A guise of chores served as Dawn’s excuse for a brief retreat from the house and her family members. She followed the pine-needled path that thread its way through the stand of cedars and past the back corner of the lawn. In short measure it would lead her beyond the sheds and adjacent horse field, to the barn.

Hearing her own boot soles trudge into daubs of soft November earth, she experienced a communion with a type of baseness, a core of existence. She was alone, save for the horse far out in the back field, and a jay who’d jeered at her when she passed the bird feeders earlier near the gazebo.

Reaching the barn door, she unlatched the white, wooden angular slab from its lodging, to gain admittance. The quick obedience of the sound of its release satisfied her. She left it swinging downward, free, like her, for a few minutes.

Dawn quickly shut the world out behind her with a pull of the door into the slip of the old metal hook, and entered the meticulously-kept horse barn. Not even the cats visited this retreat today, having stationed themselves contentedly by the woodstove in the basement of the house. She flipped a wall switch on. The blend of golden light with the surroundings enveloped her. Sweet scents of hay piled in bales, and wooden signs hanging above the two stalls, assigning the appropriate horse names to each, offered a quaint appeal.

From the side window, she deciphered the shadows of trees through the sun streaks. Soon the quarter horse made his presence known, directly on the other side of the glass.

But she let no-one in. Animal or human, all could spare her for a short while. Forget her existence. The uses of her hands and mind. For ten minutes at least. She was neither old nor young, but the onslaught of responsibilities had left her feeling the former these past few weeks.

For her, this small humble shelter held the gifts of silence and private repose. A nesting place, where no invading telephone rings, computer commands, or even relatives’ voices could reach her.

It was such a simple place. Spare, with a soft womb of security of its own. The rays of natural light dappling the window kept her spirits high. Insulation from the hay stacks implied a humble sense of physical warmth.

But the reward of Buddhistic silence compensated for any chill. Chores being done or not, she needed this environment. The break from the demands of pragmatism that had been so strongly imposed upon her recently. Through no fault of anyone’s. Fate alone was the trigger.

Traces of dust motes doing their sun dance tickled her memory, bringing her back to childhood summers and the century-old farmhouse, with its outbuildings, dairy and, best of all, hay barns. Up there in the high mound, she’d lie detached from everyone else, enjoying solitude, save for the living circle of calico in her arms —its meows the only sound in that space of time.

And now, as an adult, she found this barn at her sister’s rural property, so zen-like. When she knew she was ready, she peered out the front window and she smiled to see the kitchen lights going on in the house, and the grey-silver sleeve of early evening stretching over the evergreen tips on the trail back.

She knew she could step back soon, blend into the family again. Hear the words, offer feedback, face the expectations. But only after one more moment or two of private meditation.

Finally she turned off the light switch, closing down the coziness and detachment, at least until the next time.

12/15/2005

Posted on 01/19/2006
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