I happened to walk in on the Unicorn.
She was combing her shimmering mane
And polishing her horn
In preparation for New Years shenanigans.
She looked at me.
She was not pleased.
I wasn’t being nosy.
I just happened to walk in.
I didn’t know she was in the room.
She said it was all right.
I was not to worry.
It could happen to anyone.
And then this happened.
Do you know what’s worse than a burnt unicorn?
A whole herd of burnt unicorns.
Don’t mess with the Unicorn.
It will be better than 2017.
Be safe, be careful.
The Kinoshita Circus is Japan’s largest* and it’s a real circus, staged in a tent, complete with clowns, jugglers, contortionists, acrobats and animals. It was pure delight from start to finish (except for the motorcycles in the giant sphere. That act was entirely too loud and scared the pickles out of me). It was charming, totally professional and yet not quite, especially when the juggler dropped his bowling pin for the third time and the acrobat missed the trapeze and fell into the net. Kudos to him, though, as he climbed right back onto the platform and completed the act. There was an aged elephant who stood on her front feet, then her back feet, then looked right at me as if to say, “Well, what do you expect?” Four bored-looking zebras trotted around the ring in one direction then the other, barely stifling their yawns, eager to get back to their cabbage and carrots.
But then there were lions. There were eight lions, two each of tawny males and females, and four pure white females. They didn’t do much, just jumped through a hoop and did a couple of group poses. The males reared up, but there was no pretense at fierceness, no gnashing of teeth or snapping of whip. The tamer clearly loved them and was loved in return as he patted their magnificent haunches and tugged on their swishing tails. They walked around the ring, swaying their powerful shoulders and flipping their enormous paws. And we were seated less than ten meters away. I cried openly throughout the act, overwhelmed.
By the time we got home that evening, my scalp was beginning to show. So the next morning, armed with the lingering flush of being that close to so much feline magnificence, I plugged in the razor, took a deep breath and mowed a swath right along the top of my head from the middle of my forehead, a reverse Mohawk, an irreversible, total commitment. When I asked Rochi to help with the bits I couldn’t reach, he didn’t flinch, even though I know he was at least as scared as I was.
Picking up that razor brought back the feelings of waking up after my second surgery. As I gradually became aware of the tubes leading in and out of my body, the machines I was attached to, the medical staff bustling around, the difficult and painful recovery that lay ahead, I panicked. All I could think was, “I can’t do this. I just did this. I can’t do it again! I can’t!” I wanted to leap off the table, yank out the tubes and run away from the sterile room, the sterile hospital, the entire sterile, surreal medical world.
Instead, I remembered a visualization I had learned. I closed my eyes and found myself sitting comfortably on a warm rock in a sunny glade under trees swaying in a breeze lightly scented with jasmine. Surrounding me was my tribe, who had taken the form of pastel colored unicorns. Waves of empathy, compassion and love flowed from their soft, gentle eyes, all toward the center of the circle, all toward me.
I experienced all of that in just a few moments but it was enough. My heart stopped pounding. My breathing slowed. I opened my eyes.
Over the past few years I have kept having experiences that left me thinking, “Wow. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” And I keep being wrong about that. But I have learned a valuable lesson: Courage isn’t a lack of fear. Courage is being afraid of something and doing it anyway. And I give thanks every single day for continuing to find that courage in myself and in the people around me.
*Big, squishy clowny hugs of gratitude to Randy and his friend for making this happen.
Our ancestors may have lived perfectly well on what they could hunt and gather. They may have slept on the bare ground and worn mammoth skin to cover their tender bits. They may have gone to bed and risen with the sun and planned their life events around the movements of the celestial orbs. They may have believed in the spirits of rocks and rivers and trees and mountains and butterflies and unicorns. But when it’s over 34 degrees outside and the humidity has blown the mercury right out of the thermometer and turned my hair into a fuzzy blonde afro and my brain is starting to resemble last month’s applesauce, I believe in swimming pools and central air conditioning and ice cubes in my drinks. Although celestial orbs and unicorns are still pretty cool.