A saxaphonist meets the donkeys, and I officially have entered the shortest season of my life

Yesterday we had a wonderful visit with a young man named Vincent who came to play the sax for the donkeys and equines. If you follow along you might remember a young man playing for tips on the street in my village and he was to donate the money to a charity. He had just heard about our mission and sent me two $20 bills. I was touched and honored. His little sister is a brave young horse hearted child who has fallen in love with Biggs, she came too and climbed gates like a monkey. She likes to call him Big.

So it was really fun and if you know donkeys you know they are very curious little creatures. I never have to bribe them into a scene with people, they just stumble on up out of curiosity. I really thought they might bray along, as some music makes them do that.

Boone was the show off. He had a ball. And I will give Vincent credit for being a pro and focusing on his music while Boone proceeded to lick him and investigate his hat. I think that could be his first album cover, don't you?

After they left, I wondered if they would remember me twenty years from now, as I remember some of the horse people I knew as a child. I expect to see this young family over the years, they are new to the area and very nice and it is fun for me to have well behaved, interested youth around as a good mix to my elder work. In my head I counted the years for the five year old to be old enough to drive, and I thought of how old I would be. I also thought of an older women who was about 70 when I met her when we first got to Maine-a horse person-and she is now close to 80. She too had a young family nearby that she nurtured as she could and they all grew up, and she grew old. And now I am her. I have taken my place on the great wheel of life.

A thought has meandered through my brain daily and it is not a scary thought, it just seems to keep showing up. I think it started because I've been seeing a lot of people in their early seventies dying. I read the obituaries, always have, even as a child, I don't know why. But now that I'm sixty four, it dawned on me that if I too died at 74 that is only ten years left. Sobering. I have never been one to have a goal of living to a very old age, I prefer not to. I always thought 78-83 seemed a good time to go. My mother lived alone after my father died [he was 83] until she was 87 and died suddenly but was active until then. 

I've been asking myself, if I did only have ten years left, what do I do with it? How many more paintings will I do, or want to do? How many more books is that? How many more animals can I adopt? Is this my last great house adventure? For the latter, I always thought if Martyn died before me–a horrendous thought–I'd move to the sea and get pugs. I probably won't be able to, but maybe there are great adventures left if I only have ten years. We don't know when or how we go [usually], but as you enter a certain decade you see what's coming up and it seems much shorter than what is in the rear view mirror.

I don't have a death wish. It is just a simple thought that keeps running around my head. In a way, it is a good thing because it makes me say everyday, what will I do today of worth?

Beauty Parlor Day-healing for elders and equines [and me]

We had two of our elder friends out from Lincoln Home today, along with a caretaker and my equine helper. Our task was simple-groom the equines, and have fun making The Teapot girly for one day. Becasue these two women are able bodied we could work in the equine barn which was great becasue all the equines were there. I had Captain Sparkle tied up to work on his ground manners, and The Teapot was with him on a lead. Biggs didn't even need a halter, he stood and loved the attention and grooming. I had Boone tied in the paddock and he really loved the grooming too.

It was really fun. And at the end of an hour and a half one of them said she loved hearing all the stories being shared too. That was so true. I actually know one of these residents who lived near by when we got here aso it was really special to spend time with her, and we shared stories of past things.

We are going to make it a regular outing for these two women-both are starving for fresh air, touch and animals-one of them lived with horses so this is really nice for her.

It is fun doing these smaller intimate get togehters too for healing times.

And the equines loved it, especially Biggs. He truly, truly loves humans-somebody did something right with him at some point in his life. Sparkle was a spitfire but did fine. He needs to partake more like this and learn better manners but we all agreed-we adore him and his Beatle haircut! The Teapot was very good and stood pretty well, I think she was once doted on by her little girls before they grew up and wanted bigger horses.

Ice...and Boone is good

 

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm)

The storm of Monday night came and went and we got off easy but it still created iced gates and barn doors. The warmer air on Tuesday caused heaving which meant many of my barn sliders were wonky. I had planned ahead and worked on some of them the night before anticipating ice, but forgot one of the inside barn sliders-just meant I had to carry water and hay farther. All is well. And Mister-I-Ate-A-Whole-Bunch-Of-Sand-Clear is fine, what a relief. I love winter, I really do and the snow has been pristing all month [except for the barnyard where I can't shisel the poop up yet]. But I have to admit, I'm ready for warmer sea air to come by, hoping next week. Meanwhile I've had router issues all week so internet access has been spotty but I got it all taken care of with a new router...I hope. It's always somethin'.

All day worry over Boone, but all is well

If you own a horse, you know the dreaded word–colic. Of course there is mild colic akin to a tummy ache, and then the kind that makes a horse owner shudder-impaction and severe colic.

So yesterday afternoon I went to barn early for chores and found Boone had come through the gate inside where I had some Sand Clear–a product we give seven days in a row one week out of the month. This helps keep granite dust out of the gut, which can lead to colic and bad things. Our main paddocks by barn are all granite dust which is great for mud control, which is great for keeping feet healthier [we suffered through very bad White Line disease with paco when we arrived], but it can also be ingested even with buckets.

So I must have not latched the chain properly. Yes, this is all my fault. There he was with the 5 gallon bucket wide open, the pellets all over-no telling how much he got.

Last night I dreampt I went to barn and old Matilda was lying on ground, almost dead, clearly dying. I had no way to save her in the dream. 

So I woke up and got right to the barn, haunted by the dream and worried about Boone. And there was Boone standing in the sun, but he wasn't coming to the gate as usual. He looked dopey. I took his grain out [Boone and old Matilda get supplemental feed] and he didn't even come over. I knew he felt crappy. He then looked at food, and turned around, went in the sun, and lay down [the picture here]. When I touched his belly he put his ears back, he clearly was uncomfortable. I did the skin test and he wasn't dehydrated and his inner gums were good. I really knew in my heart he probably just had a bad tummy ache, kind of like eating 5 pizzas, but then when he did get up, he pawed at ground-another sign of discomfort. I decided to try and walk him in the outer paddock, something to do in colic cases if you can, to keep them from twisiting a gut. He went a bit with me, but he was clearly uncomfortable.

So I got banamine in him. My dang thermometer wasn't working right. I watched him awhile, banamine is for pain but also is an anti nflammatory and takes about half hour to kick in. I waited around longer than normal and he was up, trying to nibble on hay. He didn't drink for me. I called the vet just to make sure of her thoughts, and I had done the right thing, but we agreed if he was still uncomfortable later in day-or if he worsened-she wanted to come out since there is a storm coming tonight. It's an hour drive for her and that made me feel loved and not alone. I checked him on and off all day and he wasn't terrible but clearly felt icky. The fear was that he could be impacted-the Sand Clear is a pellet and is all fiber, so it can expand.

Well, tonight I went out early and he was at the usual spot, and he knickered to me-I was the happiest girl in the world. He proceeded to eat hay in normal fashion and...wait for it...he POOPED! He didn't mind me touching his belly either. I called my vet and we were relieved. I'll keep my eye on him though and hope all is well in morning. But it was a relief.

My day was consumed with that, errands and dealing with internet issues so I was on phone all day with techs. I got little else done, but Boone is okay and that is all I care about.

The Night I Saw Father Christmas {Sometimes it takes a lifetime to get your horse}

Boone, the horse I waited for

{This article appeared in this month's Lincoln County News}

One night when I was six years old, I saw Santa, or Father Christmas as we called him. The house we lived in back then had an old dilapidated riding ring in the near back woods area and nearby high school girls would journey over on their horses to ride. I would run out to greet them, probably a pest, and sometimes they would lift me up to ride double. Every Christmas, I asked my parents for a horse, and I asked Father Christmas too.

Even though it was some fifty plus years ago, I remember it was snowing that Christmas Eve and I was looking up the chimney for any signs of a red suit.

“That chimney story is for little kids, he’ll come in the front door” my older brother said. That comforted me, chimneys seemed scary.


At bedtime, I left the door cracked open and finally saw the final living room lights go dim. We always left the tree lights on at Christmas Eve for Father Christmas and I lay in bed, waiting, for any bells or Ho Ho’s.


Soon I heard noises, but not from the roof, they were from the living room and I tip toed out to spy, the lit tree guiding my bare feet.

What I saw is etched in my mind to this day. The colored light bounced off the white socks of someone sitting in my father's chair. And he had a little black dog in his lap, just like our dog. It was Father Christmas! He was smoking my father’s pipe–I could tell because it smelled like my father’s tobacco.


I let out a Haley Mills gasp, holding my little hands over my mouth.

I heard another door in the house, and slipped back to my room and under the covers, and clutched my brown bear and didn't move. I am not even sure I was breathing, but the next thing I remember is waking up.

Christmas!

I ran to the tree. I looked for anything that might indicate a horse was waiting for me in the back yard. But once again, Father Christmas did not bring me a horse.

"He can't carry a horse in the sky," my brother said matter of factly. "You'll just have to wait some more."

I didn't tell anyone that morning about seeing Father Christmas. I don't know why.


I think back to that night, seeing Father Christmas in that chair. It took me some years to know it was my own Father, so firm were my magical convictions.

I wish I had asked my father at some point in my life, “Did you see me that Christmas Eve night, tip toeing out to spy on what I knew and believed was Santa?”

I imagine you were resting in the quiet of the busiest season, enjoying a moment to yourself, with your dog–our dog–snoring on your lap, as you enjoyed a smoke. And even though you never got me a horse–I had to earn that years later on my own–you gave me daily gifts that no price tag could be put on.

And you gave me that memory, you let me see Father Christmas.

The choir sings to the animals...was that a dream of sorts?

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Jun 24, 2019 at 2:28pm PDT

Yesterday was perhaps one of the most memorable times at Apifera in our many years of existence. It was one of those days where the glow began from the first moment, spontaneous encounters happened each step of the way, and by the ending it was like...a dream of sorts.

The Homeward Bound Hospice Choir  came to sing to all the animals. I had met them through one of our volunteers, also in the choir. The choir is a group of people from all walks who volunteer their time and heart, and voice, to sing to people in hospice. When I came into touch with this group, I immediately asked if they might come and sing to the animals. They immediately agreed and sent me a date that would work-that date turned out to be yesterday, which was also Birdie's birthday. Hankies!

Now, normally when I have a group coming, I might rearrange animals into paddocks or barns so the people can see them up close. But on this day, I made a conscientious choice to let the animals be...as they are...I let the donkeys and Boone go to their fields, knowing that if the energy was right, they'd come up when they heard singing. And they did. More on that later.

I had old Else and the elder gang, and Opie and The Goose, in the orchard, and that is where we began. In some ways, this was the most touching scene for me. I had packed lots of tissues in my vest, and hoped I'd get through the day without becoming a blubber fest. Else is on her last summer, I am pretty certain of that. She enjoys the sun, and spends most of the time laying down, which she was doing in the clover and grass when the choir entered her area. I was busy doing something and when I looked up, the choir and lined up in front of Else, and that is where they first began to sing. It was as if Else was there just for them, and vice versa. And then The Goose arrived, voicing, or singing, but also checking in on Else, which he does regularly.

We went on to sing to the llamas, Arlo infatuated them all, and then on to sing to Earnest who greeted each singer through the gate, and even did a belly flop [a sign of true pig happiness]. White Dog was next and he of course loved it, The Teapot was as I thought she would be, The Teapot, snorting and chewing her hay. And then into the equine area. The donkeys and Boone were in the lower fields. I suggested the group begin to sing, and I did yell down to the field to get their attention. Old Matilda began her slow walk up about 400 or so feet, and that alerted the donkeys to come up. I knew that Boone would most likely wait, and in Boone fashion canter up in a beautiful Boone way, and he did-and that was a beautiful moment. The donkeys were right close to the singers, and Matilda especially won their hearts.

And then, we sang Happy Birthday to the nearby resting spot of Birdie. I made the entire day without a blubber, till then.

The day hung on even after they left, it was a glow, a glow that comes after certain special encounters, or music concerts or gatherings. I think what I felt the most strongly, after I had time to gather my thoughts, was that...this is truly where we were meant to move to, this exact spot, at this exact time. The scary reality of leaving the old farm, the pit in my stomach when I was the only one who knew we were moving to Maine and I knew it was a calling of some kind and once I expressed it out loud all hell would break loose...all that turmoil ended up landing us in a place that could bring us to this moment.

The other thought I had was, all the animals, and me, we are a bunch of bodies walking around, but we are so connected, like a string of old pearls...I have heard people repeatedly say it is a magical place and I believe it is magical-because the idea of what Apifera started as long ago came from my child's heart, and it has remained true to that essence and intent. One of the reasons I am not interested in having an open farm event every week, nor do I accept people's pleas to visit [or very rarely] is because this is my haven, this is where my heart lives entwined with the trees, fields and creatures-it fuels me to create and write, but I also fuel the creatures with my intentions-and they turn around and act the way they did yesterday. They didn't do any special tricks...but what resonated with the guests, I believe, is the pureness of my intent that is channeled through the animals and is demonstrated by their gentleness, their acceptance and enjoyment of the people. Animals know our intentions. And one of my intentions with my animals, is while I teach them boundaries [ie ground manners that are and aren't acceptable] I allow them to be...just be who and what they are at that moment...a grumpy pig or cat, a sour little spitfire pony, a young llama learning the do's and don'ts.

I also am a firm believer that music is a healer and communicator on so many levels-for all creatures including people. When I worked with Boone, I often sang to keep his canter or trot going. Mothers have been soothing babies for centuries this way, music is a rhythmic cue to our animals. And of course music is a vibration and I believe it connects us with our souls of long ago.

The entire day was 'pure'...of pure intent. It wasn't about propping photos for social media and marketing [although we all did take pic and video, thank goodness], it wasn't yoga for baby goats to gimmick us into the paper, it was pure and raggedy and imperfect. I loved the choir-they are not the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, they are just sweet people singing, a note or two off, it was so Apifera.
Oh, I should mention the song choices were all spot on....including "Angels Hovering Around".


So there you have it. They came, they sang...and I can guarantee not one of them left here without a buzz.

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Jun 24, 2019 at 2:43pm PDT

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Jun 24, 2019 at 2:32pm PDT

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Jun 24, 2019 at 2:48pm PDT

The accident changed me...what will Boone and I be now?

This week I worked with Boone a couple times on the ground. The second time I saddled him up and did fifteen minutes of ground work and was really planning to take a little ride. But I held back. The video below was us just sitting in the driveway, in the wind. I love being on him in the wind.

I came to a hard truth...I am still affected by the trauma of my accident with him. I am not afraid to ride. I did get on and we rode in circles in the driveway. But I just kept hearing a voice telling me not to go out on the rode to get to our side trail. We walked back tot he barn and I told Boone I would figure this out. But it saddened me, and it made me really miss my old friend Joanne who I rode with out west. It was she who helped me get my confidence back with Boone. I miss her, and I miss that feeling of being able to feel like I could ride all over with Boone, alone if I wanted. The day of my accident, when Boone and I entered the wooded trail, a butterfly flew right by me, and I said out loud, "Joanne?" Isn't that odd, i thought, that I just said that without thinking. Thirty minutes later I was blacked out after the fall.

If someone came and trailed with me, I would be fine. But I do not want to go through that again, nor do I want Boone, or Martyn, to go through it. I guess the risk of it out weighs the pleasure of it, and that makes me sad. It is like a nagging weight on my shoulders. I tried to find some people to ride with last year but most don't have trailers, or trails. I might keep looking. I had an indoor stable I rode at once, but she wants $25 a ride and I can't afford that. Plus I really want to trail. Both Boone and I get bored in the arena.

I'm also going to look into making an obstacle course or something for me and Boone. I have to find a way to be with him more.

At the same time...I began to think there is nothing wrong with just...being with him. As long as I remain a good leader, maybe that is what we will be now. I don't know.

But I do know that that accident changed me both physically and emotionally.

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on May 21, 2019 at 2:21pm PDT

The Teapot thrives, while we get sick

One thing about being self employed, you don't get sick days. Martyn came down with a bad sinus cold last week and yesterday I got it. Chills, slight fever, blah, blah, blah. So what do we do? Go outside and work it off. Now I will say it was a beautiful 40+ degree day with sun, no wind, and the task at hand was not that difficult. We needed to put up pressure treated boards on a fence that divides where I feed The Teapot and the other equines. Boone was pushing over the fence to try to get one blade of hay. I'm hoping I can wait until spring to get the No Chew on it, so I was quite pleased that it was still standing this morning [tongue-in-cheek].

Lydia Rose, aka The Teapot has already shed some pounds. We have her on a good diet of hay and trace minerals and tish of senior feed just so she doesn't lose too fast or lose good resources of minerals and vitamins. Her Cushings test was fine and in spring we will do an insulin test, as per the requirement of the rescue we got her from.

I have been working on her ground manners, she has them lurking in her, taught long ago, she just got away with a lot in the last years, and not because she wasn't loved. She is also settling more when i put her with the donkeys, and less 'ears back' to move them around is happening.

To be honest, she reminds me of a combination of Paco when he first arrived, and Rosie the grumpy pig who nobody wanted as their friend. I do not feel any sadness in Teapot, she just needs a clearer job. So I am going to start walking her on a lead into the woods, and I am planning on having "Wood Walks with Teapot" or something like that.

I had planned to make Paco her buddy, and maybe teach them to pull a cart together. But Teapot is not herd bound, and I'm thinking now since she clearly had some driving training years ago, she might be a good candidate to work with on an individual basis. I also of course hope to have her be one of our therapy healers...but we will proceed one step at a time.

I looked at the photo of her taken right before we picked her up, and compared it with the photo taken yesterday. Her coat is looking shinier and she has lost a little bit of weight.

Making the fence Boone proof

Left, The Teapot after some time on her diet

Red on red

As summer fades...we smile

It has been a humid August this year, and humidity is not my friend, or too many other's either. Since we never had humid summers in Oregon, I've never had to deal with certain things rotting in the garden. On the other hand certain things seemed to thrive this summer-the Queen Anne's Lace for example. But the rains we had, with humid days after, did seem to do some things to certain roots.

I could have an entire yard of The Queens, perhaps with sunflowers too, and pumpkins. Martyn has been patient with my Queen love, letting me keep large plantings of it in both the front garden and back private garden. We kind of have this unspoken rule that the front garden is more his, except for my hollyhock patch-step away from my hollyhock patch-and the back garden is more my garden. It's one of those couple speak things. We obviously are very united on how we take care of Earth.

And the cone flowers this year are phenomenal too.

I talk to all my flowers, how can I not? They are so full of personality.

But, as you can tell by this lackluster post, it is still August, and I am really no different than the plants, or leaves that are crumbling. I really feel this is what happens to me in August, I am no different than every other piece of Earth, I am ready to shed parts of myself, decaying skin and bits of dirt and hair, and start afresh in September. Fall for me is a revitalization, even though it is a time when Nature is prepping for winter. Winter for me is a long, caccoon of creativity and silence.

Fall always has a melancholy too. I think for me it is because it reminds me of days gone by-memories of being a kid and sitting in my leaf huts back in Minnesota, my mom in the house making a good dinner, my dog at my side. Back to school has that same revitalization for me-new pencils, the smell of the new books, who was my homeroom teacher going to be.

But for now, I do try to look at each flower head, marvel, and revel in it all-this setting, how we got here, and what will happen next. If I think of people now gone, or animals, it is not really in a depressed way, it is an acknowledgement that without them I would not be here in this exact spot and time...and that they live in my head.

What do you say when a friend's mate dies...with open ears and heart, I say, "It will be okay" {somewhere in time}

I went for a ride this week, placing dandelions in Boone's halter after the ride. It was a beautiful, perfect day. I had no complaints, really. And my husband, my best friend, was alive. Every thought came back to that.

A day earlier I had heard the shocking news that a friend of mine lost her husband, who was only in his mid fifties. He had lived with the consequences of seizures his entire life, and knew the ramifications but always had a wonderful attitude about it. He had a seizure, fell on the open stairway and suffered a brain injury that he could not recover from.

My friend tells of how she awoke that morning and was a bit sore from her long walk the day before, and her time in the garden. Her husband said he'd give her a mother day massage. They had no children, but loved their dogs and they were family. I imagined all the people who have woken up to normalcy, and hours later, they are living in between two realms.

It is normal and human to think of our own worlds when we hear of a sudden death. We are not only shocked and sad for the survivors, but it knocks you between the eyes that life is life, death is death and the two are intertwined every minute–you don't get to choose which one you want, it's not an a la carte menu once you are born. One false step, one fall off a horse, or stairway, and it could be gone, poof. All day after I heard, literally everything I did from making a piece of toast to working in the garden, I thought of my friend. I thought of her lying in bed the first morning after he'd died...the shock must have come back in starkness that first morning. Sleep might have given her a reprieve, but upon waking...

Oh yea, he's gone. What? No!. Yes, he's gone.

Later that day or the next day I forget, I was planting my sunflower seeds. I always plant sunflowers, such joyous, magnificent creatures, I call them Goddesses. My friend's husband loved to garden and be in Nature, and he had a garden he considered his sanctuary. He had been working on it for 14 years or more. It is where the family and friends will gather to celebrate his life, honor his next journey, and sit amongst his energy enmeshed in every living thing he nurtured there. I was on my hands and knees, using my bare hands to till the already prepared bed of dirt. It was quiet, even on the front road. I could smell the salt air of the cove. An occasion animal sound wafted from the barnyard.

My husband is alive...

I thought. And then I saw my friend's husband's face, smiling. He had what I would call a gentle smile, like Martyn's, a smile that had no ego, no slyness to it. His face stayed in my mind like that for some time.

I wrote to my friend later, by email, wondering all day-what words would be best for her right now? I knew she had many details to deal with, I knew her family was with her. I only wanted to tell her her when she was ready if she needed, I was there with open ears and heart, to listen. I told her about her husband appearing to me as I gardened. They were very connected to the Earth and Nature, and were spiritual too, as I am. I knew it would have meaning to her. We are both of the frame of mind that energy does not disappear. His energy is just not in his body anymore, so magnificent is it now that it can zap around all over the place. She wrote back, and liked the story.

It will be okay, is the prayer I send her. It will be okay. He is okay.

It might not be okay as she has known, but it will be okay in a different, at-the-moment-unimaginable-way. For me, this is what I can tell people in grief. I was told this by a friend when I lost my mother, the day or the day after when I was still hardly breathing, when I was not of this realm, I was so ungrounded from her death that first few days. And my friend who had lost her parents called me and immediately said,

"Your mother is okay."

It was simple, and direct. I believed it. And I needed to hear it, and wanted to hear it. It was not a lie, it was not sugarcoating the truth. You can either walk into grief thinking it is not okay, or having a compassionate source that tells you it is going to be okay. I prefer to be that source for someone. It might not be okay today, but it will be, in a different way.

My mother would say, "It will be okay," when I was in dire straights. It was always okay, she was right, but I always needed to hear it. Perhaps I am one of the lucky ones who had that grounding of a mother that instilled that in me, perhaps there are people out there that truly do not believe in bad times, challenging times, that saying "it will be okay" is realistic, or fair.

I disagree.

It will be okay. I will share that again with my friend, after I listen to her, in time, when she is ready.

Poem for Boone

Boone and I had a great workout this week. We rode over to a nearby corral and worked out together. It felt so good. And he was really in sync with me, which made me feel like we are getting back to each other. I wrote this poem some time ago and came upon it today.

Wind blowing through his mane

up onto my hands which hold two reins loosely.

We ride, or I ride and he carries, down a gravel road

chunks of itself missing

after log trucks rush by with their fallen victims.

All around us, before us and in front of us,

lay fallen leaves, dead on arrival.

He stops to ask me with his ears and a twinge of his neck,

"May I have one?"

"No," I say with tight leg, "we still have a ways to go."

And we move on,

the flies sitting in the corners of his eyes

which he blinks away, only to have them return seconds later.

With each gust of wind I watch his mane's journey,

left, then right, left, right again.

I lose my sense of place as I watch,

waiting for the course strands to settle again.

We near our destination,

a small valley with abandoned house,

nothing left but an old satellite dish,

and a gate falling down, bent in age.

The hay has been cut, bundled and hauled off to old barns

leaving us this empire of grass, and a backdrop of ancient trees.

We hear the true collaboration of trees and wind

with branches and space humming, hissing, and groaning .

It's not a greeting, or a playful song -

It's a resonance.

Ignoring skin, it sinks down into the flesh and then the bone,

while the heart skips beats trying to keep up.

Haunting, it reminds of a past time

that we can not get to.

Facing fear again and practicing conversations with periods and commas-don't flatten me out

Boone and I went for our first ride this season. It was a short mile ride but I wanted to test him, and me, out. I can't say I was scared [if you are new here, Boone and I had a bad accident last June landing me in the hospital a couple days with a concussion], but I wasn't necessarily in the zone either. I wasn't rigid, but we were rusty.

I focused on one thing, my hands, aiming to keep my cues as soft as possible. Boone is a desensitized horse from all his early cow pony days, which has its benefits. I'd rather have that than a high flight risk or spooker. It felt good to be on him and I think he enjoyed getting out too after being cooped up in a paddock all winter.

But what I noticed is...I felt sad afterwards, not because of the ride, or even the past accident. I pondered it all day and decided that I really miss my friend Joanne who died last year. I met her about six years ago, when I started riding at her barn and property of 300 acres back in Oregon. It was one of the saddest goodbyes for me, when we left. When I met her, I had had Boone for a couple years and we were working through some issues-i.e. he was playing with me and was winning. I was not a good leader and lacked confidence. Someone suggested I go ride at Jo's and it was a life changer for me and Boone. We'd ride all winter out in Oregon, and Jo even encouraged me to take dressage lessons with her, which I did, amazingly. That was very worthwhile. Boone and I went on to ride in a parade, get some blue ribbons at school shows, go to the ocean, and do some tough rides in the woods too. We overcame his fear of 'squishy' ground [he's sunk in quicksand once as a cow pony and was freaked out by the sound of squishy ground below his feet] and I overcame my reaction to his fear. I became a good leader. I was really proud of him, and me, and I have Jo to thank for a lot of that.

I realized too that not only did I miss Jo and our rides, I missed our conversations, and I missed the type of conversations we had. We had an easy flow conversation. There was no interrupting, we could engage in all sorts of issues and I never felt judged, or belittled, I never felt I wasn't being heard. When she talked I listened, and vice versa. I felt she respected my experiences in life, and I respected hers.

I never felt like she was talking at me, or over me. I never left the conversation feeling like I'd been run over. Do you know people like that-when you get done with a conversation no matter what the topic, you tend to feel 'flattened out?" Kind of like your big bossy sister came in and basically told you what do, or told you what you might consider doing even though you had not asked her opinion.

I took a business seminar once on communication. One thing that came up was when we listen to someone else talk, and then we answer with, "But don't you think blah blah blah," what we are really saying is, "Yea, you just spent time telling me your thoughts and even though it looked like I was listening I really have to tell you a better way to think about this." I was quilty of this, it was a good lesson. I don't think we are perfect at communicating, it is a life long pursuit, to become a better communicator and listener.

I guess there are people in life that just do not mesh with our personal conversational styles either. But I don't like to be 'talked at', or patronized. We have an ongoing lesson in our house, we try to remember to use 'periods and commas' when we speak [we often fail]. Anytime Martyn and I are going to be at a gathering, when we get out of the car, we remind ourselves to use periods and commas. We had a house guest some time ago that had an answer for everything, even things they had far less skill in than we did. At one point after a couple days of exhaustion trying to listen all the time, I leaned over and said something to Martyn, and the guest said, "Okay, don't listen, go ahead and interrupt me." I pointed out that it wasn't that we weren't listening, but he never stopped talking so there was no chance to interrupt.

I guess I realized after my ride that I'd been having some 'conversations' like that with people. No periods or commas, no acknowledgment of my past experience that might bring some clarity or interest to the topic at hand. I was consistently leaving those conversations with he same people feeling...slapped.

And it made me miss Jo.

But it's okay. Boone and I will ride on. I have a person I'm going to call to see if he and his wife might ride with me sometime, just to get me and my head back in confidence mode with Boone. He lives a ride away, and he said he'd ride the same trail Boone and i had our accident on. I want to do that.

A horse is born and a mother dies...ride on

April 4th will always be a day of symbolism and reflection for me. It is Boone's birthday, and is also the day that my mother died, five years ago. I can remember where I was standing in the barn out West when I looked at Boone that morning, almost forgetting it was his birthday. I had planned to go on a nice long ride with him, when I found out my mother had died. I remember thinking it was sad that now every birthday of Boone, I would remember my mother's death.

But within minutes I realized it was a gift to have these two events coincide on one day. Like bookends, the day symbolizes the journey we all must take. We are born, and if we are born, we will surely die. All that living that goes in between, the meat of the sandwich, is what we are left to ponder after someone is gone.

I did go for a ride that day, five years ago. I went over to my friend's barn and rode there. She came in and asked me how my mother was doing, and I had to say, for the first time out loud,

"She died."

I said it calmly, without crying. My friend Jo was the first one to know my mom died. Being 84 herself, she had buried a lot of people in her life but was my riding buddy and friend. We talked, and I told her I wasn't going to ride, but being on my horse was better than sitting home crying, and my mother would have liked knowing I was doing something fun.

So my horse helped me that day, as did my friend. And now on this day, I also remember Jo who died a year after we left Oregon. I really miss her and our rides.

So that is what Boone's birthday is for me. A day to recognize what he brings me-joy on a ride, the benefits and healing of being with him, and on him, and the fact that it is important to grab life on a day of death....even if you have to take baby steps after a loss...you grab on to anything that is alive and you feel it, smell it, listen to it and appreciate it, even if you shed tears in between.

Boone is twenty today, I've had him ten years. He was a cow pony in his youth, then went to live on a gentleman farm at age four. He didn't work out for the woman's grandchild-he was a bit lazy and would not go forward for them. After 30 days of training to tune him up, I went down and rode him for a day and bought him. We had some issues to work out together. He was fearful of squishy terrain ever since he had sunk up to his saddlebags in quicksand-I found that out after he reared on me in wet, soppy ground. And he had my number. I got help, because I had never dealt with that, and the is how I met my friend Jo. If you had told me two years later I'd have some blue ribbons with Boone from dressage schooling shows, I'd have laughed. In fact, if you had told me that my former cow pony and me were even going to take dressage I would have rolled on the ground laughing. And if you told me I was going to ride a horse in a county parade, wow. But it was really good for me and Boone. When I started my trail rides with Jo, on her beautiful 300 acre property [oh how I miss our rides!], Boone would let out this little squeal, like one of the Three Stooges used to, if he felt wet ground. After lots of rides, and lots of mud work, he stopped the squeals. I even kind of missed the squeals, but he still does them during feedings.

The confidence we both gained together as rider and horse was so gratifying. And then we had our accident last year, where I fell off during a canter in the woods. We still don't know exactly how it happened, but I think he slipped on ledge rock as we were coming out of the canter and I lost my balance. I blacked out for 20 minutes and had no idea where I was, ending up in the hospital for two days with blood on the brain. If I had not had my helmet on...who knows, said the surgeon. Fortunately, no surgery was needed, but it was sobering. Boone was not hurt except for some scratches, and after about two months I rode again, but I still had the event on my brain- a bad fall can really play with your head, no pun intended. This spring, I am determined to get back to regular rides, even though I have not met someone like Jo. I hope I do, nobody will replace her, but I feel like Jo checks in one me when I ride.

I love you Boone, we are alike in many ways. Thank you for working things through with me, and now we will work through some things again.

My friend Jo in the lead, on one of our many rides

Always tolerant, Boone helps collect trash on Earth Day

Play run at Jo's barn

Dressed up for a parade

Riding at the Pacific Ocean. And now he's seen the Atlantic.