Snake in the grass

Thanksgiving 2012

Feels as though I am trapped in a challenging unsolvable Where’s Waldo page. Wearing the same outfit but unrecognizable and invisible to those who search desperately to find me.

A leg-length lagarta (lizard) was entrapped and tormented today. Battle with my feelings of anger and resentment in disbelief. Marquinhos diligently snapped photos for me. He suggested it was dying and thankfully leashed the assailing troublesome Preta dragging her from the scene. She was barking incessantly and biting the terrified creature from behind to avoid the clamping jaws. In anguish and frustration I could not inquire about the outcome. The bleeding mouth dripping bright red as Reinaldo scooped it up by the long whip tale. In the end Marquinhos admits his sympathetic dad was certain the animal hidden in the grass was a venomous snake and threw an enormous rock at it’s head to prevent it from “pegging” anyone.

Left alone the majority of the day with my intermittent grief and required detailed preparation for one remaining class with my sole English student, Cristiane.

Tested the waters by placing my stubbornly misshapen foot on the dry tile floor, gingerly experimenting with its ability to flex. Exercises (thank goodness for the internet!) are mandatory and painstakingly gradual. An improvised ace bandage wound around my atrophied leg while awaiting the opportunity to buy a “sock” that will improve circulation.

Am pleased to see Solange (Marquinhos corrected me on the spelling of his mom’s name as he insists upon looking over my shoulder as I type) was able to squeeze into the carmel stylish goucho pants I presented to her late last week. She pranced and twirled for me in obvious delight. She has been such a glittering abundant bright spot in my lonely and secluded world on the farm these past four weeks.

Appreciate it is not only what I have to share in my life, especially in these insufferable  past few discerning months, but more importantly where I am when I tell my story. Would my words be poles apart if I had spiraled in Toronto, Port Townsend, Minneapolis, Sao Paulo even? Are events exacerbated by the remoteness of a rural locale, lack of stimulating social structure, constant silence drifting off fern and fauna, vibration of an inaccessible undulating washing machine, roosters crowing, silent energy of the farm house, insistent shouts of GGGOOOAAALLL! from the droll of the tv, insistent protective barking, tapping away on the plastic black mini-table while I lean semi-prone mending leg propped in semi-relief.