Looking out my Backdoor: The horse sat on my chest

Let’s start with the back story. Way Back.

Last year, because of the pandemic, I took my travel money and gutted my bodega which was a mishmash of shelves cobbled together from scrap wood. Shoved in rather randomly were what I call man tools and that which I didn’t want stored in the house. It was a mess, but needs must.

Once my bodega transformed into my guest bedroom, I kept imagining how nice it would be to have a bathroom alongside my bedroom. In back and along the outer side of the bodega runs a hallway which I call a tunnel. One afternoon while sitting on the patio, I noticed that the back tunnel is an integral part of the bodega. And it was seldom used, man-tool (mostly mine) stuff now neatly arranged in the side tunnel. Hmmm.

Front story begins here. A couple months ago I beckoned Leo and Josue. “Would it be possible to knock a doorway through the bodega back wall, wall up the ends of the ‘tunnel’ and in that narrow space put a tiny but functional bathroom.”

The men measured, drew air pictures with their hands, talked about how to hook up to the septic, you know, man stuff. (Chuckle, chuckle.)

Both said, yes, we can do it and it won’t be that hard. So. How much will it cost?

I figured that tripping around the planet was not an option for me, yet again this year, due to the ding-donged new and revised issue of COVID.

Hot diggity dog. I could build a bathroom with this year’s trip money. “Yes. Do it.”

The following evening my son Ben phoned. “I’m on the computer to book my Mexico flight while we talk, Mom.” How sweet is that? I knew he was coming but now it is real. Know what I mean?

“Mom, I need a quiet place away from everything, a place to relax and get some direction for my next step in life.”

“Ben, this should be perfect. I’m building a bathroom for the bodega. You can have complete solitude when you want it.”

Next day I sauntered across the lane. “Josue, can my bathroom be done by Ben’s arrival?” He looked at his hand device on which ‘everything’ is stored, nodded his head, “Yes, I think so.”

Immediately I went from excited to EXCITED. Several days passed. No activity. I emptied the bodega into my house, with squeak through pathways.

Several more days passed. No work. Then Abel, a master with brick and tile work, came and began digging trenches, through the tunnels, across the patio, to hook up with the septic line. He and Josue began working evenings, after their regular work. Some days three hours. Two hours. Some days.

I began to worry. How could the job possibly be done in time? When I say worry, I mean I lay in bed nights figuring out worst possible scenarios up to and including Ben and I killing each other for lack of privacy and alone time.

Little bits got done. Little things. Big lots of mess. The men all assured me the job would get done in time for me to clean, repaint and put the bodega back together. It will happen, they said. I nodded.

My ability to believe had come undone. My anxiety shot ever upward. I could see myself spinning myself upward and couldn’t stop. Normally, I don’t worry about what or when or how. This is so unlike me. It is. Really.

Then one night in a dream more vivid than real life, I was trying to move a balky horse. The horse pushed me down and sat on my chest. I couldn’t move a muscle with his big quarter horse rump holding me in place. I woke up. The dream felt too real.

I asked my daughter who is more conversant with these things, “What means this dream?”

She said, “A horse is opinionated. You have to work with them to make them feel they are doing what they want. Anything like that going on in your life? You feeling pushed? Or feeling like you’re doing the pushing?”

“Oh.” Though I wasn’t being pushy outwardly, I certainly was pushy inwardly. It was all in my own head. With that light bulb moment, the horse got off my chest. I got off the ground.

I fired myself from the position of CEO of Worry. Though I was quite good at the job.

Every day when Lola and I walk, we visit horses in the next field. I’ve named them Pretty Boy and Lawn Mower. I pet them but I don’t let them get too close.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/ . Email [email protected].