Shock Treatment

Hurts so good

When I was a kid and adolescent, I was in the habit of remaking myself according to whatever passing fancy enchanted me almost weekly. I got my inspiration from inputs as far-flung as Pippi Longstocking, "Small Wonder," The Catcher in the Rye, Bjork and Bikini Kill and would spend weeks inhabiting what I imagined was the psyche of the various protagonists of whatever cultural influence I'd been fixated on at the time, reminding myself during class to sit this way or answer a question with that inflection in order to remain faithful to whichever model I'd been studying. I didn't do this with any organized regularity, nor was I particularly strategic about it. For me it was armor, a way of testing out personae and creating distance between the outside world and my mushy, indistinct interiors, a means of anticipating outcomes based upon documented material and comforting myself with the knowledge that these put-ons gave me leeway. If someone thought I was annoying or nerdy or lame, they were merely reacting to my version of Vicki the Robot or Kathleen Hanna, not the real true me. 

Having recently turned "officially not young," I've been thinking a lot about my past, and my expectations of the future, and what progress I have made over the last few years in terms of obtaining some level of self-awareness and betterment as a human specimen. I believe most fervently in the potential inherent in the fresh start/clean slate/new endeavor, and with each new place I have touched down, I have vowed to implement certain patterns of behavior that I convince myself will remake me and thus ripple-effect my life into being the tranquil yet exciting escapade I imagine it ought to be. I have believed, and still believe, that making all these superficial changes will somehow transform me into someone else. 

The last month or so has brought some things into stunning focus. For example, I know now, with very little doubt, that I want to be in this painfully beautiful place that, if I recall correctly, I've been trying to live in for at least the last 7 years. To finally be able to put down roots and tether myself, however tentatively, to this patch of earth, is weirdly liberating. I've never wanted to JUST STAY PUT so badly. (Talk to me in February.) I also know that in spite of the difficulty and the limited earning power that this professional trajectory all but assures me, I want to continue to dig in my heels with the ruminants and their assorted dairy products. Being uncertain and afraid to commit to anything has made me a half-person for too long. Vermont has made me, even in my bleakest moments, the best version of myself (give or take monstrous melancholy and crushing self-doubt). And I want to, I need to ride this out for as long as I possibly can.

A few days ago, we brought the second group of doelings out on to grass to join their elders. A necessary part of this process is getting them acclimated to the electric fence by, literally, putting their little faces up to the electrified netting and shocking them, so that they learn to stay away from it. Inevitably, there are a few who take longer to train, and in the pain and shock and confusion of it all, they wind up running IN to the fence rather than away from it, entangling themselves in something that will continue to hurt it the more it tries to escape.

I mean could this metaphor be more heavy handed? Let's just say I'm a slow-on-the-uptake doeling in this fucking scenario. 

But bitch is learning. 

Bitch is learning all MANNER of thing, including how to give intramuscular shots to treat hoof rot and subcutaneous shots and IVs for hypocalcemia, listen for proper rumen activity and other goat-centric endeavors. I am hellbent on refining my hoof-trimming techniques and graduating to at LEAST an intermediate level in the Tractor Arts, and strengthening my understanding of goat health (I bought myself a book on holistic goat care as a birrrday present because THIS IS WHO I AM NOW MOTHERFUCKERS). I am also determined to navigate the line between humility and self-immolation. Do I have a shit ton still to learn? Yes. But Do I fucking know some stuff, can I hold my own just the tiniest bit in this cheesy world I've begun to inhabit fully? Also yes. 

For the last week, I've been distracted by my stupid injury and forgotten all about one of the most pleasure-giving activities I've found since arriving here just about a month ago: walking to and from work on the railtrail that runs through the woods, parallel to a burbling goddamned stream and all winding-like through plants and flowers and fields. I was doing this the other day when I discovered that I was inadvertently smooshing the many thousands of snails that chill all up and down the path and all over the fields, and suddenly I was gripped with anxiety, trying to sidestep them and hopping awkwardly down the trail to avoid a veritable gastropod genocide. Eventually, I gave up, electing walk in grass instead of dirt so at the very least I couldn't SEE myself stepping on them. I wanted, desperately, to focus not simply downward, but around me, above my sight line, ahead of me, and way way way up. 

Even if it was just for a minute or two before I started hopping again. Because we never really change. I'm a person who will worry about snails instead of taking in the beautiful landscape.

But for that brief moment pretending I wasn't, it felt so nice.