“Get Back On The Horse”

Date: 15 January 2016

Time: 4:30pm

Temperature: 36°F

People often use the phrase "get back on the horse." This phrase means that you should do something to challenge yourself after some sort of failure. For example, when you are first learning to ride a bike, and you keep falling off, a parent might say “get back on the horse,” even though they mean “get back on the bike.” Here, it means that Abby (me) should to get back in the tree. However, I am going to take it slow, re-introduce myself to the tree, getting to know it again.

Today, I walk around the base of my tree, taking it in. My dog explores with me while we wait for dinner to be ready. He looks at me occasionally, not sure of what we are doing. He quickly moves to start sniffing out for food, for creatures to “play” with.

The sky is a blue-grey color as the clouds bring the weather and as the sun starts its descent, casting oranges and yellows across the horizon. The grass crunches under my feet, both from its lack of chlorophyll and the frost that is settling in. The same goes for the weeds across the street in the cow field, empty now since the cows stick closer to their barn in the winter months.

The occasional bird—finches, I believe—sings from the distance. Every once in a while, they fly over heads, graceful black shadows against the pale January sky. The hum of an engine, a tractor perhaps, creates a back-beat to our adventures, like a base-drum of a good song. It disappears before we go back inside.

There is a faint breeze that moves the hairs that fell loose from my bum along with the smaller branches of the tree. It might be cold out, but the wind feels nice, an indication of a good spring to come. It smells clean, but I miss the pollen from fresh flowers and that indescribable smell of an incoming rainstorm.

My tree is framed by a garden box my dad constructed for my mom many years ago, reminding me still of Lincoln-Logs. Brown-black mulch covers the frozen ground. Colored seashells pile under the tree, memories of past trips to the beach. A few leftover skeletons of flowers remain behind from fall. There are two bird houses: one that I made with my dad when I was about seven and one he made a few years after. Their exteriors are painted a bright sky blue in attempt to attract bluebirds, though we house more yellow finches in our boxes than anything.

Finally, I move to examine my tree, a sugar maple. The bark is rough as a work my way around its base again, some of it breaks off under my touch. A car passes me on our quiet street. Dry sea-form-colored moss grows on three of its sides, not just the northern side like they tell you when you are younger. Roots now have grown from under the garden’s box, away from the safety of their dirt home, and towards the sun.

I wanted to climb into my tree, see if I could fit into all of the little notches that I used to, but I had wanted to take this slow. Next time, I will spend more time outside, up in my tree. Like Muir, I’ll close my eyes and listen to the “music.”