“The Empty Spaces in Between”
Living in a small town, I’ve learned to hide my emotions. If people know where a wound is located, they’ll dig at it like a scab until it bleeds, just to see what’s underneath. I learned to cry late in the night when no one is around and my children are sleeping, letting everything wrong, painful, or ugly in my life seep into the pillow, smothered before it sets me on fire. I’ve learned to say “I’m really too busy” when friends or suitors call, to pretend not to need anyone rather than risk the pain and fear of discovering I do. I’ve learned to laugh like it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard when someone says something that hurts my feelings, or during those appropriate times that I know they expect me to laugh if I want to be accepted. I’ve learned not to say anything to anyone that I wouldn’t put in the newspaper, because everyone knows everyone else, is related to them, goes to church with them, or depends on them for economic or social stability. They will cut a person down like a morning glory in a vegetable garden for one second of fame. Yes, small towns are predictable. There are also those few who encourage and befriend me, lifting my head above water when I am ready to give in to the current and drown in defeat. I have found I am not alone, but I must seek out friendships, for those I admire most and love best are loners, like me, who thrive without interference from the outside world. There are days I want to give my late husband’s siblings the farm and tell them to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. At other times, I contemplate selling it and moving far away from here, but this place is not easy to escape or change. Somehow, the more I try to conform to its norm, the more ostracized I become. A life of consequence is all most people want. I joined boards and committees for a few years, volunteering and pretending to fit in. No one appreciated it or thought any less or more of me, though my phone did ring occasionally during that time – when something needed done. I finally stopped trying and focused on improving my education and my children’s opportunities for a better life. However, I found that no number of awards or degrees could fill the sense of loss, betrayal, and hope in my heart. In a small town, a man with a Master’s degree is intelligent, successful, and respected. A woman – a bitch, a snob, or unable to find a man. Now I am the one who is predictable, distancing myself from others, untrusting and insecure, restlessly seeking something – but pushing away everything. I am like the Blue Heron who stands along the creek on my farm, always alone – waiting. I’m always waiting for something, thinking the next day, or year, will be better. But I have also learned to enjoy the simple joys of each moment – my children, my work, this land, and every creature it nurtures. Thousands of sandhill cranes are drawn here each February, congregating in the wet fields between the river and my home. I can mark my calendars by them. Photographers from all over the state line the roads for a week or two, fascinated by the crane’s courtship dance. The birds chatter like old schoolmates at an annual reunion, parading their beauty and freedom, then scatter as quickly as they came for the next vacation spot. Oh, how I wish I could fly away too, stopping by occasionally to enjoy the wine and dessert, but leaving again before the drunken brawl. Starting over at my age is a frightening risk. Selling the farm would mean losing another part of the only righteous man I ever knew. I don’t even know if I have the strength to abandon this way of life, for I have invested so much time, sacrificed sweat and tears, and made a promise, the silent portion of our vows, that I will pass it down to our children. I am now one with the open spaces of this land, where corn and soybeans thrive, deer feed, and reputations are rooted. In the spring, the rains rejuvenate the landscape, and the tender grass and maple, oak, and hickory leaves are so vibrantly green and alive that I believe I am too for awhile. Everything is fresh, connected, as beautiful and awe-inspiring as a baby’s first smile. The aroma of grass, flowers, and freshly plowed dirt are fertilizer for my soul, spurting my emotional growth and killing the weeds that block rays of sunshine and choke out my faith in humanity. Even the annual floods are reminders that some things do not change and are better washed away. In the fall, my faith in a God I sometimes feel has forsaken me is restored as breathtaking yellow, red and orange hues remind me we are all glorious in death. In the rural Midwest, where family, work, and property are as essential as oxygen, these brief glimpses of hope help fill the void in my life. It is the predictable nature of this land, the brutal struggle for survival of every living creature that keeps me here – killing small parts of me each day while strengthening others. I am still the blue heron, alone and waiting, trapped in the empty spaces in between, too weak to fight, too proud and stubborn to admit defeat, too fond of the past – and the land – to plow a new future.
|