Cutting the mustard

So by now we are fully aware that the idea of April showers is not just a saying. It’s a fact of life. A fact of life that affected a recently planned event around the pleasure of walking the trails with a donkey named Thunder. Actually the event had the bonus of the inclusion of Thunder’s brother Joe, also a 12-year-old standard bred. The one thing I have learned from being around my fourlegged friends over past years is that April showers are no big deal; they’re simply a matter of the natural cycle and we’re glad for them. So this past Saturday, in the rain, we listened to the message of the donkeys. We took to the trail with a small group of human friends.

I find animals to be very Zen when it comes to accepting what is. I mean domestic cats are next level Zen, but when it comes to donkeys, one key lesson that I have learned has to do with humility. Donkeys tell you not to rush and take in all that’s around. The humility part understands that animals are sentient Beings; they have deep feelings and possess hyper-focused senses that inform them of their environment. Their senses connect them to others. Donkeys will heed a warning call from a blue jay; they can smell water, below the sand in desert conditions. They will dig many feet down to reveal the water which in turn attracts other species which in turn leave a compost of poo which in turn is seeded by insects and birds to eventually see the waterhole blossom into permanent habitat. My every opportunity spent with the animals offers comfort and grounding simply by being who they are.

So we’re along the Millennium Trail on a soaker of a day and we take pause with Thunder and Joe as they feast on the new spring grass that borders the pathway. Both of them vouch for the rumour that the grass can definitely be greener on the other side. The stop/start pace of our walk offers time to witness the flourishing ground. I’m not good at remembering the names of plants and flowers, but as a visual thinker what I see are the blood reds of the dogwood; the pale greens of opening buds on the apple trees that border the route. Then down in the hollows where the streams run shines the ochre yellow of marsh marigolds and brighter tones yet of wild garlic mustard. Speaking of the latter, a species which is invasive; I picked some and sample smelled and tasted a leaf simply to know of its texture; we then pull another shoot with a flower on it and offer it to Thunder. He takes it in his soft lips and, I have to say to his credit he was first to spit it out before I did. In other words, the taste test didn’t cut the mustard.

As things normally work with me and as we continued along the trail toward our destination—the gate of Noble Beast Farm where the ceremonial planting of a crab apple tree awaited, I query my mind as to the origins of the ‘mustard’ expression that seemed to be at the tip of my tongue. So when I get home I investigate and see an array of possible origins put out by folks everywhere. I decide the versions I like best are the ones that discuss the exactness of cutting mustard in different sizes—fine, medium grain—back in the time of pre-mechanization when cutting was done by hand and therefore high standards of skill set a benchmark of ideal. Turns out the saying is of the variety of ‘up to snuff’ and so I just leave it at that. I’ll save it as a conversation piece for the next cocktail gathering I may attend. It’ll be a grabber I expect.

The rain let up and the sky turned lighter, which offered, in every step and observation while remaining in the moment, a quietude and gratitude for a time of engagement with the natural rhythms of life of every kind.

The day wound down after the tree planting and a feast of chocolate chip cookies made by our friend Susan at Saylor House Café. As we headed up the rise of the farm lane toward the paddock and stable where the donkeys spend their time, I thought of the appropriateness of the name of the species of flowering crab apple we had just put in the ground. The species is called Thunderchild, which clearly denoted the power of connection between people spending time together. If you’re in the hood and along the trail, stop by to greet Thunderchild and watch as its blossoms open in days ahead in celebration of a life force all round.

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