-minded person might do. She knows I don’t mind it when she drifts. I find it charming, and often, we both sing, or laugh about what she thought she heard me say.

Eventually, my mother and I leave the conversation with our world views intact, me feeling smart and well-informed, she thinking about how wonderful it is to sing to her daughter with the high I.Q.

Remembering how I had wrapped my final baby tooth in tissue, I slid my hand beneath the pillow. Usually, it was a coin, occasionally a dollar bill, and once a bar of halvah. I pulled out my prize, sat up and looked at a string of perfect pearls, exquisitely round and unabashedly grown up.

I hurried downstairs and found my Nana. She patted my bed hair, handed me a cup of honeyed coffee and cream, and told me how an oyster takes an intruding bit of grit and surrounds it with soft smoothness to make a pearl. And that it can take years.

Barbara Lorie died on Monday at age 93. I didn’t know her well, but we swam in the same circles, occasionally crossing paths. I would turn a corner and feel the hum, a hive-like buzz that signaled Barbara’s presence. She was charismatic, outspoken, and prone to profanity. Barbara’s “Who are you?” had the disconcerting effect of pushing you off balance while putting you at ease. She was a teacher, a mother, an idealist, a civil rights advocate, and a fundamental force behind the creation of Blue Heron Farm Community.

I stayed up late the night before Barbara’s funeral reading the first chapter of her autobiography. She described her early childhood in an upper-middle-class household supported by nannies, cooks, and gardeners. She loved watching her mother prepare for an evening out by spraying cologne into her handkerchief and draping a strand of pearls around her elegant neck. When Barbara was ten her father died and his funeral drew thousands.

The next morning I pulled on a black dress and noticed Nana’s pearls on top of my dresser. I had dug them out because I’m going to give them to my oldest grandniece. Alanna reminds me of myself in the way she takes responsibility for her younger siblings. Rather than take those pearls to my grave, I want to acknowledge my niece’s sacrifice. I will show her how to scrape her teeth lightly over one. “Does it feel slightly gritty?” I’ll ask, “Like sandpaper?” That’s how you know they are real.

Pearls go great with little black dresses. I would wear them one last time.

Nickolas was directing traffic when I arrived at Blue Heron. Mary drove up at the same time so, we parked and walked into the farm together, past a stunning stained glass blue heron. We joined a stream of people carrying food, some in black, many in bright colors. Who I didn’t know, Mary did. By the time we put our cookie plates in the food tent, we had hugged dozens.

Barbara wanted a raucous send-off, and that is what she got. She rested in her cardboard casket atop a colorful wooden cart while we held hands in a big circle, and then, in her cart, she led the procession to the burial site. The Bulltown Strutters came next, all drums and horns, brassy and Mardi Gras-loud. They were followed by hundreds of mourner-celebrants, some carrying giant Paperhand Puppets, billowy silk banners, and orange and black butterflies. Mary and I waved our butterflies to make their wings open and close.

Our destination was a large meadow with chairs facing a steep-sided red clay hole. A woman handed out programs, someone had put out drinking water, and a big pile of dirt waited on the far edge of the field. I chose a seat close to Lyle, David came and sat on my left, and Arlo—Tami and Lyle’s son—joined us a little later.

Longtime Blue Heron affiliate, Gary, kicked off a parade of tributes with some well-chosen words. Stacey made us laugh with, “I was Barbara’s favorite neighbor.” Tami spoke of their long friendship and said that Barbara was looking forward to seeing Zafer—Tami and Lyle’s other son who we buried with a similar ceremony three years ago. Many spoke about Barbara’s indelible influence, about how her unabashed and forthright manner encouraged them to be themselves. Several young people testified to her profound impact on their lives and one vowed to honor Barbara’s memory by paying it forward.

When it was time to lower Barbara into her grave, I reached for Arlo’s hand and let the tears flow. Home burial is raw and real. There are no buffers. Cemetery staff doesn’t finish the dirty work; it’s up to friends and families with shovels and hoes, in sandals and tennis shoes. As I watched people drop handfuls of peony petals and red clay into that straight-sided hole, I saw her legacy in action.

Here are my takeaways from Barbara’s funeral: Legacies are what happen when we inspire others by being ourselves. All our words and actions leave impressions on those around us. Best be aware of what kinds of seeds you plant. Keep a lid on the weeds. Take your pearls and pay them forward.

I asked the soon-to-be sexagenarian if he had some words of wisdom to share with the younger generation. Sure, he said, and this is what he told me:

1. Life is too short to use crappy soap or bad toilet paper.
2. Being nice to people is easier than the alternative.
3. Keep the tools of your trade sharp.
4. Stay abreast of industry news.
5. Be a good team mate.
6. Don’t get addicted to nicotine.
7. Keep your things in order so your kids don’t have to do it for you.
8. Incrementalism works. Don’t wait until you are overwhelmed by some task; do a little bit along the road so you don’t have to do something Herculean. Take it in small bites.

Enough said. And with that, we walked into the Playa and ordered up some big plates of food. And tequila…