I wanted to write something intelligent tonight. I wanted to share with you some of the lessons I’ve learned lately or some of the anecdotes that my life seems to provide in abundance.
But it seems that I am just too tired.
My fingers clitter-clatter over the keys and I make up onomatopoeia and nothing really profound appears in the aftermath.
I am still living on an island.
I am still keeping track of how many more days must pass until I no longer have to wake up to a 5:30am alarm six days a week. (47 more days.)
I am still in love with horses and the sound of waves and the way the world smells just after it rains.
I am still vibrantly alive, more so than I ever dreamed was possible in the madness of the last few semesters of school.
It is funny, how coming to Mackinac where everything is slower has quickened my thirst for life.
Because everything is slower here.
The fastest you can go on the island is 50mph when you’re biking down the three steepest hills, and that’s against the law and so you have to risk a $100 ticket. The fastest you can legally go on the island is 25mph on your bike, and I don’t have a bike so for me it’s walking or horse-drawn carriage.
Horses don’t go too fast, especially around here.
So everything is slower on the island.
Time doesn’t move slower here, but it does seem to kind of get lost. Like, I intellectually know that it is July 10th and my summer is half gone. But it doesn’t feel like July to me. Heck, it doesn’t even feel like I exist in the same dimension as time belongs in.
Most days I have no idea what the date is or what day of the week it is, or even what time it is—short of hungry vs. not-so-hungry moments.
Life is blurry and drowsy and sometimes it’s disjointed around the edges. Life is horse kisses and horse manure and telling jokes about horse pee because it makes the tourists laugh and when they laugh they sometimes tip me. Life is good songs and songs that I’m sick of and hearing all my music so often that I despair and want to hurl my headphones across the lake.
Here on the island you can’t ever be more than four miles from anywhere else on the island.
I had a child ask on my tour the other day where my horse’s arms were. My roommate had someone ask her how much the island weighed and how many trees there are on the island.
You can never get more than four miles away from the questions here, from the entitlement of the rich and the young and the millennials, from the bikers who haven’t sat on a bike in years and years and years.
Life is compressed. It’s slow. It’s early mornings and it’s long days and it never sleeps.
And sometimes, life is worth it.
Sometimes life has Oscar.
Oscar is old.
He knows things. He’s seen things.
(Maybe numerically I’m older, but you know wisdom when you see it.)
Sometimes, in the morning, when I’m trying too hard to stay pleasant because the barn is chaos and my patience is thinnest when I’m tired, Oscar nuzzles my face and gazes at me with eyes so steady and deep and pure that I think maybe I’ve just caught a glimpse of what heaven might be like.
And then sometimes Oscar goes out in the corral and rolls in the mud until he’s no longer a white horse and I have to transform him back from the brown horse that he’s become, and then I think that there’s no heaven in Oscar at all.
There is pain in the world, and degradation, and inequality, and death. And it’s here, even on Mackinac, where life is so abundant and vibrant.
Life wends its way past death with the clatter of hooves and the cushion of obliviousness and the cheery smile of a tour guide.
I miss church.
I miss friends and family so deeply that I can’t sleep without them walking through my dreams, but it’s wonderful because I wake with the echo of their hugs.
This summer has already been both fantastic and tragic, both giddy and despairing.
Over the next 47 days—days made edgeless by sleeplessness and routine—why should I expect any less tempestuous a ride?
When everything is disjointed, I am so glad to be held by the God who is the I Am.