palace of winds

God I miss having a horse. I dream of nothing else now. Last night I was aboard a smallish liver chestnut (a sign, perhaps?), in the middle of a vast field: rows and rows of gleaming green cornstalks, with narrow mowed grass corridors threading through. I leaned forward, eased my hands up his neck, and we flew.

I had one out on trial last week. He was perfect - perfect! Everett, reimagined as a Thoroughbred. And he failed the vet check, miserably. I’m so disheartened by this whole shopping process. It’s silly how bad I feel, particularly after coming through a really rotten summer and fall still cheerful, feeling blessed by life, sickeningly overjoyed to get out of bed most mornings. And now — I don’t know. I’m desperately unhappy with the whole horse situation. I just need patience, I know. A little patience.

At least I’m surrounded by wonderful people: a lovely boyfriend, impossibly generous friends, sweet coworkers. I surely wouldn’t be surviving half so well without them.

I’m in my parents’ entryway. Light is streaming in through the window in their old front door, and the bell rings. The door swings open and standing there, impossibly tall and slim, young, glowing, is my grandmother. It can’t be her, of course; she’s dead; but it is. Unmistakeably.

I stare, openmouthed, silent. She looks at me for a moment then turns. She casts a glance over her shoulder as she steps down to the driveway. Out there everything is the warmest, clearest, softest of summer afternoon light. I call, frantically, for my mom. I look away just for an instant, up the inside stairs to the living room, and when I look back my grandma is gone. When my mom gets down to the entryway I am sobbing. I don’t know it’s a dream and I can’t understand what’s happening, can’t make any sense of it.

I wake confused, breathless.

I miss her.

I need to get back in the swing of writing.

This last month has been a bit of an odd one. Plenty of good stuff, and plenty of melancholy — particularly the arrest, the shooting. A lot of things I haven’t really felt like writing about.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Iron & Wine this week. Can’t imagine life without “Flightless Bird, American Mouth” and “Resurrection Fern.” And have I mentioned yet how much I like U2’s new album? “Get On Your Boots” is my cross-country song for this summer. I need to get out and rock at least enough jumps to put together an Everett video to that song: one of my two summer goals.

This month spring’s making an effort, putting in shy little appearances. A week of sun and 40’s, 50’s — then stretches of rain, and today snow. Nothing for it, though.

Last night I dreamt about being on Survivor. We weren’t in the wild, though — all us contestants were just leaving a county fair, meandering back to the minivan that would take us to the next part of the competition. I was the second to arrive, after a jolly heavyset middle-aged man, someone who might be a mall Santa come December. He had already climbed into the first row of bench seats. Jeff Probst was in the driver’s seat, turned toward a stack of papers and his laptop piled on the passenger’s side. The van doors were all open, a summer breeze moving through, and I leaned in the side doorway, chatting with Jeff. I woke contented, loving what a nice, friendly guy he is, that dimpled smile. Guess I have a thing for dimples lately.

A few days ago I dream myself crouched at the open door of an airplane, falling forward into the bright blue rush of air below. I sink down, and after several moments remember that I will need, at some point, to pull my parachute. I slide my hands up along the harness straps on my shoulders, musing that I really should have reviewed this before my first solo jump: where the handle is that I’ll need to pull, when to pull it. I am not, I realize, wearing any kind of altimeter — wouldn’t know how to read it even if I were. I’m not concerned about any of this, though. I am unaccountably happy.

I dream all in fires lately, in lost friends found, children to rescue.

Last night my cat was there, curled casually in an armchair under a pool of sunlight, and I didn’t remember until minutes after I woke that he’s dead, has been for a while, and the heartbreak is that I took no special note of him while I could, no extra time; I didn’t realize until it was too late.

Last week I dreamt of an old friend, someone I haven’t talked to in months, someone I probably lost years ago. We quarreled, and I woke weeping. I remember my dreams often, carry the texture of them whole into my waking life — sights, sounds, feelings, sometimes the most vivid sensations of touch — but there’s only one other time I can recall physically reacting to one: nearly two years ago, when I woke up laughing. Of the two I’d much prefer laughter, thanks.

Last week I got a new saddle! I’ve been half thinking about it for ages now — my old saddle really wasn’t suited to me or Everett: too wide for him, flap not long or forward enough for me (the flap’s the part under your thigh/knee — or it’s supposed to be under your knee, anyway, which wasn’t the case with my old saddle when I shortened the stirrups for jumping). So I tried a couple of my friends’ saddles for fit, to see what I liked, and just started chatting with people about it. Two of my barn buddies swear by Bevals, and lo and behold a woman out at the barn had one, with a long flap!, for sale.

Sunday I had a jumping lesson — Everett’s finally sound on that right hind that’s been sore the last few weeks. We did a baby course, and he was So. Good. Amazingly good. I loved him, loved the saddle, loved the lesson. I left feeling uplifted, hopeful, believing again that we might one day be eventers.

Yesterday it was gloriously warm — just above freezing when I left work, the sun out. I rushed to the barn, tacked up in record time (I’m notoriously slow getting ready), then hopped on and went up the road. I’ve only had Ev up the road once before on his own, and it’s been a looong time since we’ve ridden outside at all. He was pretty relaxed down the long driveway, but once we got to the turn onto Kuntz, he was on high alert. We tip-toed up to the Luce Line, stopping a few times to make sure no bushes or distant joggers or mailboxes were going to eat us. He was really tense but he did not spin and bolt at anything, so just beyond the trail crossing I turned and went back. It was a short ride out but it was a ride out! in February! I think lots of little successful solo jaunts will go a long way toward building his confidence. (He’s already very comfortable being out with other horses, but I really don’t want that to be a crutch for us.)

And now this afternoon we are getting lashings of snow, buckets of it, inches stacked on inches, so it will probably be quite a while before we venture out of the arena again. Spring, we wait ready!

Nighttime. I’m walking to visit some friends at their rented house in a crowded college suburb; the whole neighborhood is being struck with the disease (zombie-ism, I suppose, for lack of a better term). Many of the houses I pass have lit windows, music blaring; a few front doors hang open. People stare from front porches and I’m careful to meet no eyes. When I get to my friends’ place they’re talking about it in hushed tones — they’ve all been exposed, and expect to become zombies by the end of the night. Robin is just coming into the living room, walking stiffly.

“You’re shuffling,” I say, pointing to her dragging right foot.

“I am not!” she shoots back, straightening up with effort, placing her feet more deliberately.

“Yes, you are. You’re definitely shambling.” I look closer, inspecting her face. It’s ashen, her pupils ringed faintly with red. The rest of us exchange glances.

The waiting is terrible. We have mac & cheese out of the tiny kitchen, not knowing what else to do. Hoping for a cure, just waiting for the tanks and the sunlight to roll in. We tolerate Robin’s increasing intensity — the feral edge in her looks, her insistence that she isn’t changing — knowing that we are probably just hours behind her.

The night gets deeper. I leave for a while, driving the neighborhood, and return some time later. Everyone except Robin is gone; she corners me in the kitchen, looking manic, eyes gone all red now. She tells me she’s hungry. I tell her she can’t, to remember herself, but yes she can, she says, and she will. She’s advancing on me and I say yes, of course, only she has to finish baking the cookies first. There’s a pan on the counter, a bowl of dough. I need a cookie, I say, and then of course she can eat me, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She reaches for the bowl, and while she is looking away I go for the door. On the way I discover my three-year-old nephew is there, standing alone in the dark living room. I feel a jolt; I can’t tell if his eyes are red, his steps disjointed. I hesitate only a split second, then scoop him up and we are out the door.

“I got better,” he whispers in my ear as I stride down the street, his little arms squeezing around me. I look at him, at his huge brown eyes. I believe him, mostly; I have hope that this is something everyone will recover from on their own. But more importantly I find I don’t care. If he’s lying I’m dead, he’s dead, the wide world into which I’m taking him is doomed. But he’s my little nephew and I keep going on down the street out of town.

Over the crest of the hill in front of us, the first faint flush of morning rises.