Essay by Su Zi: Voluntary Service

 

Voluntary Service

There is a place we sleep, and often we call that place home.

The physical area around our home is our community; although we also can have communities of interest that are not as tied to walking distance, that can be just as foundational to our lives as a safe place to sleep.

Just as the quality of our sleep-nest affects us, so do the qualities of our communities; however, just as there are ways we can make more pleasant our homes, there are also ways we can make our communities more pleasant as well, by the occasional lending of a hand.

Ecological disasters do bring forth any neighbor who is adept with a chainsaw, but we need not wait to meet the neighbors until the fourth day of no power.

Yes, everyone is beleaguered with worries, and there are some people who are stymied, who might circle and snort or yowl and cause tonal chaos, or worse; however, humanity has virtues, and to this, we seek solace.

In the memory of our deepest comforts, there is pleasure. Perhaps we kept that pleasure alive through hobby. Perhaps we read up on it some. Perhaps we attended events and were immersed in a group of other people who too are there to enjoy.  We gain energization, and we carry that into our next days, sharing that happiness: we had a good time.

The adage to do what you love requires economic commitment, but

what if it was just the time of day

a day

given

It might be that you arise in the dark and first light finds you at a local park, perhaps. You cannot help but see the first of the day’s rays greet the trees, and you get to stand there a minute, however long you can hold still and watch the glow. Of course, there’s the event office, and whatever you have signed up to do, whatever equipment the event coordinator is required to provide for the day’s use: a clipboard, maybe. Every event held outside relies on volunteers, and the list of local events is not difficult to locate—festivals and exhibitions, sporting events and inter-species events such as dog trials, agricultural festivals and horse shows.

I have been a volunteer since the 20^th century, since childhood when mamma allowed me to work a shift at Barb Sielaff’s recycling center. It is what one does.

 For the past few decades, I have given of myself to those magnificent, much beleaguered beasts that city folk call horsie stuff. Over time, I have become increasingly fascinated with the influence of horses on humanity, on the best of ourselves, our humanity. We shared our lives with horses—as many of us continue to do with dogs and cats and birds and aquatics. And yes, it’s true that I, too, have been down the centerline—there are trophies and ribbons and photos and certificates—but the joy of it is more than recorded service to the sport.

It might be that

On a February morning that has been now a February morning for well-nigh thirty years, you again pass through well-known gates and great your hostess, now an acquaintance after all this time, all these shared years here.

It might be that

There is, in the glowing morning, a one hundred- and fifty-year-old run about, made of trees that no longer exist, and stunningly slender and elegant of line, the original wood a soft patina in the last of dawn.    

It might be that

You take your hat and drive through the dark, and whoever is there at the gate, you still take your spot under a certain tree. Maybe there are tents and golf carts, plastic tables and urns of coffee, a t shirt with the event logo. The layout always puts the arena on a prepared hill, carefully constructed for level footing, There are international flags, there are international languages; best of all, there are horses: a Shetland and Chincoteague and a Fjord pony, Morgans and not only the big Dutch harness horses, but teams of them—a song in percussion of hooves and earth.

It might be that

You see someone you know, have known. That the years were or were not kind matters not because here you are now, seeing them, bumping shoulders, How the hell are ya?, your hats allowing a moment’s glimpse into each other’s eye; yes, we are still here

It might be that

Here comes someone you know, early for the in-gate, circling the trees in figure eights. You remember a moment decades ago, maybe before the almost gown son on the back of the carriage was out of swaddle, and you speak a sly joke, maybe and there’s a smile. Yes, we are still here, we have seen some things, and how wonderful to see you now.

And thus, go forth: lend a hand to that which is joy, which flowers from your open heart.

    Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago. Check out her author page on Amazon.