Bad coffee and a cool cat

A few weeks ago, an Englishman musician reached out for me to write a bio. It sounded exciting. I got all worked up and prepped, and then I didn't hear back. 

Annoyed, I had made three attempts for an interview, and I felt ignored. Two of the appointments he had either "worked" or "slept" through. I was starting to feel I was a character on the Catfish television show. 

But, I had left a voicemail, and the Englishman on the voicemail was him. But, the voicemail was full, so that was troubling.  

It was a lot harder to think about being inspired to write someone's bio when you are not feeling like your time matters.

But, what I realized was that I was lumping this experience in with other poor creative experiences. 

I was burned out.

I lost my why.

About a year ago, a musician I adore asked if he "Could just have a file of all of the photos I've taken of him for the last five years." He said, "Don't you just have a file?"

Something about that question stole a part of my soul. 

And, another creative giant asked me to un-send a photo birthday card, and well, at that point, I was done. 

It took just a few words to make me grab my knees and think about ditching photography forever. 

I felt invisible.

Over time, I lost my why.

So, I did what every artist does, pout and run away from crafting.

I got busy. 

Being an artist can feel like a cold clothesline.

I re-enrolled in university classes and dove into studying for a state exam that was a year away. I am not kidding.

Then, I got the text. Bio dude is available now. Of course. 

I waited until I had just a few minutes to make the call. Creatively, I was feeling nothing.

I got the English dude on the phone. Every word he said was funny. And, it took me a while not to think that Hugh Grant was actually on the phone.

And, I then peeked out of my stubborn shell. 

Wallowing in the gulf of artist return and words like decomposing "creative bank accounts" (Julia Cameron), I set up an interview time for the next day. 

I drove across town, and to my surprise, I didn't get lost.

I rang the doorbell. A fat cat was at my ankles. The cat dawdled there. He couldn’t decide whether to go forward or stay put. I could relate. 

I let the cat stay outside next to the wilting plants giving up on the patio bench.

Two dogs greeted me. One dog bolted upstairs- -the other piled on the love like I had peanut butter in my pocket.  I thought isn't that like the world of an artist? You're either loved or forgotten.

I walked through the living room which looked like it was set up for nothing more than constant comfy jam sessions.

The sliding glass door allowed for the friendly black dog to gaze outside. His silhouette glowed in the summer sun. 

The wooden table in the kitchen was a great place for interviewing. I was offered coffee or tea. I figured since he's English, I'd get tea, but I settled for coffee. 

He said, "I found some chunky hemp milk. . . seems to be okay." I thought he doesn't have it all together either. It made me laugh.

He asked, "In case this doesn't go well, are there any last words?"

Art doesn't have to be explained.

True to every interview, thousands in the last twenty years, the questions come intuitively as sweet whispers leading me to what's next. I found that the story, was in fact, writing itself. 

We talked about England. We talked about Austin. We talked about family. And, we talked about friends that become family.

I thought that I'd been serving artists for years, writing their stories, and taking their photos to lift them up. And, sometimes, it gets a bit like I feel taken advantage of. 

I am always there, but then, I am always there. I often put their needs far above my own. I celebrate their adventures. But, then, I end up forgetting mine.

The Englishman said one person's art isn't any more important than another person's art.

"You are an artist too. Your work is equal to mine." 

That was a bit hard to hear, actually. 

I was reminded that artists paid each other in fine ways. It could be words. It could be hearing the words you didn't know you needed to hear. Creative bank accounts come in all sizes and shapes.

And, the dark truth is that artists can also hurt other artists by taking their time and talents for granted.

It took a while to marinate. 

On the way to lunch, I laughed about the irony of the wilting plants next to the open and full bottle of water. Sometimes what we need is not too far away.

We took a moment to water the plants. 

The Englishman opened up about his former thoughts of ending his own life, and he highlighted how his artist friends lifted him out.  

And, beyond that journey, his story unfolded to produce the most honest record he's ever painted.

The vulnerability part was not easy. As an artist, he said, you really have to put yourself on the line. 

And, I thought that line can get really cold and lonely sometimes.  But, the Englishman said it was the only way to go. 

I was not sure I was there yet, but I did take a few of the bricks down from the wall I was building.

I realized I don't have to paint with photos if I need a break. I don't have to give away my work either. 

My validation does not come from another's words or lack of appreciation. 

The interview wrapped up. I knew I would be paid for my writing. 

But, I realized that my creative bank account had just been filled with more than coins could spend.

The Englishman apologized for missing our first two interview appointments. 

And, when he reminded me I wasn't invisible, I believed him.

I drove off hoping the plants would perk up. 

Disco tree.

Sirens and a Star of the Sea

"Bastrop county PD, you are in pursuit of us, we are not evading arrest....you can arrest us when we stop." 

This was the voice of the horse care crew 200 yards out from the stopping point. The equine vet was waiting.

At that point, police sirens surrendered. Water burst upon arrival. Horse care crew faces told the story of hurry. The crew, speeding faster than the limit, had emergent reasons for not surrendering their journey.

Though the foal was delivered safely, it wasn't before she struggled blue. The colors of sirens blasted behind as well. It sounded like a terrifying evening. 

When I arrived, the next morning, adrenaline was still hanging in the air like beads in the doors of a house from the sixties. 

Walking past the delivery room, which was a huge concrete room with hay on the ground, it looked like a war zone. 

There were blood puddles all over the floor. There was a bloody pool in the hallway too. The concrete held the story's shivers from just a few hours back.

I wanted to be there when the mare gave birth, but I had missed the group text at two am. And, now I realized I was walking past a trauma. I looked for how I could help, and the best I could do was to try to look for the positive and help care for the caregivers.

I arrived as the filly was getting milk through a tube in her nose. She was standing with a little more confidence now though her legs were like sticks that didn't bend. The mare was devouring food; she was covered in mud, blood and grime.

At 2 am, as the filly started to arrive, within ten minutes, my horse leader knew "something wasn't right."

A quick decision had to be made, and the laboring mare was rushed to the vet just 15 miles up the road. When the filly arrived, "her face was blue."

Seeing the aftermath of the long early morning was like seeing soldiers leaving the battlefield or watching someone coming up for air after a long time under water.

It was a huge contrast to the days prior.

Two days before, I got to stand on horse watch. We all took turns, hour by hour, to watch and wait alongside the mare. We were sure the baby was coming. All the signs pointed to "soon."

Glow sticks were tied to her tail and wrapped loosely around her feet. This way we could stand by, not too closely, and watch. We took turns watching her rainbow-lit tail through the night. There was no sign of her slowing down just yet. But, we were hopeful.

We journaled each hour, taking turns sleeping as much as we could. We'd mark on the paper, "One am, mare was at the pond." At 2 am, "mare was at the fence."

The next day, no baby yet. We walked the ranch and fed the horses. We watched as one group of horses ran alongside the golf cart.  Some ate briskly, some ran by for sweet hellos, and some just nodded like they were too cool. It was an interesting round of normal after a long evening of waiting, watching and hoping.

I left anxious and sad that day, knowing the birth of the baby was coming; I just didn't know when. Me, having started horseback riding lessons almost two years ago, I was anxious to learn all I could. I wanted to be there, wanted to know and wanted to just help. I had also found this amazing community of people within my horse ranch friends.  The only way I can sum it up is to say that it's never about what your hair looks like that day. 

When I got the text this morning that birth was near, I saw that I had missed it after all. I was saddened I hadn't kept my phone nearby so that I could hustle over in a flash. 

After hearing the story, I realized maybe the story of the almost no-baby would have hit too hard.  

The story of a speeding trailer trying to save two lives was hard to hear. Yet, the quick thinking of the horses' caregivers was like a modern day cowgirl story. If I didn't know my horse ranch leader was a rockstar, I knew it now.  

I arrived at 8 am, just a few hours past the trauma, and I saw my horse leader, whom I had just stayed with her two days prior. I had been in her home, read her stories and done horse watch on the first day with her. Things were peaceful then. 

And, now, two days later, I hardly recognized her. She looked about ten years older. Her hair was braided back messy. Her nice pink sweater was covered in waves of watercolor marks layered in red. She looked like she was tie-dyed in emergency.

Her friend, another horse leader, also looked the same. They had been through war. 

My horse leader said, "I didn't cry until my mom came."  Her mom was standing by, cookies in hand- - a hug waiting.

I was led to see the young filly. I saw her resting with wobbled legs. Getting up was now possible; it was sitting down that took time. Her squishy feet were jello miracles. Her face was thin and hopeful. She sniffed her mom with very little awareness of the story that just unfolded.

Filly's mom was dressed just like my horse leader. She had waves of crowning red all over her. She had a brave face on, and at the same time, at any moment, she looked like she could crash in an instant.

I looked along at the three horse leaders in the barn near me. One, a brave man, looked like a child about to cry. I knew if I tried to hug him, he'd crumble.  I looked along the base of the bars, and I saw picante sauce and taco remnants. My horse leader was drinking from a jug of water. 

I asked if she was okay. I tried to push self care. She said, "I gotta get back to the ranch. Trail ride."

I asked, "Are you sure?" But, then I realized, for her, getting back into a sense of "normal" was her therapy.

She said, "They already paid... you wanna come?"

I laughed, giddy.  I think, if I didn't have my three boys waiting for me at the church, I'd have come for sure.

I stood there and watched two young girls petting the filly. I saw the joy they brought to the barn. They were not afraid. 

We talked about filly names. One suggested "Polly" since she was unofficially "escorted" quickly by red and blue flashing police lights. I saw a photo of four police officers smiling next to the newborn. I could only imagine their faces when the trailer stopped.

I learned Polly means, "Star of the sea, beloved and exalted."  It seemed quite fitting as I looked up and saw the sea of people already in love with the star filly. 

The filly received shots, more vet care and a lot more hugs. Knowing mama was tired, and baby needed rest too, the crew packed up to leave the barn.

I walked out and asked my horse leader, "Are you okay to leave her?"  She seemed to nod. It was like she was stalling a little and grabbing her knees at the same time.

"Do we leave the cookies for the vet?"

"Vet's on a diet."

"Okay, we will bring them back to the ranch for the trail riders."

I looked up at my temporary tattoo on my left forearm. I waved it to my horse leader. It said "Something good is about to happen."

I pointed and said "something good did happen." 

I gave her a hug and watched her get back into the trailer. 

I walked into church with hay on my shoulders with thoughts of gratitude for our new star of the sea.