The Touch of a Wild Animal

May 22, 2013December 22, 2014 / Lisa / 7 Comments

Warning: this post has nothing to do with writing, and is sad, without a good ending. I’ll understand if you can’t read further.

Yesterday someone hit a young deer and left her dying and alone on a rainy road in the forest. A friend of mine came along, and instead of driving by, stopped. Seeing how badly the deer was injured, she went for help. She called me since I live within a few hundred yards of where this happened, and then found her husband and his gun, in case that was needed. I agreed to meet them, but instead beat them there.

The baby and I were alone for a few minutes. It was clear she was dying and I will spare you how I knew. Her beautiful large eyes saw me, her dainty legs tried to run. I spoke to her, trying to keep my very human voice from terrifying her. ‘It’s okay baby, it’s okay to let go, I’m sorry this happened, I’m sorry for your terror, it’s okay to go.’

No one should die alone.

And she didn’t. I saw her death, seconds before my friend arrived. She and I waited in the rain, but there were no more heartbeats, no more breath. My friend bent to touch her side, to make sure. I think it was a touch of hope because we knew the signs. And yet she touched, just in case. A warm, caring hand over a still warm body, a still heart.

Together, we took hold of the baby’s legs and pulled her to the edge of the road, back to the forest she’d come from. Dragging her left her head cocked at an unnatural angle. My friend gently lifted the head to a more natural position. A more comfortable position. We stayed with her a moment longer, then hugged and went to our homes.

I cried. A lot. And called my oldest sister to ask her to speak to the deer for me. I needed to know that my presence had not terrified the animal more, hastened her death. I needed comfort. As all big sisters do, mine knew exactly what to do and how to help dry tears.

Both my friend and I can’t lose the sensation of touching the deer. I hope my friend writes a poem about it because she is a beautiful poet and I know her words will be healing.

When I came home I could smell the deer on my hands. The musk, the wild, the fear. I washed immediately and now wish I’d held that remaining scent of life a little longer. I can still feel the roughness of her hair against my fingers. And the weight of her, so slight, as we pulled her off the road.

I have never touched a wild animal. I’ve been close to them, to bears and cougars in particular. But not to touch. It’s not the same thing as a petting zoo, this touching one that is truly wild, in its own home. It’s so wrong that it happened this way.

I understand accidents happen, that this driver came around a corner on a narrow forested road, probably going too fast, and didn’t have time to stop. But the driver made the choice to keep going, to leave a living being to face death alone. Yes it would have been scary and I get that the person may not have been able to deal with it. But they left it to others to deal with it, to carry that touch, that smell, those dark eyes, forever. So for that, I have one word for the driver.

Karma.

Wild Book Review

May 14, 2013December 22, 2014 / Lisa / 2 Comments

I live near a portion of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), which runs from the border with Mexico to the border with Canada. One of my sisters wants me to hike it with her. I admit it’s tempting. But I’d have to spend too much money in gear. And find a pack big enough for my bed.

One thing that whetted my fascination with the trail was reading Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods, which is about his trek along the Appalachian Trail. While he can be a bit hard on the forest service, the book made me laugh.

So when my sister gave me Cheryl Strayed’s new book, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, I was excited to read it. Unfortunately the excitement didn’t carry through many pages.

The author hiked the trail to deal with a life that spiraled out of control after the death of her mother. The book took loss, and put it in a unique setting. The writing is polished, the pace moves right along, and the people she meets on the trail are interesting. And in one case scary.

What seemed to be missing, for me, was balance. Meaning by about two-thirds through, I decided I’d had enough navel gazing (and I have to admit, what felt like whining) and not enough of the trail. When the author finally had her breakthrough in dealing with her mother I felt relieved, as if I could now get on with the business of hiking. Unfortunately the book remained on the same path. I wanted more details than just how heavy the pack was or how many toenails remained at the end of the day.

There are a lot of uncomfortable passages and one scene with a horse that is terrible. None made me think or question or grow. They just made me squirm. And I think the analogy Strayed tried to draw with the memory of the horse didn’t work.

In the places where the author did talk about the trail, she did okay with descriptions. I could see the views and feel the weather. But it felt like a tiny snippet of trail, which then segued into a large hunk of grieving. The problem for me, then, was a lack of balance between outer and inner worlds. Plus the fact that, to be honest, the inner world got a bit tiresome.

If you want a book on moving forward after loss, on a life that was self-destructing and slowly pieced back together, then this might be worth reading, though I found it more self-centered than similar memoirs. If you want a book on hiking in the wilderness, read the Barefoot Sister’s books, or Bryson’s. His may not be about the PCT but when he realizes his friend just chucked all the toilet paper over the cliff because it was too heavy, you’ll find yourself standing right next to him.

In Wild, I never found myself on the trail.

Press This

May 12, 2013 / Lisa / 2 Comments

A friend and I recently talked about indie authors creating small presses for their works.

The cynical side of me spoke up. Along the lines of how authors must still feel a tiny bit of shame that there isn’t a publishing house listed under their title. My friend explained the business sense behind having a press, and I get that. I’m even considering it, talking to another friend about starting a small local press.

But let me be brutally honest here. I would feel more like a ‘real’ author if I had a publisher’s name behind me. Heck, even a small press that I started would make me lose that tiny seed of shame when someone asks me, ‘who published your book?’ I could say the name of the press rather than ‘me’.

Dang that makes me mad. That tiny seed of shame. Why am I less of an author, in this day and age, because I am not under a contract, signing my life away to a big name? The truth is, I’m not less of a writer. My stories are just as valuable. Well, I may need a lot more editing than most, but that’s a previous blog post.

Now that my dander is up and I’m continuing the honesty theme, I think even using the phrase ‘I’m an indie author’ is covering up for that seed of shame. Otherwise I’d say ‘I’m self published’. Yes I know there’s a difference between self publishing and self publishing through a vanity press. Yes I know all the arguments for publishing free of an agent and big name. After all, I researched all the pros and cons before I chose which route to go. But still, there’s that ingrained sense of not being a truly published author yet.

You know what I think the problem is?

Age.

Think about it. I grew up when an author’s dream was to land an agent and get picked up by a major publishing house. All the resources for writers explained in detail how to market yourself to an agent.

These days, younger writers are growing up free from that. They are like my teenage son, who amazes me with his computer skills. Compared to me, growing up with a manual typewriter. These young people haven’t had those publishers held in front of them as the only path to being an author. Options and alternatives are more acceptable.

Guess I need to get with the times.

Think I’ll go start a small local press.