The Sagebrush Sea

Ramblings from a Cowboy-Girl.

Page 2 of 29

We’re Buying a House

We’re buying a house.

I’ve been repeating this statement to myself with some disbelief these past few weeks.  We’re buying a house.  We are buying a house.  It isn’t an uncommon life choice, but it seems such a conventional life choice.   I’ve not been known for conventional life choices, I married a cowboy.  I married a cowboy and in doing so freed myself from modern convention pursuing the flavor of gypsy life.  We’ve enjoyed moving around the West.   With every move,  we’ve become familiar with new landscapes, we’ve learned about ourselves and our relationship.  I worry that I will become complacent in my personal growth, if I’m not faced with the challenge of exploring and starting over somewhere new.

My heart vacillates between a desire for roots, a place for the simple luxury of a flower-filled vase, and the burning desire of ditching all my belongings (but a few precious books) traveling the world, living out of a suitcase.  So, believe me when I say I can’t believe we are buying a house.

We have been involved  in the home buying process for a few weeks, I’ve come to believe that like grieving the home buying process has distinct stages.  Stage One, is giddy enthusiasm.  There is some much possibility on the horizon.  After paging through realty flyers and visiting home after home, Stage One slides quickly into the depression that defines Stage Two.  The search begins to feel endless, and you become disheartened.  None of the houses, feel like home.

Then all of the sudden, one does.  Stage Three, you walk in the door and your struck by an intangible sense of belonging.  Perhaps it is the abundance of natural light, the floor plan, or a minor architectural detail but something just feels right, this is “The” house.  So you make an offer, which leads you to Stage Four.

Offer, counter offer, counter-counter offer, counter-counter-counter offer, and so it goes.  By the time an agreement is reached, you’re so fatigued by the process that you’re not certain you really want the property anymore.  Stage Five commences with more paperwork, T’s must be crossed and I’s must be dotted as you leap through the hoops necessitated by the loan process.

This is where we’re at in our home buying process.  Tentatively excited about the prospect of being a home owner, but also terrified.  This is it, we’re turning in our Non-pro cards and becoming Adults, with a capital A.  Owning a home will temper our gypsy ways.  But I know, my husband and I strive to be deliberate in our choices, and our lifestyle will adapt but our priorities will remain the same.  Rather than packing our worldly goods in a horse trailer and hitting the road every few years, we will seek growth under one roof; exploring our values rather than new landscapes.

Everybody Loves a Roan

A few years ago, I was relaxing in the bleachers at a rodeo, while a weirdo friend braided my hair.  “You’re going roan! I like it.”  Roan, the  sprinkle of white hairs, is such desirable coat pattern in horses.  Women. . .I’m not so sure.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, timeout!” scream the glossy magazines and media.  Their not-so subtle subtext:  aging is shameful and grey hair is is to be covered.   Though everybody loves a roan, I began dying my hair shortly after the bleacher observation.   For frugality’s sake, I’ve declined to dye my hair for over a year, but my occasional discomfort with my current appearance has me questioning my cheap little heart.  To dye or not to dye?   Perhaps, I should just avoid mirrors and surround myself with other roans.

I was 17-years-old, when I spotted my first grey hair.  “Oh no, I’m becoming my mother!”  Horrified, I quickly plucked it from my head.  My mother wore her hair confidently in it’s natural salt-and-pepper state.   My  self-conscious, teenage insecurity took her appearance as a personal affront.  “Why would she choose to look so OLD?” whispered the little voice in the back of my head.  Apart from my mother, not many women were openly embracing the changes fueled by  stress, genetics, and time.  Aside from Mom’s personal, spiritual inspiration country singer Emmylou Harris, I was not aware of public figures embracing natural greying.

Fast forward a few years, I am nearly the age my mother was when my teenage-self believed her ancient.  As, my own dark hair is rapidly becoming sprinkled with grey, I admire my mother’s choice more.  Despite the mature appearance of the likeness in the mirror, I feel only slightly more adult than that girl who plucked that first alien hair so many years ago.  I’ve been under the mistaken impression that life would make more sense, as my appearance became more “dignified.”    How do you know when you are adult enough?  Grey hair clearly isn’t the answer  I’ve been looking for.  I can’t seem to find an “adultier” adult to soothe my anxiety.

Wiry greys sprout from my head like tiny alien antennas, defying the straight brown hair I’ve identified with for so long.  I used to scoff at women whose hairstyles never changed, snorting to myself, “My hair is not my identity, who I am is bigger than my appearance.”  Yet my own hair turns, and I am struggling with leaning into the discomfort of my changing appearance.  One thing is certain, I’d much rather surround myself with roan ponies, than have a roan ponytail.

 

Just a Cow

“If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.”
― James Herriot, All Creatures Great and Small

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My Best Friend

The past two years have flown by, there was a time that my dog friend’s name was as fitting as could be.  Mouse was the runt of an unplanned litter out of an Airedale/Border Collie female and my husband’s good Kelpie.  She is a devoted companion, an enthusiastic (if not helpful) cowdog, door opening and chair hogging nuisance, who brings a smile to my face everyday.  I can’t imagine life without a canine confidant.

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