Good News and Bad

The bad news is that I fell in the mud.

The good news is that the mud was soft, and I was able to extricate myself and get back up.

The bad news is that the mud sucked a boot off my foot and I could not pull it out. The more I tugged, the more firmly the boot was planted in the mud.

The good news then was that this could be a lesson in cutting one's losses. I abandoned the boot that was mired in the mud and figured that future archaeologists would discover it and learn a little about the lives of stupid privileged white people who go traipsing around in nature after an epic storm.

And I turned around, back in the direction of home.

I walked a little further in muddy socks carrying the remaining boot, and washed my feet off in the creek, then went barefoot for a while and discovered that when your feet are numb with cold creek water, they don't hurt as much.  And here I was, wobbly but still upright, out in the world.

Maybe it’s all a matter of perspective.

I saw a pickup truck ahead of me. Three men had gotten out and were clearing another pile of brush, debris, and mud, that was blocking their path. I guess I was a comical apparition, shambling along, mud-splattered, and they were surprised to see me. They asked if I was all right, and I told them I was just a stupid old woman who had fallen in the mud, lost a boot, and was making my way back home. They were very sympathetic and told me not to say bad things about myself. One of them held a hand to his lips and waved it like a kiss, saying something in Spanish. It felt like a traveler’s blessing.

I walked a little further, and there was a large bull in my path. One of the ranch security guards, J., was driving alongside the bull; he pulled his vehicle over to give me room to pass without having to get too close to the bull. I appreciated that––it’s best to avoid bull-human interactions whenever possible.

J. told me he was out looking for idiots. I told him he had just found his first one.

"Well, you look like you're gonna make it. This isn’t your first rodeo. Have you seen a white pickup truck with red plates?"

I said that I had.

"They're not supposed to be out there," he said.

I told him they were very kind and I hoped he would be nice to them. Then I continued the slog back to my gate, stepping carefully through the current of Sacate Creek, which was still running fast along the concrete crossing and spilling down like a waterfall.

I heard beeps and shouts coming from the road behind me, and I turned around to see the white truck and the security vehicle. One of the men climbed out of the white truck, and with an aura of victory and pride, held up my missing boot!

There are stories everywhere. If you look hard, you might see a broken fence in the water, or a piece of pipe, remnants of projects meant to tame and channel the powers that reign. There are heaps of branches and broken trees, hillsides sliding, and everything dripping and sparkling, ephemeral and lovely. The lashing of rain against windows, the trembling of trees, the raucousness and ferocity—it’s all for the moment somewhat subdued. There was bird song in the morning, and a glorious orange dawn, and the persistent little hummingbirds are back at the honeysuckle right now.

Yesterday our young neighbors walked over and knocked at our door, muddy and laughing, carrying a sack of chanterelles, and I remembered that I have a beautiful community of friends worth my focus and love. We gathered oranges and grapefruit and we’re making fresh-squeezed juice.

The bad news is that I’m old and tired and faraway from some of the people I love most. The good news is I’m here, near some of the people I love most, and it’s home, and the mud was soft and I got back up.