How my husband compared me to a goat… and it was a good thing.
Buttermilk came my way in an e-mail from my husband. He sent me the link to the video with the subject line “You ARE Buttermilk!” See, that’s how he views me — capable of explosive excitement over the smallest things. That’s very sweet, and he’s right, but not completely. At my best, at my most “me” I am that goat, but too often I forget to be grateful for the sunny prednisone day, or the grass underneath my feet. I get bogged down by the assignment I haven’t yet completed, or the phone call I am dreading, or the Macy’s bill I know is on its way. And it’s not just my joy I allow to be foreclosed upon by those grown-up worries. It’s my creativity, my life force.
So now when I feel the weight of responsibility closing in, I take a minute, and watch Buttermilk. She reminds me of the way I want to live. Unfettered, unafraid, full speed ahead. The Hell with Spartacus — “I am Buttermilk!”
P.S: My husband insists he is the black goat knocked on his butt by Buttermilk’s exuberance, but that’s a different post altogether.