Chapter Five
It was the weekend. Mirabelle had the day off, so she decided to go for a walk in the hills west of town. She asked Edward if he would like to accompany her, but he declined. Edward had some things to do at the factory and he never liked the outdoors much, anyway. He apologized profusely for having to disappoint her but Mirabelle assured him that it didn't upset her.
She made her way to the edge of town and stepped onto one of the trails leading into the woods. The trail would lead Mirabelle to a hillside clearing overlooking the town. It was here Mirabelle liked to sit and contemplate, attempting to observe life from a higher perspective.
The morning air was cool and slightly damp as she wound her way up the hillside. Stones, earth, twigs and needles crunched under her boots with every step. The faint smell of pines lingered in the air as a gentle breeze made the tree branches sway in a hypnotic dance around her. Morning sunlight diffused through the forest canopy casting everything in a steely grey light.
When alone and surrounded by nature, as she was now, Mirabelle could feel lingering traces of her once deep and profound connection to the natural world. When she felt this connection, it seemed to her that everything was alive and conscious; and she felt as if she were not separate from the consciousness inhabiting the plants, animals, and elements around her.
* * *
As a child, after returning from school and finishing her chores, Mirabelle would spend her days playing around the farm or wandering through the groves of trees that grew by the river at the edge of the Laughlin property. Nature fascinated Mirabelle and she loved being outdoors with her friends: the trees, the river, the field, the rocks.
Little Mirabelle felt that each natural being had its own personality: the river was a slow, meandering gentle old man; the trees and plants were like human families with old, wizened grandparents, strong adults, boisterous youth, and baby seedlings; and the stones on the riverbank were ancient, stolid individuals who had seen the long passage of time spin by for aeons.
Old man river would talk to Mirabelle teaching her the wisdom of flowing through life and of sharing what one had to benefit everyone. The oak trees also taught Mirabelle to share: giving their shade, shelter, and acorns freely. They also taught Mirabelle to stand tall and strong. The river stones taught Mirabelle to endure: the wisdom of "this too shall pass;" and their beautiful rounded shapes admonished her to polish herself if she wanted to have a pleasing personality.
It was fire, however, that fascinated Mirabelle the most. Whether the tiny flicker of a candle flame, the strong, warm heat of the stove fire, or the raging intensity of a prairie brush fire, Mirabelle loved fire the most. Maybe it was the pretty colors, the crackling and popping sounds, or its passion and intensity that so attracted Mirabelle to fire. In any case, she felt an even stronger kinship with fire than she did with all the other elements.
Magic was real in Mirabelle's childhood but as she grew older it had disappeared from her life. Reality sneaked up on her from behind and before she knew it, the world seemed a little less brighter, a little less exciting, and Mirabelle could no longer see, talk to, or hear the whispering of, her nonhuman friends.
* * *
Working her way further along the trail and up the hill, Mirabelle stopped to sit on a boulder and catch her breath. The quiet tranquility of morning was punctuated by the occasional birdcall and rustling sounds of small animals. Though she knew she was high up on the hill, Mirabelle could not yet see the view the trek promised to offer. The forest guarded that treasure dilligently and only blue patches of sky could be seen amongst the treetops. Having rested, Mirabelle continued on the trail.
As she climbed the hillside, she could see light shining at the end of the path further ahead of her . The trail was opening into the clearing. Mirabelle walked ahead quickly, eager to bask in some warm sunshine.
She came out of the pathway and into the clearing. It was a hillside clearcut left by logging done long ago. Stumps of cut down trees sat defiantly amongst the short green grasses and blooming wildflowers that had appeared with the return of spring. The sun shone strongly on the clearing causing it to be much warmer than the forest she had to pass through.
Mirabelle sat down on a tree stump and looked around. The slope of this part of the hill she was on was somewhat low--preventing the clearcut from causing the whole hillside from crashing down upon the town when the occasional rains or seasonal snow melts came. Somewhere, she thought as she looked across to the other side of the clearcut, must be an old logging road that lead up to this place.
The trees that grew around here weren't of high grade timber so most of the hills went uncut. Lumber for Ponderosa had to be brought in from out of state, for the most part. Still, occasional cuts were made to supply firewood or fencing for the ranchers and farmers who would come into town to buy supplies.
The hill looked over the town and much of the surrounding land. East of Ponderosa lay the vast expanse of prairie: upon which, somewhere over the horizon, Mirabelle had been born. West of the hills, out of her sight, loomed the Rocky Mountains--their sharp, jagged, snow-covered peaks cut into the clear blue sky above.
Having taken a look around, Mirabelle laid out a blanket (being careful not to crush any flowers) and sat down for lunch. Eating slowly, she lovingly took in the grandeur of the view before her.
Nature's grandeur was the attraction that held the people who lived in Colorado under its spell. The land was wild, untamed, and awesome in its beauty. Even the most logical, rational, and materialistic automaton of a human being found it hard not to be awed and humbled when in the wilderness of Colorado. Away from trival concerns, the vastness of life revealed itself, making a person feel inconceivably small in the grand scheme of things and yet not unimportant to the process. A person made her mark on the world no matter how small it may be.
Mirabelle looked down towards Ponderosa nestled at the base of the hill; its buildings and roads bustled with the ant-sized figures of people engaged in their weekend activities. In the distance, outside the town's southern outskirts, winded the local river. It's serpentine form shimmered in the day's sunlight as it made it's way down from the hills, along the plains, and into the horizon. It was an important river. It provided water for the town and for the farms and ranches to the east. To the north and south were foothills, small towns like Ponderosa, and more ranches and farms.
Nibbling on her sandwich, Mirabelle stopped chewing a moment to pause and think about her life. She did love Edward, she did want to marry him and everybody advised her to do so but try as she might she couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing in her life. The reverend had made an excellent argument to Mirabelle and had swayed her beliefs for a moment, but sitting up here alone, she could see that for all the arguments against them, she still had to follow her feelings. She had trusted them her entire life and they had never led her astray--at least it never seemed as if they had.
She looked to the horizon and felt a gentle breeze tickle her face as it raced up the hill. Her feelings were as elusive as the wind and yet even less tangible. She had followed them all her life but maybe her circumstances were different now, she wondered. She was a fully-matured adult, after all--perhaps it was time she started behaving like one. No one she knew trusted his feelings or even placed any importance to them. Everyone was expected to behave in a rational, logical (and to Mirabelle, boring) manner. She had managed to trust and follow her feelings this far in life but the cost was constant arguing with her parents, feeling like an outsider from the general populace, and being thought of as rebellious and impulsive: bad enough for a man, unthinkable for a girl.
Maybe it was time to give it up: Give up her different, childish (according to her parents) way of living, Mirabelle considered. She was getting older: at age twenty-six many people considered her to be very late in getting married. To them it made sense she would still be unmarried for she was unfemininely indepenent and free-spirited.
How she had managed to get Edward to want to engage her in holy matrimony was an unfathomable mystery to people who knew him. Who would want a woman who was rebellious and impulsive? Other eligible bachelors avoided Mirabelle for they would imagine themselves coming home to find her standing in the open front doorway waiting there with a huge, wickedly-sharp battle-axe over her shoulder. None of them could deny she was very physically attractive, but in the world of sensible cost-benefit analysis her beauty didn't sufficiently compensate for her unlady-like personality.
Mirabelle sighed. She liked living her life in her own way but she was beginning to think that the price she paid was too exorbitant. If she would just ignore her feelings--the feeling that something was missing from her life--she and Edward would be living happily ever after...
She imagined herself and Edward in each others' arms existing in a state of conjugal bliss as the years passed them by: It was such a beautiful dream...
Mirabelle frowned. Angry with herself over her conflicting feelings, she questioned herself, harshly: "This 'something missing' feeling, what did it mean, anyway?" It was just a feeling and didn't stand for very much when subjected to the rigors of logic. A woman's role in life is to be a supporting wife to her husband, to sacrifice her dreams and ambitions for the good of her man and her family. For a woman to pursue her own wants and desires was selfish and inconceivable.
Mirabelle knew that was the way the world operated: women throughout history have always held the inferior position in society. If women starting thinking for themselves, civilization itself would undoubtedly collapse. She imagined an angry world, the masses, accusingly pointing at her, knowing that it was she who had sent society into utter chaos by thinking for herself.
It was time to give up her impulsive ways, Mirabelle thought. Her future as a housewife looked so promising and fulfilling when looked at from the proper way of seeing things. Feelings were for the immature and irrational--misfits frowned upon by society as a whole. Mirabelle still had time to avoid joining the ranks of the insane and foolish: she was simply looked upon as a young woman who hung onto her childish ways with incredible stubbornness. It wasn't too late for her to become a proper woman, a respectable woman.
The shrill cry of an eagle jolted Mirabelle out of her ruminations. Tracing the source of the cry, she looked up and to her left to see an eagle, high in the sky, circling ever-higher on an invisible column of rising air. She watched it wistfully, longingly--she was envious of the bird's majesty and freedom in comparison to herself.
Mirabelle felt her dreams were like the eagle flying so unaware and unconscious of its power. Her dreams were so lofty, so out of reach to her. She wanted to be loved and respected for who she was--herself; not for the perfect woman everybody wanted and wished she would be. She didn't like the idea of having her identity imposed on her by other people. They all wanted to change her into their ideal Mirabelle: obedient, respectful, self-sacrificing, subserviant--the perfect Mirabelle, the perfect woman. Despite their pleading, she could never bring herself to be so mendacious, so unlike her true self.
She didn't want to pander herself to Edward, to men. She happily did whatever Edward asked of her because she wanted to please him, to make him happy, not because she was a woman and should be subservient to him. Edward understood this or at least seemed to because he loved her in kind and did many little things to make her equally happy: He was tender and caring, he bought her gifts, and he said he would always take care of her.
Mirabelle froze momentarily, stunned. She had the realization that, upon looking at it, in many ways she did behave like society's ideal woman with Edward: she was respectful, subservient, and submissive to his whims; not because she felt it was her duty to be that way but simply because she loved him and found happiness in pleasing him.
"Was it so bad being the perfect woman?" she wondered. Edward did seem like the perfect man. It was the ideal match: handsome and charming Edward with beautiful and loving Mirabelle. Maybe she did have what she really wanted out of life--the truest love two people could find, a pairing of the body and personality so perfect that it seemed divine. Being with Edward was like being in heaven for Mirabelle, after all.
With that last thought, Mirabelle no longer had the feeling that something was missing from her life. She had found the emptiness within her, the feeling that would not leave her alone, satiated with her love for Edward and his love for her. As she reflected upon it, perhaps she could be happy as a modest wife, a modest woman. Making Edward happy did bring Mirabelle the greatest joy. Love fulfilled her and made her feel whole.
Mirabelle sat on the hillside a while longer, absorbing the feeling of the utter rightness of her decision. With her conviction at its apex, she then made her way down the trail. She would be the Mirabelle everyone had wanted: the perfect woman, the perfect wife. She could be happy living the ideal life everyone dreamed of.
Floating down the hillside trail, Mirabelle was at peace with herself. The nagging feeling of lack that before had pervaded her life was dispelled forever. In the clearing she left behind the shadow of the old, rebellious, impulsive Mirabelle. The wind lapped at its outline and blew it steadily away.
