Sweet Girl

For the third day in a row, it’s pouring. My grumpy donkeys huddle together in the barn as the rain batters the tin roof so loud that it rattles my bones—it must be deafening to their large ears. After piling their feeders with extra hay in lieu of typical grazing time, I pull the hood of my rain coat over my head and slide the barn door shut behind me. Like a million pellet guns, the drops strike my whole body.

The ducks scatter around the yard, rain wicking from their slick feathers. Like children in a ball pit, they bounce and play gleefully in the growing muddy puddles. The chickens on the other hand, band together in one of their coop’s nesting boxes even grumpier than the donkeys—wide, feathery, pissed off floofs. I make sure they’ve got dry food, then check to make sure none of my little infant plants are flooded, and finally check on the part of the fence that leans too far when the ground is soft and the wind is harsh before finally seeking refuge on the porch. Like a dog after a bath, I shake as much water off myself as I can. To nearly the top of my rubber boots, mud goops like raw brownie batter so I sit down on an empty milk crate — (a milk crate that I’ve had forever, although I’m not sure where it came from?) — and slide them off with a suctiony, slurpy sound. Even my socks are soaked. 

It’s too early for us to have rain this heavy and consistent, right? These are the kinds of showers that roll through with fury in the springtime. Then again, we’ve hardly had a winter down here—a single hard freeze and only 2 or 3 light ones. The summer will be a bug nightmare. This is the year I should build a bat house. Maybe today is the day I need to build a bat house. I should build my bat house. 

*Sigh* I forgot to bring towels outside with me before my morning critter-care chores and so until I’m not dripping, I’ll stay seated on the milk crate. A shiver runs down my spine and echoes through my limbs. It’s cold. Cold for East Texas, at least. Low 40s and wet. I briefly consider wrapping the grill cover around me but that’s also where I’ve seen not one, not two, but three different black widows over the past year. So nevermind. I guess black widows prefer their meals grilled?

The cold scurries up and down my spine like a mouse whose chilly feet tick-tick-tick in my limbs. The shivers follow the rhythm of my heartbeat: pangs like beating drums ripple back and forth…back and forth. A puddle of my dripping self has formed around the milk crate below me—its rounded edges creep outward with every drop, latching onto stray bits of mulch, dirt, and bird shit. The puddle grows and grows swallowing all the grit around me, the mucky water now littered with specs of dirty farm junk. 

The temperature’s become painful in it’s dampened strength and at this point, has swallowed me whole. It would make sense to end this torture by going inside regardless of the dripping, but I’ve become completely enamored with this slowly expanding pool. It just keeps growing. Of course I could end its growth at any time, I am in complete control of this particular puddle’s fate. Subsequently, I am in complete control of the fate of all the bits of ground stuffs that one by one are being sucked into the edges and then belly of the beast.

It grows and it grows and it grows because I’m allowing it to. I’m invested now. If I were to move, I’d step in it, break it, free the yucky stuff, and proceed on with my day as if this thing I’ve created never existed and then what would all the effort of sitting out here in the cold, shaking and quivering, be for? This is time I’ll never regain, a scene I could never recreate, and why? Why would I leave? For my own self-care?

For my own self-care?

My own self-care?

Self-care?

Carefully, I stand. I step delicately over the puddle which recoils a bit and as I walk towards the door, a trail of splats follows me. My wet socks leave footprints across the cement and even after I strip myself completely down and wrap up in a thick blanket, some remnants of the dampness is with me. Even now, in the softness of my blanket, my toes and fingers are pruned and my guts still shiver. I pull the blanket tighter and wrap my arms around myself. Relax. Try to relax. Let your eyes sink back in their sockets. 

Sweet girl, it’s okay. It’s okay. Come here, it’s okay. 

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Follow the Cardinal

“Afterall, if you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.”

A Donkumentary

It’s colder than Narnia out there, y’all.

I’m looking out the back window at the small patches of snow hiding in the shadows of my backyard when down from the bony trees, a bright, red cardinal descends. He lands in the damp leaves and hops about, cocking his head side to side. He bounces with authority as if he knows precisely where he’s going on this cold day. I scramble to find my camera but manage only to snap a few, blurry photos of a red smudge. I wonder if he’s leading me to something like the robin leading Mary to her Secret Garden? I decide to bundle myself and go out to follow the bird.

Last week, I started re-reading The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett for the first time since I was in middle school. I remember, as a pre-teen, enjoying the book, although my memory…

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The Second!

Greetings and happy completed rotation around the sun! As we start the next lap of this bizarre, aging, linear (but also cyclical?) journey called life, I’d like to take a moment to say how deeply grateful I am to still be on this wild ride even if there have been scary, upside-down loops, the kind of drops where your stomach lurches into your chest, and some kid who barfed along the way in just the right spot so that it landed on you in that spiraly section that was previously the one stretch of the dumb coaster you actually enjoyed. God I loathe roller-coasters, but I agreed to go because according to my friends and family, I should “try new things and quit being such a grouch about activities that involve bright colors and loud noises.” Fine fine fine…

It’s been a tough year in many ways for all of us, it seems. But hey, this rotation is a new beginning, right? Right? I don’t know. I don’t like to buy into the “New Year, New You!” commercialism campaign that suggests that you’re not good enough so let’s set a date to make you better by buying protein powder and lotion that claims to eliminate cellulite. Of course, if there are things you’re working on to better yourself, your health, your well-being, your ability to connect, your climbing out of the dank, muddy hole that you keep slipping down into, well, hop up on that horse and ride into the new year with great ambition! This blue marble is your oyster, as they say. Giddy-up! Slurp down that raw mollusc and conquer!

I finally caught an oyster that I’ve been searching for for a long time. As y’all know, my first children’s book came out last year and it’s been a hit! I’ve sold more copies than I ever imagined I would and as promised, every bit of profit from those sales has gone to saving donkeys. Like, real life donkeys that need it. Real life donkeys that, no dramatics here, would’ve otherwise died. So thank you. Thank you for your support. Thank you for sharing in my excitement. It means more to me than darn near anything.

But back to that oyster. That beautiful, sparking oyster that has stayed a step (slide? slither? dragged motion?) ahead of me is finally in my hands and I am so proud and excited to announce that my second children’s book is officially on sale! “Will You Be My Val-Equine?” is a children’s book geared towards a little younger of a crowd, ages 2 – 5. It’s a story about a donkey who, in search of someone to be his Valentine, meets many new friends along the way that, although all different on the outside, are strikingly similar on the inside! I am lucky enough to have had the same illustrator, Andy Griffiths, attached to this project who once again, brought this story to life better than I could’ve imagined!

Y’all know I’m a self-admitted Holiday Curmudgeon, but I saw an opportunity to show that yes, we are all different on the outside with our own pasts, personalities, strengths, weaknesses, and histories, but we’re also very similar when you think about it. And just like “Tink the Bravest Donkey,” this book will have 100% of the proceeds go to the non-profit Peaceful Valley Donkey Rescue (recently featured on CNN Heroes!) Right now, we’re running a deal in our whole gift shop where you get 20% off your entire order when you use the promo code 2020. So if you have a Valentine, kiddo, cousin, niece, nephew, grandkid, person you’re trying to impress, or just want to contribute to a great cause with a cute, cute book about oneness, then hop on over to donkeyrescue.com to get your copy!

I appreciate all of y’all. I appreciate all of y’all so, so much. If you find yourself feeling lonely either in life or just in your mind, try to remember that you’re not. We’re all on team Earth which keeps going, even if she’s feeling tired, sick, or under-appreciated. Happy New Year. Let’s keep making it better.

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‘Twas the Night Before Donkmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Some small creature was stirring; could it be a mouse?
There weren’t any stockings because I don’t care:
Festive decor is not quite my affair.

Two dogs were sprawled out all across the big couch
While I couldn’t sleep, which made me a grouch.
I wandered the room in my oversized pants
Quite pleased with the growth of my little houseplants.

When out towards the barn there arose such a clatter,
No doubt, all my critters just wanting to chatter.
Though quite cold out there, I can never resist
Three fuzzy snouts that might need to be kissed.

I pulled on my boots and my rainbow knit hat
(‘Cause really I love a midnight donkey chat.)
When what to my wondering eyes should appear:
But a burst of bright feathers with squawking and fear.

On no! A trash panda with scurrying legs,
I knew in a moment, he’s after them eggs.
More rapid than eagles I flew ‘cross the grass,
“Git git, you racoon, and your big furry @$$!”

He scrambled then two more ran into the woods
As I ran to check on my avian’s goods.
“Now ParmParm, now Gene, and Ron Swanson, you too,
And Dorothy and Pat: thank God you all flew.”

I checked in the box and thank goodness still there:
Were two tiny eggs leaned together with care.
I shuffled the birds right back into their coop
And sang them a song to help them regroup.

Of course all the noise would wake up my three donks,
For just then I heard a loud chorus of honks.
I bid sweet goodnight to my wee sleepy flock
And walked to the barn saying, “yoo-hoo, knock knock!”

Their eyes – how they twinkled! Their ears oh-so merry,
Such kissable noses (despite being hairy.)
They spoke not a word, my darling donks, three:
Bodhi and Bunny and last, Little Tee.

My face super cold, and nose surely rosy,
I stepped in the stall where it was real cozy.
There in that space, being watched by the moon
I (per my usual) hummed them a tune.

I s’posed it was time to try for some sleep,
So I whispered, “Y’all are each other’s to keep–
‘Till later when it’s just a little bit bright.
Merry Christmas to y’all, and to y’all a good night.”

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Whatever this season means for you, I hope it brings you peace. Take care, y’all. – Jess

Time for Silence

make sure to tend to your sweet hearts this season.

A Donkumentary

I realize I’ve fallen into this habit of beginning my blog posts by describing something that I’m up to when my thoughts begin to twirl and tumble around some thing that I’ve been worried about, obsessing over, or working hard to accomplish and I think it’s because I do my best kind of pondering when I’m busy with something. Moving meditation, perhaps. Or maybe it’s because I am able to occupy some of the busier parts of my brain with a task, thus allowing room for the deeper, more thoughtful areas of my mind to stretch their limbs a little.

But as you may have read in one of my recent posts, ‘Magic Eye,’ things have been moving pretty fast around here lately and I suspect that the entirety of my conscious mind (even those deeper and more contemplative areas) are in a constant state of “all hands…

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sit

you want to
perch upon that
branch

the one which
overlooks the meadow
where even when it

rains, rabbits skip
between flowers,
unbothered

but to rest
to observe means
stillness silence

steadiness

you can’t grip
the mug between
your hands

without spilling over
the edges shaking
unconscious

unconscious

so sit.

sit with it.
sit with it.
sit with it.

spilling, splashing,
spinning, sit.

sit with it.

the meadow will wait

Magic Eye

A year forward and still no decipherable image. The colors and shapes keep shifting (some bright, some dark, some which make no sense) so I suppose a continuing gaze isn’t a waste.

A Donkumentary

It’s dawn. Somewhere behind the trees, the sun is shifting, although the sky is still holding onto a few bright stars in her darkness not yet touched by the waking light. I’ve slipped my boots on over my flannel jammie pants and am pulling my hoodie over my head. It’s in the 30’s out there which, for us native Texans with thin blood, is brutal. The dogs scatter around my feet with their tails wagging and claws scratching the tile floor: they’re ready to run around in the cold and to chase squirrels or rabbits who often explore the yard in the wee hours.  

I open the back door, the cold scratching my face, as the dogs sprint past me and out of sight. I cinch the hood around my face as I walk towards the barn, leaves crunching beneath my boots. The donkeys know I’m coming: Bunny begins…

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