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Blood Offering

Laura WildLeave a comment

In April I was blessed to visit a spiritual home of mine, the forest that was my sanctuary in childhood. I had the appropriated privilege of being stewarded by this land before it was released back into the illusion of private ownership.In the exchange a spell was broken for me, and my relationship toward this earth has been steadily deepening.

Last Spring, Jen and I returned out of devotion, and I was overjoyed to be menstruating and to be able to offer my blood in thanks.Cloven prints in the snow lead us to this alter, where Jen and I used to sit open-mouthed beneath rain drops falling from the cave wall.It’s where I had my first real spa treatment, with masks made of cold mud and the laughter of little girls. Masks that challenged the very idea that we were two and not one.

I might have offered my blood to the same soil if I hadn’t been summoned by an owl feather perched there. The ask was clearly for help revealing a work of art, which arose from the cliff face at the slightest sweep of feather and blood.I was so comforted by the image. It was profound to be witnessed by my familiars, including the other little girl who became my beloved.I reflected on the experience for months, until happily finding myself back in the arms of my sanctuary with Jen earlier this month.

I was curious if rain had washed away our guardian angel, but I laughed when I saw the painting still alive in broad daylight.Not faded in the slightest.It was the sun who mused with my willing form this time, and how profound was the poetry that revealed itself in this ongoing ritual of devotion to earth/self.Interactive art!Shadow or reflection, sprit has everything and nothing to do with me.Take away: don’t let my craving for meaning-making (death work) eclipse the nonsense that begs to co-create art with me (life’s work).

The Full Moon

Laura WildLeave a comment

September 22nd, Two Year Anniversary

It brought so much to fruition.Results of patterns waiting to erupt, Old reconciliations.

The coyotes had a rave.I worried about the dome blowing away.Thunder rang throughout the valley, an unusual delight.Our cannabis turned ripe overnight.

Rarer still, Jen and I are bleeding together on the equinox and our second anniversary.As soon as Jen told me she was bleeding I asked to have some, so I could mix it with mine. I’ve been collecting my blood in a honey jar with amber crystals still clinging. It smells divine.

But upon my request she hesitated, popping a hip like she does when she disagrees. Finally she told me she might share a cup with me, maybe.

I had expected her enthusiastic consent, what an entitlement! In her hesitation I was instantly humbled, and suddenly an elusive part of me was under the spotlight.

I suppose it is rather tasty to nibble on another’s power.

My eager maiden has reveled in moonblood magic for years; this soul has waited eons to play with it again. I’ve mixed it with others, have bathed in it, anointed favorite treasures and cast many impulsive spells. Such unabashed playfulness can be healing.It is new, however, to consider whether this intimate intertwining truly serves me and my relations.

Something about asking Jen to surrender her power to me, even a cupful, is a ritualistic intertwining that I don’t jive with. When it came time to douse our cauldron I didn’t want any of Jen’s blood at all. It was more profound to witness her holding it throughout our ritual, clasped tenderly in her favorite jar.

In hindsight I see I never wanted anything from Jen but to be witnessed by her. I wanted to invite her to share the smell of warm honeyblood with me as it boiled with the embers of our fire.How often that is the case.

Bubbles simmered in a codex of burnt hair and flower petals. The ashes of willowbark, rosemary, and juniper danced in the air. The soot of many relics collected over the past year, traces from old alters, dried herbs, two stellar feathers, all transformed into smoke. A clump of soft fur donated by Nugget the cat, pulled out with a bur, sizzled and sparked.

The shame encrusting figurative moonjars of my grandmothers begins to crumble with Jen’s boundaries. Nobody is entitled to anyone’s magic.Not only is Jen unashamed of her menstrual blood, but she dares to covet it. Well done.

One great honor in my marriage, and there are many, is to be witnessed in my unfolding without interference. Surrendering to my fate alongside another’s separate self-realization is not easy, but Jen teaches me to hear the voices that guide us toward a braver coexistence. Thank you.

Death During a Heat Wave

Laura WildLeave a comment

August 11, 2021

Who am I to say the birds don’t know the forecast, too?

Today a pair of finches are tending their nest in the oak tree. They feed their young as vigilantly as they’ve ever fed themselves, if not more so.

From a swaying nest four tiny heads pop out in tolls of hunger. The parents aren’t far away. The larger of them condescends the other from a high branch as the little one forages on the ground. Then he buzzes up to the nest with a bounty of bug vomit to share. The realest elixir of life.

I’m pretty sure they know how hot it’s going to get, but this is a different kind of knowing than I have. They aren’t suffering yet, and I doubt either parent lost any sleep.That’s not to say they don’t worry, but this is a different kind of worry than I have. We can all learn to dance with death, they tell me. With duty and gentleness and gratitude.

They tell me it’s high time to cultivate a practice of surrender, so fancy. Right now my practice looks kinda like a Shakespearean tragedy, or some other cathartic performance art. It’s okay. I don’t have to be as graceful as the birds are, even though I have considerably less at stake.

Just chill human, they say. I can let go of the idea that I should save the earth, in fact it’s important. She’s not asking for that. I can water my flowers if it makes me feel better, but I know all of their blossoms will fall later today.I’ll water my flowers either to give them a fighting chance or to add dramatic flair to their demise, both respectable choices.

The petals will go, and I get to collect them. An honor and a privilege. I wont interfere with the earth’s own collection of petals, and all of the fledglings that will drop from their nests into her arms this week. I get to witness the unfolding.

Call Me Hagar

Laura Wild1 Comment

It was all night the couple fought, until Abraham emerged hungry from the red tent. His convictions were made of salt; eternally unchanging. The breakfast I prepared him, as fixed as his beliefs, was made of mutton on bone. His wife emerged only after all of the meat was scarfed down, his pink lips as drawn to grease as they were to preaching. Once finished he marched for Bethel with grain to trade for more flesh, Sarah daring to creep from her lair when he was long out of sight. Her ruddy face was caked in brine.

She wasted no time, “Hagar, go wash yourself in the river Jordan. Return to this home in a more godly state.”

Though her eyes never met mine my soul heard bath and refused to dwell on my master’s coldness. The slow river called my name daily, beckoning to me from the groin of the green valley. I longed for its cool embrace more than anything, but Sarah forbid me to answer its call without her permission. Only the voice of God stood at higher authority than her own, and the voice of God would never address a slave girl.

I ran for the hills with more spring in my step than April offered the desperate soil. I ran with ecstatic wind at my back, toes crunching through the soft shell of the desert with every stride. When skin hit water I felt a cascade of relief fall over each cell; once shiny with sweat and exhaustion, now as sweet as the blonde water licking at my curls. Jordan held me for hours it seemed, while several linen washers and water bearers of the village kept any stray reptiles at bay. When time came to fulfill my duty of returning in godly nature, I wrapped my body in a fresh cloth and held it high so that my giddy feet would not fleck the hem with dirt on my return home.

Abraham beat me; I knew because of the crescent lamb hanging up to drain outside the front door. She was a fresh ewe, probably frolicking not long before my bath. No doubt he had walked her all the way from the village; even the sacrificial lambs must labor for their fate. I found Sarah rinsing the knives out back.

Why would she have me bathe before the butchering? This question loomed in the air unanswered, raining silent suspicion down on the both of us.

“Abraham’s waiting for you inside.” She murmured, not bothering to look up from the wash.

I lingered long enough to expect reprimanding, but silver Sarah refused to acknowledge my presence. Punishment was a daily inevitability, and I always strived to know what I had done to earn it. Maybe, just maybe such knowledge could protect me in the future. I needed to ask what Abraham wanted with me, but my feet already knew. The turned back that Sarah offered told me that she knew, too. I had to force my legs to budge from her wake.

Inside the red tent time was at a standstill. Abraham looked at me deeply, his eyes wild with anticipation. He looked at me despite my clothes, he looked at me from the inside out. Always searching for something deeper, two blue eyes moving in reckless curiosity. Searching for something they would never grasp alone, but grasped for none the less. He grasped for my robes and then he grasped beneath them, hungrier than I’d ever seen him before. This fury of grasping and searching eventually left me in pieces. Neither body nor soul, I melted straight into the water that churned so freshly in my heart. I don’t know what he did, I didn’t dare ask. Pain consumed everything, and then it was over.

Outside the sun greeted me with hot urgency, and I panted for light. A trail of tears encircled an untouched lamb carcass and the carcass of a sobbing old woman. Infertile Sarah unleashed an abundance of saltwater from her tired body, a sea too acrid to support life of any kind. I stumbled past her toward the only relief I knew, Jordan. Rivers of my own blood trickled down my legs and the release crippled me; I wasn’t going to make it. I knew with each trembling step I took that I was headed for nowhere, but it was better than the somewhere that fate had given me. I called for nothingness.

I don’t know how I reached the valley but by the time I collapsed I was close enough to the river to feel its breeze. Blood was rampant by then, mixing with the earth beneath me like a bed of clay. I was sweating off heat but too cold to keep from shivering, each cell quivering to the beat of my bewildered breath. It was there, trembling in the dirt that I first heard the voice from nowhere. It called my name from no particular direction, unlike the river that always whispered from the east. This voice had no sound at all, but I heard it with every fiber of my being.

You are not a slave, you are no-thing. 

It was in the nothingness that I began to feel peaceful. The earth below me was alive, and beside me I heard the rush of Jordan washing away any impurities of the barren land, bringing life. Taking life. I saw the red water flowing from between my legs but I felt anything but empty, I wasn’t afraid. I knew then that God was no one to fear. No one at all, in fact; I knew then that I wanted to live. An old women destined to populate the earth with her body was much more a slave than I would ever be; I knew that I must return to her.

This is not your fate. There is more.

(To be continued.)

Bury Him, Mary

Laura WildLeave a comment

I looked upon the scene before me–upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain–upon the bleak walls–upon the vacant eye-like windows–upon a few rank sedges–and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees–with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveler upon opium–the bitter lapse into everyday life–the hideous dropping off of the veil.

-Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher 

  

Mary crouches over a row of needles, queasy with hunger. It’s daybreak, perhaps later; the cabin is engulfed in an opaque plume, thick as the window curtains that conceal her from the world. A nagging fear creeps up her shoulders like an old tick, a fear that her rations are dwindling. They are; she’s nearly out of dope and she can’t bring herself to believe it. Drops of white opium rush to the far reaches of her body, leaving in a fury of perspiration. Beneath her, tepid bath water lifts ancient stains in the carpet, carrying them to the corners of her bedroom in a delta of brown froth. The bathtub is long overflown. It remains concealed behind the locked bathroom door she leans against, where she watches her oasis become a floodplain in the dim light. Joining the flow, angry tears begin to gush from her eyes and she doesn’t know why.

There’s not enough of anything around here.

Mary doesn’t stir. She’s heard me speak so many times before, it’s a wonder she doesn’t recognize me now. I would guess it has something to do with the pills she stuffed in her mouth a few hours ago; clinging to the inside of the bottle, they were the last survivors of the flood. She hadn’t noted the dose but they had helped her fall asleep fast, so it was no matter; now she is only half awake. She can do nothing but take inventory of her provisions again and again, as she fights fatigue and clings to a bottle of whiskey.

Disheartened, I make the house shake with discomfort. I make fear ooze from her brain and her neck hairs stand on end. I make her body ache inside her own skin, I try to make her loathe this place and everything in it. I do so much but it’s never enough, she doesn’t listen to me anymore. She’s stopped checking in with the little voice in her head and she feels like she’s fine with it.

Alcohol makes her feel like she’s fine with everything, even though she’s got nothing left. Deep down she yearns for her body to spin again, like the Gravitron she used to ride at the county fair. As a kid she had always wanted to get out as soon as the rickety old spaceship started revolving, but as it got faster and faster she would begin to feel so alive. So queasy, but so alive; she loved being out of control. Now the reminder of it puts a bittersweet knot in her throat; nonconsensual nostalgia. It feels like a lifetime since she’s longed for anything different.

The bedroom is colder than it was yesterday. Without a draft to keep moisture from sticking to the walls it just keeps getting more humid. It will never be the same again after last night, and Mary has no idea why. Her husband’s dead, that’s why, but she still anticipates the anger that the overflowing bathtub will inspire in him. The well is nearly drained, downstairs the ceiling is raining, and the bedroom floor is ruined. It’s as if the house is trying to cleanse itself, and failing.

The bedroom carpet isn’t capable of getting clean, either. Covered by all manner of her husband’s bodily fluids, it must have been too shocked and humiliated to protest. Forever absorbing the dirt and grime of the people who trod on them, Mary and the carpet are a lot alike. Stained by the same culprit, they endlessly yield to his drug-induced rages. Now, as the bitter taste of alcohol causes her to squirm, she becomes consumed with a steadfast ambivalence toward him. The same ambivalence that allowed her to part her legs when her stomach swirled with disgust, the same ambivalence with which he used to use her. Those were the good old days, long before “no” made its way into her vocabulary and became his new favorite word.

Inside her ear I whisper, bury him, bury him, bury him, but she ignores me. Hidden inside her belly is an itch she’s desperate to scratch, and no measure of domestic catastrophe can disrupt her obsession with it. Until she musters the courage to kick down the bathroom door she will remain listlessly confused, as usual.

Even without her husband anywhere near she can still feel his presence. Her neck tingles from the phantom scratch of his chin against her skin, and his calloused hands wrapped around it. The same hands he used to pack her fresh bowls of weed, to tuck her in at night, to strangle her; as if clasping for some semblance of affection that he had already destroyed. He used his hands to pay the rent, the electric bill, the water bill, and he used them every day to constrict her arm just above the vein.

Everyone she knows tells her she’s gone too far, done too much, but inside she feels utterly empty. Maybe it’s because they’ve stopped calling on her. Maybe it’s because nobody bothers to visit anymore, or maybe it’s the oxy that deprives her of any motivation to reach out. She certainly lets it keep her from doing most things, like ever leaving the house. Today she is far too preoccupied with her fix to do anything to help herself. Looking down at the remains of liquid left in a few of her vials sends a shiver up her spine; does she think they are going to get up and run away? If only she could squeeze a drop from each needle into her veins it would be enough to keep the shivers at bay, at least for a while. She takes a long swig from the bottle; for now, this is the last window into that cool limbo she craves.

Or so she thinks. Behind the locked door and the torn shower curtain her husband’s body begins to relax, just starting the process of decomposition. Murky water overtakes Mary’s color coded bath salts on the sill of the tub, the kind she uses for more than bathing, creating an aroma of rotting lavender flesh that she cannot make sense of. Each item she had meticulously assigned a home has been displaced; the bathroom is in total disarray. Bubbles continue to escape from her husband’s wet mouth but the sound is drowned out by running water, and she hears nothing.

Mary is a compulsive woman. Usually too keenly aware of any disturbance in her home, she is nothing if not vigilant. To her husband this behavior had warranted constant supervising. The four rooms of her home: kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom, have come to replace the four compartments of her erratic mind: the hungry, the tired, the sick, and the desired. Without the visual of her structural surroundings she is too easily lost. At times, the fragile walls of her home have been all that have kept her from floating away. It makes sense that she should want to keep track of them, especially during those wildest hours when they almost seem to move on their own.

Unprompted, a sharp popping sound echoes up the stairs. The case of beer bottles she stored in the freezer has finally exploded and shattered, and she has no recollection of putting it there. Rich amber slush coats the carcass of a half-frozen orange tabby cat stored in a shoebox, distorting the words hastily written there in red ink, “Bury him Mary.”

“Baby?” She calls out, positive that he has just come in the door.

She’s on her feet before her drunk muscles surrender to gravity, but manages to hold herself up with the bathroom doorknob. Swift memories begin to make their way into her mind, glimpses of heroic escapes she’s made from the bathroom window. Many times she has locked herself in there, frightened by an apathetic tone in her husband’s voice or the indignation with which he pounded on the door. On those nights that his impulse control was at its scarcest she had even made the leap of faith to the mossy forest floor. Sometimes she ran the bath to mask the noise of it, feigning that she just needed a moment to relax. He would never let her out of sight, let alone earshot, making these futile escapes all the more daring. He was a much better manipulator than me, but I still do everything I can to encourage the delusion.

You better run Mary.

At the thought of his presence she can almost feel the cold earth beneath her bare feet, the adrenaline pumping through her, the sound of his laughter and the way it resounded through the woods in her wake. “Come back baby,” he would say, “I’m not going to hurt you.” But he always did, even in his attempts to appease her; all he had to do was mention heroin and she was reminded of the power he had. Without him, she would die. With him, she was dying. Her life existed somewhere in between those two spaces, in that dreamlike state that allowed her to forget who she was and what she had done.

Now, only fear seems to awaken her elusive rationality. I raise my voice.

He’s mounting the stairs.

Expanding wooden beams send creaks throughout the whole house. As my words begin to sink in paranoia manifests every inch of her being. Before she knows what to do her knees bring her back to the ground, smashing a few of her vials and embedding glass in her skin. Worse, the last of her heroin washes away with the blood. Some part of her knows that today is not the day she is going to get away with wasting dope.

She feels guilty, it’s written all over her face and body. She can’t stop thinking about him walking through the door and finding her in this puddle of grime that she blames herself for creating. She can’t stop thinking about what she must have done wrong and everything wrong with her that impedes her from fixing it. She doesn’t remember who started the mess but if she did, she’d be free of him. If she did, she’d know this was all his fault.

If only she could see through the walls the way I can. The substances she takes don’t do what they’re supposed to anymore though, they are hardly even real. Her husband had so much to say about heroin that she started to wonder if he invented it. But then his words got bigger, more aggressive, and he began to tell her everything he thought he knew about her. He reinvented love, redefined sex in his own way that left her believing it was his birthright. He might as well have invented it, too. The way he talked about her body left her feeling like it was his, and if ever that was true it certainly wasn’t anymore. I would do everything I could to show her that.

Don’t let him see you like this.

Mary knows she can’t go on like this anymore, I hardly even have to tell her. Her husband felt the same way last night, thank goodness. The world obliged him. Without hesitation, the space that he had filled in the universe was drowned with the energy of everything that was still living, and that was the end of him. All it took was too much heroin and the lack of a heroine when he needed her most; she was too busy sleeping in his mess. So, in accordance with two awful truths, he was quietly set free; death is discreet, and death is sweet. But he had met death long before the sun even found a place in the sky, hours had passed since then and still the memory of him threatens to consume the last of his wife. How lasting the effects of trauma are on the mind. The fear inside her rouses nerve from the pit of her stomach, and before she knows it she is slamming her body against the bathroom door with all of her might.

Put your back into it Mary.

It’s what he used to say to her all the time, whenever she was bending over backwards for him. This time it works. Triumphantly, the door finally releases itself from its hinges. Behind it a sickening silence sweeps from the floodplains of the bathroom. Rounding the corner, she glimpses the last of him; a bloated body floating in the bathtub, apparently dead for some time. Her husband: naked and exposed in all of his glory. The most glory, in fact, that he had ever possessed; in death his demeanor seems almost peaceful as his carcass bobs to the rhythm of the faucet. Mary’s red hands clash with the warped linoleum beneath her as soon as his popping blue eyes meet hers.

Death is all around her. It’s in every nook and cranny of her decrepit house, and it is inside of her, too. I feel myself dying with the tears that refuse to appear in her eyes, dying with the remorse that she does not feel. She doesn’t need me anymore, so it’s my time to go. I know this, because her husband’s left over syringes are full of enough dope to keep her occupied for days, and she ignores them. I know this, because her body is far too weak to support her but she stands anyway.

With one last ping of regret for the wastefulness of it, she turns of the water.

She does not exit that place on her own, she is forced out. Tossed, as if swallowed by a wave of longing and spit forth onto the shores of the outside world. Relief comes all at once. She is not alone, but is carried out with the wreckage of the unphysical home she built for herself; everything she has ever known gushes out that front door with her and she doesn’t look back.

Outside the ground is sodden, too, enough to swallow her feet in moss and leaves. It’s a distant but familiar feeling, one that fills her with the kind of nostalgia that warms her very bones. Her legs are steadier on solid ground, and the foggy air around her is the sweetest thing she’s tasted in months. Her body is much cooler in the strange mist around her house and, not because it still hungers for the one thing she can’t have, her body feels light. Misery gently removes itself from her shoulders.

Ramblings from your favorite three-dollar bill

Laura Wild1 Comment

One of the less encouraging things that happened to me this year was when I got fired from my first writing internship. It had been an unpaid internship, and I’m not sure if that fact made my dismissal more painful or less. The position was at a quirky little agency in Portland where I was tasked with sourcing content for a new literary database, the eventual use for which I am still unclear. Naturally I was about as gung ho as any intern could be; I was stoked about shadowing an author of such apparent caliber, and every time I heard my then-boss drop a big name in the business I became more convinced that he was not a human, but a literary deity. Unfortunately, as I have found to be true before, my first impression was misguided. I held the position for about three weeks, for which I had uprooted my entire life, until suddenly one morning I was called into my superior’s office (a sick treehouse-like writing oasis) and sent on my way with an obviously repurposed Starbucks gift card.

 

This, of course, was shortly after I had begun working as a barista. In all fairness I had already come to terms with the fact that my position was not very rewarding for me anyway, and I guess my boss agreed that it was unfair to keep me on any longer. That I respected, but he also told me that if I had only had about ten years’ experience under my belt I would have been much more useful to the agency. I’m sure I don’t need to detail the irony of that statement. Alas, since I was in the fragile position of being a lone sojourner in a new city I had no choice but to look at the positive. I was happy that this internship had at least brought me to Portland, where for the first time I felt like I was more or less home.

 

I lived in the attic of a house that I shared with several other dudes in Alberta Arts district. I loved the area and rent was cheap, so I went for it without giving it too much thought. I spent my first Christmas away from home exchanging white elephant gifts with my roommates, and everything was just dandy until the perpetual rains of the Northwest produced a multitude of insect refugees that decided to hunker down in my attic. At first it was just an ant here or there, but little did I know my abode was soon to become a winter wonderland for microscopic squatters that would leave the scent of citronella ant guts lingering in my nose for months to come.

 

By March I had ants sharing my bed with me. From the windows to the wall, they could be found in every nook and cranny of my room. Ants manifested two of my space heaters to the point that they no longer worked. The worst part of it all was that my very lifestyle enabled their presence, and though I wasn’t opposed to using traps and poison to get rid of them, I was simply up against too many. Seasonal affective disorder had never felt like such a tangible illness and soon enough the madness had me tearing off the plastic around my draftiest window, the one with tiny cracks all around the edges, just to let a little light in. I think this was a turning point for the ants; were they really living in my room or in my head? I still can’t say for sure.

 

Luckily cannabis is legal in Oregon, and it can’t be surprising that a river rat like myself has been known to indulge in the substance from time to time. But was it coincidence that these six-legged fiends somehow seemed to show up every time I opened my window to cheef a quick bowl? I think not. I became convinced that those little fuckers were drawn to the aroma of a good dank herb just as much as anybody. They knew that a rainy day off for me meant a time of rich abundance for their colony, and so they eagerly awaited the mass of crumbs that fell from my bed like a feast every time they got a whiff of that botanical kryptonite. It was a vicious cycle; my frequent binges were their greatest and most reliable source of food.

 

A saga that is so comical in hindsight was at the time a small devastation to the fantasy I had envisioned for myself in the City of Roses. I had landed in Oregon during one of the coldest and rainiest winters in years, failed at a job that I considered to be a shoe-in to the NW writing scene and was subsequently displaced from my home by an army of tiny vermin. Always a sucker for drama, I can’t say I don’t at least appreciate the poetic value of my misfortune, but it’s taken me a while to get to this point. Ten months ago I made my last blog post, and since that time I have been struggling to find my way through this enduring creative dry spell. Last month my neglected website descended into domain purgatory and I nearly lost all of its content. I am beyond happy to have it back in working order, and though my stories may be less compelling than I had hoped, I feel lucky that I still have the opportunity to release them into the wild. The fact that my closest friends and family take the time to keep up with me on my journey makes me feel as validated as any readership could, and I’m just so thankful for you.

 

As I sit in my cozy gypsy caravan in the snow flecked foothills of Mt. Rainier, I feel more at peace than I have all year. I don’t know how I managed to score a life partner like the one who built this home with me, but every day that I wake up next to her I know I am doing A-okay. I am currently without a permanent residence, unemployed and unable to start school until next year. I am absolutely dripping in privilege, and the last thing I want to do is let these precious few months go to waste. Do I batten down the hatches and travel up and down the west coast? Write that novel that has been occupying the whole left side of my brain? Roll a few dubies down by the river? I only know what I’m definitely not going to do, and that is to let shame and insecurity get in the way of being my true self. In this time of corruption and uncertainty we can do nothing but assert our humanity, and I have found no feeling to be as liberating as giving in to my imperfections, hopefully finding the humor in them.

 

So much more easily said than done, the road to self-acceptance extends far beyond my vision and I’m sure I’ll be traveling it for some time. The past few months have been a whirlwind of both anticipation for the new life I am building and the reflection of the fast, fleeting summer I leave in my wake. I am no longer a lone sojourner in a new city but one half of a partnership that seems to grow stronger and more powerful by the day. It’s never been so easy to share everything that I have. Jenny possesses the same bold sweetness of that 12 year old girl I befriended ten years ago, but now holds in her presence a mysterious wisdom and poise that is both terrifying and electrifying. I did it, I got mushy and sentimental, but I’ve honestly never felt more entitled to it. Just the other day we were perched up on our rooftop patio in the prime real estate area of King’s Heights, where we were parked for the night above a city that seemed a hell of a lot smaller than it used to. It was one of the many times in my life that I became aware of the fact that I have everything in the world; that knowledge has so far been my best defense against the inevitable lows of adulthood.

Rescuing Jack: The pup who redefined carelessness.

Laura Wild2 Comments

Carefree; the state of being free from anxiety or responsibility, one of my favorite words. As I grow older its meaning seems to become less and less relevant to my life, but I am eternally craving the feeling. I have always associated it with being calm and optimistic, never careless, never oblivious. Last Thursday, however, I learned that even being carefree comes with a price.

As usual, the morning was cool and refreshing. An electric midnight storm had left a puddle of water around my tent, but under my covers I had stayed warm and dry. I love night’s like that; when I don’t have anything to worry about, at least nothing besides my own comfort. I have learned time and time again just how fleeting they can be, and yet I always seem to take them for granted. This one, however, I savored; all I had on my agenda for the day was a mild, secluded bike ride. As soon as the sun rose to burn all of the moisture away, the atmosphere became immediately hot, as it does every day in the desert. It was around 10am when I met the animal that would take away my peace of mind for many nights to come.

He was just another homeless dog; a swift silhouette on the horizon, prancing the abandoned roads in search of something to eat. Down here, trash is not hard to come by, and maybe that’s why he wasn’t emaciated. I got off of my bike, all too aware that if I flew by him I would be a perfect target to chase, and started speaking in a soothing voice, not wanting to inspire an attack. I know this fear is just extra weight that I carry with me for no reason at all, but I’ve always been especially cautious around these types of animals.

Most Southern Tier cycling websites suggest riders have pepper spray at the ready, because many of the dogs in the South are raised solely as watch dogs. I don’t do that because I can’t imagine ever bringing myself to actually use it, so maybe that’s why I am always on edge. Anyway, it goes without saying that this dog was different. He was shy, but he was irresistably sweet. This pup was so tired that when I so much as gave him the acknowledgement that he had gone without for so long, he immediately fell into a deep sleep beside me, exausted fom god knows what he was doing.

Dozens of flies swarmed the cuts on his face, as fire ants went about building a nest only a few feet from us. He didn’t stir. After drinking the rest of my water, I think he finally felt comfortable enough to rest. With his head on my knee, we waited under the shade of a billboard for hours while animal control drove out to us.

I feel like calling animal control was my biggest mistake. This sweet animal had done nothing but kiss me, and trust me, and wag his tail at me. Still, when the officers came to put him in their truck, they were not gentle. I can only imagine how scared he must have been in that dark metal box that they put him in, and for good reason. So many abandoned animals take their last rides in that truck, before they spend their final days in empty cages. That is exactly where this dog was headed, and I knew that. The next day, when I went to the shelter to “bail him out”, I saw for myself just how bleak this particular shelter was.

I spent the next 24 hours conflicted with the idea of trusting the animal shelter that he had been taken to, or taking matters into my own hands. Several calls to the shelter helped me make my mind up pretty fast, as they could not assure me that he wouldn’t be euthanized after his 48 hour grace period was up. Las Cruces, New Mexico is so overwhelmed with stray dogs that only the cream of the crop stand a chance of being adopted. The ones that can’t be taken in are unspoken of, and disposed of.

I’ve been to kill shelters before, and they are always terrifying. Rows and rows of man’s best freind, all organized by breed and temperment, barking and howling their unheard negotiations for freedom. Each snatched from a world that did not value them, only to be taken to an institution that does not have room for them. At least half of them are pure breeds, whose parents were not spayed and neutered and whose owners were not able to care for them. One might blame this problem on poverty, but I blame it on ignorance.

There are too many dogs in this world, and too many carefree people. Puppy mills, pet stores, and even your average neighborhood backyard-breeders all contribute to a system that leaves hundreds of thousands of dogs homeless, mistreated, and ultimately sentanced to death. Those who call themselves animal lovers should have no tolerence for the breeding industry whatsoever. If the suffering of companion animals is to end we can no longer respond to the ignorance of our friends with a smile and a nod, as I have done for far too long.

In the end, I did find the silver lining in this hellstorm of a situation. Jack, the name given to this sweet dog by his new owners, eventually found his American dream. It wasn’t easy, and the hardest part by far was finding a few kind hearted people who were willing to advocate for my cause. Those people were not the officers who responded to my call, nor the workers at the shelter who only gave me a several hour window to drive him out of state, but the handful of strangers who offered to give me a ride when I did not have a car. The woman who helped me keep Jack from being attacked by another pack of stray dogs, and my always proactive mother who has a way of making anything possible. The last to help me were the real heroes of this saga; Jenny, whose name always seems to come up in my blog posts because she is always willing to go out of her way to do something kind for someone else, and my aunts Jean and Carrie, who are finally giving Jack the secure, forever home that he deserves.

Jack’s story is one that I’ll never forget; it’s exciting, it’s true, it has a happy ending. It’s the story of a puppy who escaped unknown horrors and still managed to be sweet enough to make it into a loving home. His is also a story of privilage, and it’s the story of a really messed up animal welfare system. I can’t stop thinking about what a miracle it is that this one got a second chance, and how lucky he is that he was born a german shepherd, and not a pit bull. It brings me so much happiness to know that he is safe and taken care of, but even that knowledge is not enough to make me feel optimistic. The truth is, I am heartbroken. This experience has exposed the truth of the overwhelming amount of animal neglect that this country enables. I wish I could sugar coat this, I wish I could serve the reality of this problem to you under a blanket of encouragement and hope, but I can’t. I can only add this to the extensive list of reasons it feels like America has forgotten the South.

I still battle with the image of all the other animals I left behind; the ones who weren’t desirable, the ones who will never be adopted. The ones who will spend their final days on a bed of concrete, and whose lives are of so little significance that they will soon be forgotten. This is the kind of thing that haunts me, the kind of thing that leaves me feeling hopeless. We saved one; that matters. It matters, but it’s not nearly enough.

I’m a softie, it’s true, and I’m sure I love dogs a little bit more than most. The ones that I have had in my life have brought me out of some of my darkest places, and I will never pass up an opportunity to help bring them out of theirs. The puppy that I lost over a year ago still makes appearences in my dreams, her absense still puts a knot in my throat when I return home, and the memory of her final days will still pull at my heart strings until the end of time. I don’t think any of that is too weird or too extreme. I don’t want people to think that my reaction to finding this stray dog in the desert is too weird or extreme either; it shouldn’t be a big deal, it should be normal.

Adventures like this bike trip sometimes make me feel like I am barreling through space at lightning speed; I just keep going and going and I never want to stop. I’ve seen adventure affect many people the same way, and I don’t think it’s necessarily a good thing. Even after everything I have just said, I have yet to admit that it was actually hard for me to stop for this helpless dog. Knowing how many homeless dogs there were around me, I was ready to cast him off as “just another one.” I’m so glad I didn’t. I’m so glad I stepped on the brakes for what amounts to the blink of an eye in my life, because it had a profound effect on the rest of his. I’ve just breached Texas, and I can only imagine how many more stray animals I am bound to come across. I can only dream that the ones I stop for will be able to live the carefree life that Jack gets to.

 

 

 

Veritas- a cooler word for the truth.

Laura Wild1 Comment

I never thought I’d return to the Southern Tier as a route leader; I thought my days of soul searching and daydreaming under the desert sun were over. When I got offered the chance to return to Bike the US for MS and ride across the country a second time, I laughed out loud. It was like a writer’s miracle; I finally had the chance to go back to all those infamous desert roads and rediscover what I had dubbed as my glory days. In a moment the world felt small again; I had been so sure that 2014 was my once in a lifetime opportunity to prove myself that I actually believed I had absorbed everything from the experience that I could. It goes without saying that I was wrong. Since that time I have learned over and over again that I could never possibly be done growing and each experience I have had has dwarfed the previous one. Now, as I sit a day’s ride outside of Phoenix (the same place I was abandoned two years ago) I realize that I have been looking for enlightenment in all the wrong places. To be honest, I don’t feel like I want to get all introspective and philisophical this time around. In fact, ironically enough I feel like I’ve gotten all of the roving and pondering out of my system for the time being. I’m happy to announce that this blog is no longer devoted to dramatic narratives of self-discovery, thank the lord. This time around, I’m writing the truth.

 
I passed a 200 acre feed lot the other day and it was absolutely horrendous. I was right outside of Brawley, California, so I can officially confirm that happy cows do not come from CA. I’m used to feedlots; I live in the Midwest and take a lot of road trips; but this one was the worst. It included the usual herds of oversized cattle confined to pastures full of two-foot-thick sludge, but it was also no less than 110 degrees out. That is torture for any living animal, and I don’t have to go into how intelligent and social cows are because I covered that in my last post. This particular feed lot was also connected to a slaughter house, and the sounds of cattle bolts and distressed cows could be heard all the way from the road. Hundreds of solar panels stood amoung them and provided the small shelters that the poor animals huddled under, exhausted and afraid, unaware that giant manmade eco-freindly machines were providing their shade. Once again, the irony was unbearable, but not as unbearable as that hot Mojave sun. No one could deny that a sight like this is terrible, and that the treatment of those animals is plain wrong. And yet, time and time again, we somehow manage to. We all do, even if we are only doing so by simply refusing to acknowedge the problem.

 
Maybe in a case like that, humans are too far removed from the problem to take action. After all, I don’t even remember noticing this feed lot the first time I rode by, and that’s probably because I was too preoccupied with my own stresses for the day. I think that too often people like me hesitate to even accept that such things are wrong, maybe because they feel insecure about not being able to stop it or maybe because they feel insecure about contributing to the very industry. Either way, a group of hungry cyclists facing a 90+ mile day are not the ideal candidates for proactive passerby. Of all the pictures posted on social media that day none were of the obviously depressing feed lot, and I’m sure those disturbing images were not even called to mind at dinner time when we stopped at a burger joint. Of course I don’t blame any of them. I do, however, blame the dangerous way of thinking that forces us to justify something that is so obviously wrong just so we can go about our days without having to carry the extra weight of acknowledging it.

 
Unfortunately, on the Southern Tier bike route it is virtually impossible to turn away from all of the abused and neglected animals, and many of them are not nearly as far out of reach. The evening before we got to Brawley we were camping in another small country town called Live Oak Springs. I was on the phone with Jenny when I found I was being followed by two skinny, mangy calico kittens and the first thing I said to her was, “Oh shit, now I have to deal with these kittens.”

 
It isn’t easy to drop everything and devote yourself to taking an animal to a shelter or finding their rightful owner, at least most of the time. Being raised by my kind hearted mother I have always prioritized the health and safety of animals, I think it’s just something that runs in my blood. Even so, I still only take action when I’m not able to justify not taking action. Only when I am sure nobody else is going to do something, especially on a bike trip where I am tired and emotionally drained, do I go out of my way to try and do something. I’m not proud of this, but because I rarely am convinced that other people are going to step in to help a neglected animal I find myself taking that role more often than not. If I had a car I’d save twice as many animals, but with only a bike I am usually reduced to harassing as many local people as it takes to get the job done.

 
In this particular case all I had to do was knock on the doors of a few camper trailers before I found the owners, and then I returned the kittens and suggested they be taken to a vet. In other instances, I have called the local sherrif and closest humane societys, trying to convince someone else to go out of their way to save an animal. I am delighted when I come into contact with a fellow animal lover who is more than willing to help me, but more often than not I spend a lot of time trying to convince people to make a call, or take a drive, or even refer me to somebody else. Everyone is just so busy, that without prioritizing animal welfare I don’t know how local law enforcement can even make a dent in the reports of animal abuse that they must receive. Especially in states like New Mexico and Texas where animal protection laws are virtually nonexistent.

 
The sheer amount of stray animals in the United States alone is overwhelming. The least I can do, besides try my best to help the few individual animals that I come across, is be honest about what I see. It is really the least anyone can do, but even that seems to make a differnce. Americans need to stop relying on the code of politeness and start intervening when we hear our aquaintences joke about blatant cruelty, and especially when we see it in action. If we can stop desensitizing ourselves to animal cruelty, and speak our minds when we come across something that is wrong, maybe animal abuse will finally go out of fashion.

 
Veritas means truth in Latin, and while that is a pretty fancy term to describe the theme of this entry, it felt pretty fitting. One of my fellow cyclists has it tattooed on his arm, and he explained to me today that he got it when he decided to live more truthfully and authentically. I won’t try to recreate his words, but what he told me inspired me to look up the word and I discovered that it comes from the name of an elusive greek goddess who embodied humility and truth. I guess she is my inspiration for the next few weeks that I will spend in the deep South, and as I pass through each town I’m going to document the treatment of animals that I witness exactly as I see it. In my quest to live a kinder and less destructive life I have fallen in and out of denial many times; once before I stopped eating meat, again before I spent time living on a dairy farm, and most recently when I witnessed the giant feedlot in Brawley that never made it onto a postcard. I can’t promise that my clumsy ranting won’t cause me to step on any toes, but don’t let that keep you from staying tuned for my next story! There is a fire lit beneathe me and I have never been more ready to speak the truth.

 

 

This is Calico, a highly creative name I gave to the healtier of the two cats. She was a stunner. For a less adorabe picture google Brawley feedlot.

 

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Redefining Paradise: An Intimate Look at the Life of a Dairy Cow

Laura Wild3 Comments

Whenever I shop at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, I see cartons of milk that depict happy cows roaming in vast, green pastures. Up until recently, the stamp of approval from the FDA reading “certified organic” had always been enough to convince me that I shouldn’t feel guilty about the industry that I was supporting.  After getting the chance to spend time with the animals who provide the literal “cream of the crop” to health conscience, white collar consumers, I began to redefine what the best case scenario truly means. I went on a quest to find out where all of these happy cows lived, but after a few months of searching I was only able to find a select few.

Not unlike many of the decisions I have made in my life, deciding to take another break from school to work on a raw dairy farm was an impulsive choice. With an intense love for animals and very little understanding of my impact on their lives, I decided it was time to immerse myself in a business that I relied on every day. While I haven’t eaten meat of any kind for almost 5 years, I still consume milk and eggs. The same brutal videos of factory farms and slaughter houses that drove me to become a vegetarian also drove me to seek the truth about the dairy industry, particularly the side that sells non-GMO and grass fed products.

My first week on a small acreage farm in Berthoud, Colorado, was a dream. I got a glimpse into the lives of animals who were obviously cherished and appreciated, and whose comfort and health was valued above their milk production. Each cow was affectionately named and had their own distinct personality, and I couldn’t help but fall in love with their simple, shameless innocence. They weren’t afraid of humans in the least, and quickly warmed up to me and accepted me into their herd. Each day we became more and more comfortable with each other, to the point that they would approach me for affection and attention on their own. It soon became evident that these animals were less like the other livestock on the farm – consisting of almost 100 free range ducks and chickens – and more like companion animals. These cows were more dynamic and intelligent than I had ever imagined, and those qualities paired with the fact that they were innately gentle and docile made them some of the most peaceful animals I had ever encountered.

However, as soon as I became aware that their quality of life was much better than the vast majority of livestock in America, I also became aware that even cows that are treated with respect and kindness are still far from living in paradise. The reality is that it is incredibly expensive to treat animals humanely, and unfortunately we live in a world where the value of innocence is much lower than the demand for affordable animal products.

Though local anesthetic is used for all of the procedures that are absolutely necessary for the cows on this particular farm, such as dehorning, I will say that the process is still very difficult to witness. The owners of the raw dairy would spend thousands of dollars to treat any injuries or illnesses that their cows acquire, but there is no denying that bovine medicine seems like something out of the civil war era. It isn’t pretty, and I think most farmers would agree that it isn’t ideal. One of the most common and most troubling practices on the farm is the separation of mother and calf. This usually happens after the babies are completely weaned off of their mothers, but it is still heartbreaking to listen to them call to each other for days after they are separated. This practice has been the most difficult thing for me to justify to myself.

Yet in commercial dairy, the treatment is so much worse. The meticulous cleaning regimen we use twice a day to wash the cow’s udders with human grade iodine is simply not practical on large scale diaries. Instead, the udders are rubbed with a flammable grease and all of the dirty hairs are burned off of their skin without anesthetic. This is not the worst case scenario, either, but common practice. Dehorning is always done without anesthetic, too, and calves are taken away from their mothers immediately after birth, after which the male calfs are often raised as veal. These are details that I had never wanted to believe before, but after seeing how brutal even a small family owned farm can be, I have no trouble believing what goes on in mass-production lots.

In the end, a life that includes some of the unfortunate practices that I have seen on the farm is still much better than the alternative. I wish I knew how to fix all of the things that do not seem right to me, but I just don’t have the answers. If humans are going to continue to use animals for our own benefit, then our relationship with them can never truly be altruistic. Unfortunately, I can’t suggest that everybody I know become vegan and believe that anybody actually will. It is simply too much to ask, and not a very realistic way to reduce animal suffering, anyway.

Still, I believe it is helpful to be aware of our impact on animals. If we can’t support small, family owned farms every time we buy animal products, we can at least try to decrease the amount of money we invest in commercially produced animal products. Because I ate meat for most of my life without thinking twice about where it came from, I can sympathize with anybody who doesn’t even want to acknowledge the reality of factory farming. But if anything is ever going to change, we simply have to confront the moral implications of consuming large quantities of meat and dairy, especially. Animals are not commodities, they are living beings. It is time that we cherish all animal life, and not just when it is most convenient to us.