by Laura Crum
An
advance warning here: This blog post contains a small rant. I didn’t set out to
rant, but somehow no matter how many times I re-wrote the piece the rant crept
in there. So I gave up and left it in. The post is now sort of bittersweet. It
tells a reasonably pleasant story that I meant to tell, and it also gives a
true view of the frustration I often feel. I am hoping that there are a few of
you out there who will both understand my joy in being a hermit and also my
frustration with what Ratty (of Wind in the Willows) called “the wide world.”
Anyway, those who read this blog
and my books may perceive me as a reasonably social person, but the truth is
far different. In real life, I really am something of a hermit. And lately it’s
getting worse. Or better. Depends on your point of view.
In
my old age (I’m 55) I am just plain happy at home with my husband and son and
my horses and other critters and my garden. Doesn’t matter if I’m riding or
doing chores, I can fill hours messing with the horses and/or wandering around
the garden observing what’s in bloom (in the spring) or ready to be harvested
(summer and fall). Truthfully I can fill happy hours watching the spring breeze
toss the treetops on the ridges, or watching the goldfish dart around the pond,
or the quail pecking in the riding ring, or the lizards catching bugs. I could
seriously go on all day listing tons of small events here on my mini-ranch that
happily engross me. I like to write, so often I write about these things. I like
to take photos…and sometimes I post them here and on facebook. And I like to
sit on the porch with a cup of tea in the early morning and a margarita in the
evening watching the light change. I am never bored.
Fortunately
I married a man who is also happy to avoid the social scene, and our son, like
us, is an introvert, who appreciates lots of time alone. I make sure my son has
a social life with his friends that works for him, but my kid, like me, enjoys
swinging on the barnyard swing and just watching the horses and chickens (and
sometimes the deer and bobcats) for a good bit of time each day. Yes, we ride
with our friends and do more ambitious things, but I think we get our greatest
joy just being peacefully quiet here in nature.
There
is so much to see and do in the springtime….the chickens are endlessly
entertaining. Toby the rooster struts.
Our
cat Tigger amongst the hens.
A
one day old bantie chick.
The
roses are really starting to bloom. This is Fortune’s Double Yellow rose in my
wild garden. It’s not really yellow, but it was discovered by the plant hunter
Robert Fortune in China in 1844, and at that time there were no yellow roses in
commerce. So this rose was a big deal. And it is still a glory today. An early
rose-- it is always in full flower in April.
We
ride and have much fun with our horses.
So
my life is good and happy and I have no complaints. It’s just that I feel I
don’t fit in any more in groups of people. There are friends that I care about,
and one-on-one with them I’m fine. I can be polite and reasonably friendly with
waitresses and checkers and such. I can hang around with my horse friends and
talk horse. But put me in a group of folks that I’m just barely acquainted
with, and I’m no good at all. In fact, I’m kind of miserable.
The
problem is that I think my social skills (what I had of em) are slowly
vanishing. I’m becoming a hermit. I feel out of place with groups of people any
more. I try. I treat others as I would like to be treated—which means I respect
their space and I say what I mean and mean what I say. Somehow this isn’t working
too well. Other people just don’t seem to play by this code.
As
far as I can tell, many people expect me to mouth things I don’t mean, and make
nice when others are treading on my toes. And when I let them know (in my
straight forward way) that this sort of thing doesn’t fly with me, I am
perceived as a grouch (actually I think the right word has one less letter and
also ends in “ch”). And then a lot of people seem to share a form of sarcastic
humor that I mostly don’t get and don’t find funny when I do get it. If you
take a shot at me with venom disguised as humor, I still read the emotional
content perfectly, and I don’t care for it. I’m liable to let you know that I
don’t care for it, too.
It
feels to me that my instincts have become similar to my horses and other
critters. I expect truth and honesty and simplicity, just as I get from my
animals. I try to give it back. I’m not comfortable with the two-faced attitude
shown by many people, and on top of that I don’t share their interests. I don’t
watch TV and I don’t like popular music and I really don’t “get” a great deal
of popular culture, from politics to fashion to sports. I don’t want to get it.
I’m interested in the green color of the light before a storm and the specific
scents of different roses and how many words my smart little dog has learned to
understand. I could spend hours listing the fascinating things that delight me
here at my home. But I find many people confusing, and, to be frank, boring. I
do better with animals.
I often leave a group interaction
with people feeling frustrated. I don’t try to manipulate any one into doing
what I want them to do. I really
resent others trying to manipulate me. I don’t take covert shots at people. If
there is something I don’t like or don’t agree with, I’ll say so—openly. And I
am fine with others doing the same with me. It doesn’t threaten me when someone
disagrees with me. But it seriously annoys me when someone takes a sneaky shot
at me—in the guise of “teasing humor.” I had a “friend” like this once. When I
let her know that her malicious little games were not OK with me she wrote me
off and never spoke to me again. Since then I’ve been a lot more careful about
who I accept as a friend. For me a friend is someone “who stabs you in the
front” (I believe this is a quote from Oscar Wilde…thanks, Dahlia).
In short, more and more I feel like
a misfit around other “normal” people and can’t wait to get home and shut my
front gate behind me. Sometimes I lock it.
Here,
back with my horses and dogs and cats and chickens and garden and little
family, I let out a deep breath of relief and feel almost instantly happy
again. Here I fit in. I’m good with a horse, I get along with my kid (sorry all
you mommy bloggers, but its true), and I love all the plants and animals of
this place—domestic and wild. I listen to my husband play his pipes and enjoy
the wild notes drifting out over the ridge. The horses graze contentedly by the
vegetable garden. The little dog sits in my lap; I stroke her rough fur and I
can smell the jasmine. I feel a real sense of connection and peace. Yes, I am
becoming a hermit. A happy hermit.
Does
anybody else feel like this? I keep wondering if other people might be
“hermits” like me, and possibly share some of my frustration when it comes to
interacting in the “wide world.” I don’t mind being a loner (not at all), but
it is fun to share thoughts with like-minded folks, so I’m putting this out
there just for fun. Any horse loving hermits reading this blog?
