Grasslands and Wild Grapes
It’s the Sunday after this past Saturday’s big wind. You know the wind we’ll hold in conversation for awhile. Despite clear skies and long shadows from the walnut trees, the early day breeze has not quite settled. The rage that ripped across the lake from the sou’west last night is not fully quieted. I can feel it. It seems yet agitated with a burr on its ass is best way to put it. Like it hasn’t had its last say and appears to have invited a streak of a steel cold breeze down from the northern shield to commiserate with it.
Beaubien, Conrad. Donkeys Blue. Graphite on Paper. 2021.
I make my way along the tilt of land that takes me to the paddock at the base and where friends await. I find I carry the scent of lanolin, an antidote to the bracing morning; it comes from the heavy wool sweater I wear. Knit in Newfoundland with yarn spun in a century old mill at York River, New Brunswick there is an earthiness to the sweater that threads with the day. The grain of the soil, the hearty surrounding flatlands and hills are much like raw fleece that the wintering coats of the Alpaca herd of ninety have on their backs. The herd stay tucked into warmer surrounds of the tall barn just over there.
It’s when I reach the green steel paddock gate that the analogy becomes obvious. The paysage, my sweater, the lyric of rugged coastlines and riff of salt water, the thickening coat of hair and mane announces Micah, the sound Fiord horse who is first to come and greet me. Micah likes the scent of my sweater, my beard, my face as his nostrils troll about my checks and forehead taking in the DNA smells of familiarity. In return, I put my face to his in recognition like old friends greeting one another on some far shoreline. If there was anxiety in the air as I found my way to this spot, it has now adjourned elsewhere.
Say, look over there, two donkeys unmoving and unmoved by the ritual of a horse and man meet-and-greet. The donkeys are tucked against the bramble of shrub, of windbreak woven of tall grass and thistle and wild grapevine that frames the paddock. Joe, his tea stain palette-mix of coat with winter fat already collecting like rolls of muscle along each side of his neck. Then, Thunder, my tender donkey friend Thunder. He also turns his head yet both donkeys are motionless, expressionless, and just happy to be in the warming sun and away from the bite of arctic air. I call to them. Minor response, they are seemingly unbothered. If I had carrots to offer I’m quite sure there would be a change of action yet I deliberately chose not to bring treats every time. My hope is to build a relationship on trust and companionship. I mean, the world is not set up to offer a carrot for every motivation.
Micah shadows me, his nose over my right shoulder as I walk toward the far edge of paddock. At last, I am acknowledged as the animals gather and wanting to huddle, my sweater and I devoured in nature’s soul married with the soul of humankind. It’s all here, donkeys of an ancient text; Nordic horse and I bound up in the mystery of spirit creation that is in every living thing. It’s that mystery that I cling to, venture towards, want to learn from and understand. It’s a peace of heart the animals offer if we let them.
Thunder and I are preparing for a new series of walks here in the County. We hope you will join us as we walk in the winter months when everyone is tested against darkness and cold. Thunder and I like to think that sharing time along a trail works like the antidote of lanolin in wool. It has a warming effect, something of a raw collective spirit as we begin our first of walks this coming Sunday along the Millennium Trail through Wellington. Please see the details in the announcement posted in this edition of the Times or check in with the contacts below. Thunder and I will look forward to greeting you.
info@walkingwithThunder.com Winter Solstice Lantern Walk
Published in the Wellington Times, December 15, 2021
