No Rushing

Fail. I am backblogged and missing writing, but demands of the last few days have left me cramped for time. That's one thing, but then today, to top it off, I found myself rushing. Rushing.

Later I stood at the edge of the barn, watching the horses settle into their candy mounds of hay for the night, sighing and snorting into the mist, pleased to be outdoors in the unexpected warmth. High above, the moon beamed in white robes and there came the whistle of the train, my train, the summer train, all of it conspiring to make me feel winter has gone.  

This moment stopped me, but it was compressed into an essence that left me, like perfume, as soon as I moved, for the rushing.

Mortise & Tenon - Learning Saxony No. 1

A long-awaited day of firsts, anticipated and not. I prepared for it by riding Saxony yesterday at dusk, 40 minutes of transitions, bends and on the buckle in the simple, square outdoor arena at the stable where we board. It was an uplifting ride because it showed me that I could be ready to begin with her today. I have a childish tendency to enshrine big moments, so no matter that I began with Saxony even before I bought her, I marked today as the time we'd really start our journey together.

I had her groomed and tacked at 10:30. K rode over to meet us. We would ride together off the property, deep into a nearby trail system. Not that nearby. There would be some road riding first. I wanted to do this ride, wanted to be bold, but only because I could depend on K to help us.

Saxony: absolutely unafraid of traffic, unfazed by roads.

Me: worried by roads, absolutely frightened of traffic. (I grew up at a time when cars slowed to an utter crawl if coming upon riders; now it seems drivers don't fathom that horses are animals, not ATVs.)

I could feel the tension enclosing me as we rode away from the barn. I ran through my tricks. Look up at the sky, settle deep in the saddle, lengthen my body. Stretch. Breathe. But it was hard not to be fixated on what lay ahead. Saxony suddenly began calling in her girlish, seemingly undeveloped voice. 

Me: knowing exactly where we were, comfortable that there would be a beginning, middle and end to this ride.

Saxony: not knowing where we were going, worried she might not see home again.

This bridge became a fulcrum for the ride. We couldn't go on without going over. I was afraid of it. There's no place to escape the traffic. Saxony stopped. I knew her previous owner dismounted and then led her across, remounting from the guardrail on the other side, a choice I completely respect. I know I could have turned that into an out for myself, but I really didn't want to give up on us like that. I have a horse now that I can ride. She doesn't know anything about my fear. She isn't my fear.

Saxony: Maybe I would respond to the aids and move forward, if you ask. 
Me: Maybe, if I trust myself enough, I can apply the aids and ask you to move forward. 

And we did. We crossed that bridge.

I learned other things today, during four hours of riding, but maybe nothing more important than that the two of us are interlocked in good ways. What's she worried by doesn't bother me; what I'm worried by doesn't bother her. One day maybe we will be solid as an old oak chest, held together by mortise and tenon jointwork, built by hand over time, with care, patience and love.

White Horse on the Hill

Watching the UK Telegraph's live video of the preparations to rescue the 33 Chilean miners trapped deep in the earth for 69 days , I saw the camera pan across the scene, over the family camp, past heavy cranes and sea containers, slowly pulling focus to the immense structure erected over the half-mile-deep rescue shaft.

Families and press alike watch the TV monitors. Helicopters circle low in the approaching dusk; dignitaries disembark. In that arid, desert mountain place, the soil looks dull brown, relieved only by rough bits of scrub.

But there, high on a slope, beneath a Chilean flag, sat an officer astride a white horse. The Telegraph's camera rested on that image for a long moment. I'm glad it did.

Ebbing (I think)

But maybe haunting me a little, too. I haven't seen Dar since Friday, July 16th. Sometime late last week, he wasn't the first thought I woke up to any longer. We lost our dear old cat, Miguel, who dropped a shocking amount of weight in a matter of days.

I tune in to the animals around me like a dowsing rod bends to water it cannot see. Grampa Gelli preoccupied me, tapped my instinct. On Friday, H.G. and I drove him to the vet. There was a large tumor in his abdomen and we had to let him go.

Dar ebbed, receded. But just there, in the background, he echoes. What if, what if, a pulse beating in still wondering, still wishing, still missing him.

Sheesh, It's Not Even January 24th Yet

British scientists determined, a few years ago, that January 24th is the worst day of the year. I don't know what science they used to arrive at that date, but it rang true to me the moment I heard it.

When I think about this blog -- this journal -- and why I started it, I can't help but be rattled by how things have changed since then. Scout was up for sale, a decision which had taken me an agonizingly, stupidly long time to make. Dar was a sleepy-eared, crabby oaf who seemed calmer in his temperament and movement than Scout had ever been; it felt easy to take him home. I had faith in the moment, because I thought I was moving toward dealing with my fear by starting over with another horse. As they say, the best-laid plans of mice and... well, mice, because that's how I'm feeling. It's been a hard, unhappy, oppressive few days. I'm overwhelmed with the new circumstances, anxious and sad, and I can't think my way out of how I'm feeling. This picture captures some of my dilemma.

In the foreground, Scout snarfs her way through a flake of hay, happy outdoors as if nothing's changed. What was probably the hardest part for her is done, but she needs weeks of simple turnout before I can ride her. She's been the horse capturing most of my attention over the past few months. In the background stands silly Dar, not able to believe Scout's lack of interest in him. Five months ago, it seemed certain to me that I'd be deep in training with him by now. Scout might not have found a new home, but I was prepared to wait for the right person to take her. The picture should have been the other way around, but circumstance has reversed it. I'm not prepared for that, and I don't see what to do. Some of this is simple self pity, I know. But not all of it. Some of this is just the winter; I know that too. But not all of it.

I certainly didn't imagine that I would not ride a horse for five months. But I haven't. I didn't imagine that I'd have two horses. But I do. And neither of them are easy. Dar pushes hard at his gate and destroys tank heaters with his mouthiness. Scout's injury means everybody at the barn has to work harder. Yes, I've been a good farmhand and honest boarder, but I'm out of the flow for not riding, for not having a viable horse. I feel the absence of it terribly.

These are just some thin thoughts I've put down to try to sketch in where I'm feeling, if not what I'm feeling. It seems harder than it should be, but maybe it is just that hard. I have to accept that possibility if I am to say another word. The pressure of my hopes, wants and fears has settled, for now, on the question of the horses.