My Little Golden Book of Phobias

Phinney, the big black and white long hair, came across the lawn, talking the whole time. He understands me. He understands that I speak cat language. Well, and I fed him when his family was away so he thinks fondly of me now. I appreciate it when an animal allows me to approach. It's a cross-species thing.  

When I was on retreat in March, I walked down to the horses by the road in the morning after breakfast. I took an apple, cut in half, one half for each horse. Henry was greedy and he got both halves but he let me pet him and scratch behind his ears. He also rolled in the dirt a lot and had a grubby coat. The horses on the other side of the road were sleek and groomed. They were the upscale horses owned by wealthy Marin-ites. However, they were stabled in close quarters and Henry and his buddy had a few acres to roam (and to roll in the mud). 

Tonight, when I went for a swim with a friend, the lake was very choppy. Every stroke slapped and slid. Tonight I felt mortal. I could feel the water's impersonal body, the depth and the crossover. I never open my eyes when I swim in the lake, except to see where I'm going. I know there are shapes below me, uncoiling and wavering, peripheral.