“Paths of the Dead”

For a few days now I’ve been trying to remember the times in my life when I was happy. They’re few and far between, it turns out, or at least the ones that I can remember. But I kept thinking about it, and just now remembered how happy I have always been during the first months or years of my loving relationships. It’s the nesting—the building of a safe, warm, and happy home for the two of us. That’s a pattern—nesting does make me happy, more than any other prolonged activity. (There are other happy times, of course—being with horses, for example—but those have been, for the most part, single events and not of any duration.)

So that’s the first insight.

I’ve also been thinking and puzzling over why I am SO passionate over these book nooks. (A book nook, in the broadest sense, is a small, enclosed diorama that takes up approximately the space of a book on one’s bookshelf.) And mine are not just any scene from a movie or a dollhouse miniature—mine all have the theme of being outdoors in a safe and beautiful place. It makes sense on the surface: Since childhood I have loved being outdoors and pretty much always feel safe and peaceful there. But my fascination with them feels like more than that—and a psychologist friend and I have been talking about their similarity to Jungian sand-tray work. So I kept feeling into the question….

Down in the kitchen just now I was washing a drinking glass that dates from the early 1970s—my first husband and I purchased a set of these at a kind of “dollar store” before we were married. This glass is the only one I have left from the set, and I wondered why I keep it—that’s when the “nesting” thing hit me.

At the same time, I’m involved in a fascinating discussion about book nook lighting issues in my group on Facebook, and specifically thinking about how to light my current work in progress, entitled “Paths of the Dead.” Inspired by a scene in Lord of the Rings but set in the time and location of my ancient ancestors, this nook will portray a scene in which a young couple (with their infant in arms) is fleeing SOMETHING down a narrow gorge in the mountains through which they must pass, despite their terror. I’ve been trying to understand why they’re doing it—what are they fleeing, and why? And where are they going?—and have been asking Grandmother Taz (in whose time and place the scene is set) to help me listen in closely so that I can understand it better. So far, no dreams or conversations have happened, and I’ve been disappointed….

But this morning, a “flash of light”: Putting the “nesting” thing and the “terror” thing together, it occurs to me that my nesting is about creating the safe space that I never experienced as a child. And so are the first two of my nooks. “Sanctuary,” the first one, is about a quiet and lovely space in the woods where I can go and be alone or with my horse. “Midnight’s Paddock” (“Old Friends”) is about a dreamy location where Midnight the Horse (and I, hiding in the trees) can experience the love of a human family but also run free in the woods.

As a logical, psychological extension or next step in this story line, “Paths of the Dead” represents fleeing from some deadly terror into a wilderness where even Nature doesn’t feel safe. Wow…no wonder it frightens me and draws me in at the same time! It likely mirrors something, or some feeling, from my childhood experience…and something that carries over into the present time in some fashion.

Thank you, Grandmother Taz and my other Guides, for your help. That help doesn’t always come in the way that I expect or want, but it’s always there if I’m open and listening.  

Onwards, now, to see what’s down that frightening path….

The Amazing Miss Maise

Our Maise is quite the dog. From what I’ve learned, Border collies (and especially the smooth-coated, prick-eared variety) were specifically bred to work independently at a pretty good distance from the handler. That’s our girl, for sure. I had a chance to see her instincts in action this morning.

We went on our normal outing in the woods behind the house, with Maise and her buddy Little Bear the Cat running ahead and exploring together. Maise, as always these mornings, was off leash. The ratty, overgrown wooded area is pretty private and inaccessible except by crossing a steep-banked creek or a railroad track, so there are rarely any people around. It’s pretty safe to let her run there.

For a little while she stayed close by, waiting for me to catch up as we meandered down the path cut through the honeysuckle and downed trees. But then she disappeared down into the creek someplace.

That could be worrisome. We’ve tried to train her to stay right near us, and tried to teach her to come when called. It has not gone well; her recall sucks. Nothing wrong with her hearing. When I call, she’ll usually look up, cock her head, and go on with whatever it is that she’s doing. I’ve tried using my sweetest voice, my best baby talk, the tastiest treats, and even a dog whistle. Yeah, she hears them, thinks about it, and then, once in a while, comes back…or not. Not good. It’s that independence that’s in her blood and bones.

So why do I let her go, you ask? Because we both love the woods so much, and it is impossible to walk a leashed dog along narrow, brush-infested trails. I tried many times, and it was a disaster. Neither of us had any fun at all, but the desire to be outside was strong. After some work in a little temporary pen I built in the yard, and some tentative and mostly successful efforts in the common area near the house, I decided it was worth the risk. And mostly, in those early days, things worked fine. Mostly, but not always. There were days when she’d shoot off alone, chasing a squirrel or an irresistible smell. No amount of yelling would prevent it, or bring her back.

Used to be that I’d go crashing through the underbrush after her, shouting (and yes, cursing occasionally). It never did any good. When she did return, all happy and wiggly, it would invariably be from the opposite direction to where I’d been looking. Then I’d clip on her lead and angrily drag her back to the deck, close the gate, and leave her there to ponder her misbehavior.

After a couple of months of this, I read or watched something that gave me an idea. This trainer said she always watched to see if the dog, off lead, paid attention when the owner turned and went the other way. Maise, I knew, did pay attention. So I tried an experiment: When she took off, I took off in the opposite direction, and went back into the house. I was pretty darn nervous about it, but nothing else was working.

To my huge surprise, not five minutes later a worried-looking little dog came racing onto the deck and peered in the door. Well, interesting! I waited until my heart rate went back down, then let her in.

The next time she took off, she didn’t reappear for quite some time, so I finally went looking and found her on the front porch, lying calmly in the sunshine and surveying the street. No telling how long she’d been there.

Over the last month or two, things have continued to evolve. This morning’s adventure shows where we are right now: When Maise disappeared into the creek, I walked a few yards back down the trail toward the house, and waited silently. Maybe a minute later, I saw a black-and-white missile streaking through the cleared area near the house and up onto the deck. The air this morning was damp and perfectly still, so she hadn’t caught my scent, and I had been motionless, so her sharp eyes hadn’t spotted me, either.

I laughed and called out to her. Up came her head, and a second later she was racing to me, full-speed, and slid to a stop just in front of me. We enjoyed a few minutes of laughing and rolling and playing while I told her what a wonderful and amazing dog she is. And she is!

I’m no dog trainer. But what I am good at is relationships. Finally, after many months, Maise’s strengths and abilities have become clear to me. I’ve moved from trying to dominate her to being in a stronger and stronger relationship with her, so that there’s growing mutual trust between us.

Wow. She and Galahad the Horse are both teaching me so much about life and flow and love without conditions. I’ve been fighting it tooth and nail because of my own history, but thank goodness for such wonderful teachers, and for the opportunity for learning. Amazing!

[Cross-posted on The Alchemical Horse.]

Setting Things Right

We’ve had a string of absolutely gorgeous weather—many degrees above average temperatures and bright sunshine after a couple of weeks of chill and gloom. It started on election day—hope that’s an omen of better times to come. And my experience on a recent afternoon seems promising in that regard, also. I’m just hoping for reconciliation, less ugliness, more community feeling, that kind of thing. My concern is less political than community-centered.

Because the day was so lovely, I decided to take Maise for a quick walk in the park, which she loves, before heading to the barn to take care of my horse Galahad. The morning had passed too quickly and I was running way behind—I needed to be back at the house by 12:45 in order to attend my Quaker Meeting online at 1:00.

The plan was to take a quick, fifteen-minute jaunt around the upper, paved portion of the walking trail near the parking lot. Maise never seems to care where we go. After all, there are wonderful smells and places to pee everywhere. But we hadn’t gotten more than a few hundred feet along the path when I noticed the head of the little trail that goes down through the woods, winds around near the creek, then circles back to the far side of the parking lot. That would take more like an hour to tour with an inquisitive dog. There clearly wasn’t time.

But there was a quiet, insistent voice in the back of my mind: You could do that instead. I started to argue about how far behind I was, but then slowed down enough to really feel into the choice. Yes. I needed that, especially on the day after the election here in the States, while all the angst was still strong and upsetting. So, following this gentle leading, Maise and I turned downhill into the woods.

The silence was striking. Even though there was the usual sound of traffic in the distance and of some heavy machinery half a mile or so down and across the creek, there remained a feeling of deep quiet and peace under the trees. I could feel myself relax. But I’ll miss the Meeting! Part of my brain was still fussing about that.

Suddenly I could feel a kind of space open up, and the faces of all the Friends in my community appeared on the “Zoom screen” inside my head. OK, I thought. I’ll just attend Meeting here, as I walk. Sure enough, the sense of their presence stayed with me; it felt warm and real, immediate and supportive.

It’s very difficult to describe these sorts of experiences in words. All you can do is give the barest hint, and unless the reader has had such experiences herself, it won’t make a lot of sense. But it can be profound. I walked in a state of gratitude and joy, and felt like my friends were all right there with me.

Along the way Maise and I met some folks out for a stroll, and we chatted for a bit (at a safe distance, of course) about how these woods felt like the perfect place to be on this particular day. Farther along, we clambered down a steep bank (well, Maise ran and I clambered) to the stream bank, where she sniffed along the water’s edge and I picked up a lovely, smooth rock to tuck in my pocket. I breathed freely for what seemed like the first time in days.

We had nearly reached the sharp turn back up to the parking lot when I saw, coming up from the bed of a little feeder creek, a young man of maybe 20 or so…and a tiny fuzzball of an old dog, off leash. Startled, I realized that this was the same young fellow whom we had met last spring right after the pandemic started causing us all to keep our distance. He and I had gotten into an altercation about his dog being off leash and my being on the trail at all (or so it seemed at the time).

You’ll need some background here. If you want to read about the episode, it’s the one before this one (“An Angry Young Man“). The short version is that someone had sprayed a few of the larger trees along the path with a particularly nasty version of the political squabble of the day. The young man and I had both stumbled on it, and (as so often happens with people) had not realized that our anger was not with each other but with those who had defiled the woods. Instead, we found other annoyances to vent about, and things just exploded. I, for sure, was not my best self in those moments, and had regretted it ever since. But I never, ever expected to be able to set things right. After all, I’d never see the fellow again (or wouldn’t recognize him if I did, given my face blindness). So this encounter, complete with that unmistakable little old dog, felt like a real Godsend. It felt like it arose out of the feeling of gratitude and spiritual community that had been present for the entire walk.

The little fuzzball stopped (he seems to be half-blind), took a good sniff of Maise and her energy, and came bounding and bumbling along the trail toward us. Once again, I was nearly pulled off my feet by Maise’s playfulness, but we’ve gotten a bit better about that.

“Hey there!” I called out. “I recognize you! You’re the fellow we met last spring, and you and I got into quite a fight about the graffiti.”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“That was really ugly stuff.”

“You can say that again!” So obviously, he remembered the incident, too.

And then I apologized. “You sure didn’t see the best of me that time! I am so sorry it went that way!” Finally, the opportunity to explain, to make things right. Thank you, God!

It was a brief conversation. But he knelt down, asked Maise’s name, and petted her.

“I never thought I’d get the opportunity to make things better,” I said. “This is wonderful.”

“Well, that’s the thing about these public trails. You see the same people,” he replied, petting the dogs, who knew nothing about all the human craziness. They just wanted to play.

He stood up to walk on, nearly but not quite six feet from us. Finally, he very briefly made eye contact—such a reserved fellow…. “We’ll see you next time! Bye, Maise!” And they walked and bumbled on down the trail.

Gratitude. Immense gratitude. Such a blessing for me (and maybe for him, too). And all because I followed a tiny suggestion from Spirit and just opened my heart to beauty, peace, and opportunity.

So yes—maybe the blessings of reconciliation, of community, of peace, are within our reach after all. I have hope.

An Angry Young Man

2014-01-26_17-24-32_796 (2)I’m just getting around to posting this—it was a pretty painful learning for me, actually, and took me a while to process it sufficiently to share.

It happened about three weeks ago. Maise the Dog and I were enjoying our usual morning walk in the local park, which has paved walking trails as well as a few unpaved ones that lead down to the creek. Maise loves the creek!

We started down our favorite woodland trail, but just past the spot where it leaves the paved path, someone had spray-painted a message on successive trees: “THE MEDIA IS DECEIVING YOU.” I have no idea who did it, though I can guess their politics. What offends me, though, is not the politics but the vandalism, and the fact that I can no longer walk down that lovely trail without seeing this person’s opinion. Even if I don’t actually read it, I know it’s there, and my peripheral vision picks up the foot-high, white letters.

A few hundred feet farther along the trail, the path curves to the left along a small, rocky draw about ten feet deep. Right at the curve, there is an arrow, also bright white, pointing down the bank where there is a path of sorts; in the bottom of the draw a similar arrow points to the right. I’ve wondered what it points to, but that will have to remain a mystery. I’m sure as heck not going down there!

So anyway. Today, as we walked along, we heard a voice, or maybe voices—it sounded like a conversation, coming from down in that draw. I considered turning around, because I absolutely don’t want to encounter whoever it is who did the painting. But as we walked slowly toward the sound, I saw that it was one young man, apparently on the phone—he had those little microphone thingies in his ears and was talking and gesticulating wildly.

[Used to be that when you saw something like that, you called the men in white coats. Nowadays the first assumption is that they’re on the phone. Wow…I am SO old….]

So I figured it was probably OK, and we kept walking. What I didn’t see until we were right upon him was an ancient little bit-of-fluff dog, who ambled stiffly right into Maise’s face.

Maise is a very friendly dog, but also extremely playful. She weighs 40 pounds and is solid muscle and bone. This little creature weighed maybe 10 pounds soaking wet. Maise is a young Border collie, and her instant reaction was to get the zoomies. I dropped to my knees to hang onto her for two reasons: first, so that she wouldn’t injure little Fluffie, and second, so that she wouldn’t pull me off my feet, which has happened several times with the zoomies.

It all went downhill from there, literally and figuratively.

The young man, still apparently on the phone (judging from his “wait a sec” comment to nobody visible), started clambering up out of the draw. Fluffy started sniffing Maise’s face. Maise started squirming, play-bowing, and wagging her tail wildly as she tried to dart away from me.

I was a bit annoyed, and said, “You really should keep your dog on a leash!”

“Yeah. Maybe I should. Or maybe I should wash off all this graffiti,” gesturing at the arrows. He was hostile as all get-out; rage practically dripped off him, and quite a bit of it was now directed at me and my dog.

“What if my dog wasn’t friendly?” I asked, annoyed. I didn’t think his response was especially helpful, under the circumstances.

“He never goes near any unfriendly dogs,” the young man said. “And YOU are the one causing the problem! You’re just standing there! Go on, walk on so that I can be six feet from you!” My goodness, he was angry!

There was no point in mentioning that he was the one whose frail, tiny dog was loose, and he was the one who was walking toward us. No point at all. So I grabbed Maise as close to her harness as I could and started dragging her farther along the trail. As we walked away, he muttered, loud enough for me to hear, “I just want to be off the beaten path!”

Sigh. I lost it at that point, and though I didn’t turn around, I yelled back at him, “So do I, butthead!”

Oh my. Maise and I hadn’t gone twenty feet before my anger subsided and a kind of horrified wonder set in. Yes, I have a temper; there’s no denying that. But what on earth set me off so sharply, and so quickly?

Anger and fear and rage are highly contagious, and, in their way, as dangerous as this virus we’re all facing. That angry, hostile, and fearful message scrawled across the beauty of the trail was so upsetting, and both I and the young man were caught up in that. My response was avoidance, if possible; his was rage. It’s so sad that we both gave in to our raw emotions. In a more normal time, he and I would have agreed on many points: how dreadful the graffiti is, how beautiful the woods are, how great it would have been to get “off the beaten path” and enjoy silence and peace.

But that’s not what happened on this day, alas. I picked up on his rage, and fell right into it. If I had said nothing about his dog, all would have been well. He might even have apologized, I think. But as it was, our better natures were not in charge. On a larger scale, this is how wars start.

I was almost instantly deeply ashamed of my reaction, understandable though it may have been. This is not my normal behavior, as those who know me can attest. I may flash once in a while, but that’s rare, and I’m generally almost as friendly as my dog.

Anyway. This was an important message for me: It really helps me understand more about how we humans get ourselves into the scrapes we do. It’s still going to take a while to process fully, but I’m grateful for the learning.

And Maise and I went on to have a lovely walk—she learned to swim that day, all on her own!—and we met some very nice people and dogs along the way. I’m going to take all this to heart, and be more conscious next time.

 

 

A Dream Visitor

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A couple of nights ago I had a dream that was unmemorable except that Miss Ellie paid me a visit. When we were both younger, I often thought of Ellie as my “soul cat,” because we were so close. She died, at 24, several years ago.

In the dream I was in “my” kitchen, and there she was. At first she seemed nervous, like this was unfamiliar territory to her. But then she settled down. I sat on the floor and she came over to me for a pet. Her little round head and dense fur were so familiar and warm. I have missed that little old cat, a lot.

Then she looked at me. Really looked at me. She was totally there, in the dream, and not just as a symbol of something else. This was Ellie herself, making eye contact with me from the other side. It was a delight, a surprise, and a comfort to see her bright, intelligent little face looking back at me.

It didn’t last long, but it was wonderful to have her with me again, however briefly.

It’s amazing when friends and loved ones come back to visit like that; when the contact is so strong and so personal that you KNOW it’s them and not just a symbol of something. They’re not some image that the unconscious has selected for its own purposes. No, a connection like this one is next door to being with them in the physical life. It has that same energetic solidity, if that makes any sense. It’s just REAL—you can feel them as themselves. In part, it’s the eye contact, I think, that does it for me. Dream images are just that: images, flat and dimensionless despite their activity. You can tell, at least in retrospect, that they’re representations. But when a spirit or soul or whatever comes to visit, their presence is so clear and vital that you are left with no doubt. Well, your rational mind might doubt it, still, but your heart knows the difference.

Anyway. Thank you, Miss Ellie, for coming to see me. I miss you. And yes, I’ll see you again one of these days.

 

Soul-to-Soul Communication?

DSC_0545E-(ZF-1880-86909-1-001)I had such an amazing experience with Galahad this afternoon—we were (as usual) hanging out at the back of my car. He had been munching his hay and looking at “stuff” going on around us, and I’d been just randomly grooming at him, stroking him, and admiring his fuzziness. Then I sat down on the tailgate.

After a while he turned his head toward me and suddenly he was just THERE—so extraordinarily vivid and present to me—impossible to explain, but he was HUGE and REAL in a way that has only happened once or twice before. Wow!!!!

In the few moments that it lasted, I was able to ask him how he feels about me: He loves me, in the way that horses do, so different from the way humans love but just as strong.

I could sense his enormous patience with me, despite the fact that he doesn’t understand why uncomplicated things are so difficult for humans to grasp.20190117_144757

And I asked him if he actually likes being touched (since I had this amazing channel to actually find out!). When I asked that (all of this through my tears, as you can imagine), he turned his head toward me and touched my hand. Yes, he loves to be touched—but only if I’m not doing it as a task. My tendency is to “groom him” because he “needs” grooming, and not for the pure joy of touching him. It’s the loving touch, the friendly contact, that he enjoys.

The feeling faded quickly, but I will never forget it. Wow…. What a blessing!

Part of why I’m sharing this is because I really believe that these kinds of experiences are available to ALL of us! The key seems to be listening to what’s going on in the horse AND in ourselves. That, and NOT doubting ourselves—we may not know the “why” of some feeling or sensation, but we need to notice it and acknowledge it.

It feels very much related to the way I’ve talked about experiencing the imaginal world, in the sense of requiring the same attention, the same willingness to allow these things to be true. And it comes with the same caveats: We need to be aware of how our own deepest desires, and our need to explain things, can actually cloud our experience, and so we can watch for the feeling of surprise, for example. I’ve talked at length about this in the “Brian Is Real” series, here.

It’s a rare and fleeting experience, and doesn’t happen just because we want it so badly—but it happens. At least that’s been my experience. We can ALL do this!!!

And I’ve been wondering if maybe this is how non-human animals perceive the world. And I wonder if our rational mind, and our spoken/written language, may be some kind of impediment to this way of communication. I have no answer to that, but I am starting to believe that maybe it’s true.

Interesting. I’d love to hear YOUR thoughts….

 

[Cross-posted on The Alchemical Horse]

 

 

Fox

resized_20190110_125626_7123A week or two ago, a friend messaged me about a troubling dream. I suggested we get together and talk about it at the barn, horses in hand. Horses are always helpful, if for no other reason than that their presence helps diffuse tension about sharing potentially difficult topics.

After a lengthy chat (it was a VERY interesting dream!), we were on our way back down the lane toward the barn.

Right across from Midnight’s old paddock, my friend spotted a fox crossing the pasture away from us. It disappeared pretty quickly behind the shed. While it’s not exactly rare to see a fox out there, it’s certainly not a common occurrence—a few times a year, I’d say.

We had been talking about metaphors in dreams and waking life, so we laughed and wondered what the fox’s message was. And then I said something like, “Well, if we see another fox today, we’ll know FOR SURE that we need to pay attention!” Neither of us thought any  more about it.

As I was standing with Galahad by the car half an hour or so later, the barn owner came running over with his cell phone out and said, “I had to show you what I just saw!” On his phone was a picture of—you guessed it—a fox, an old one from the looks of it, sunning himself on a warm cement slab near one of the cabins near the office. He’d stopped to take a picture, and the fox had just sat there and looked at him.

My jaw about dropped…. A fox?! Another fox? The fox we had seen was younger, and headed across the pasture away from the barn.

So I asked him to text me the photo, which he did promptly. And his text was the message, “Wonder what the fox is saying?” Wow…..

I hadn’t said anything to him about my conversation with my friend. So of course Galahad and I ran over to tell her about it, and her jaw landed on the floor also. I mean, it was another of those situations where it’s just impossible to calculate the odds….

Have I figured out what the Fox’s message is? Well, not for sure. But one part of it is certainly, “Yes! We’re right here, watching and listening and helping and loving you!” I am so grateful!

Delicious grass, delicious life

20180817_105926Though I’ve been somewhat limited in what I can do the last seven or eight months, there’s still been plenty of horse time. Galahad and I have continued our adventures in relationship-building, and it’s been wonderful. I have so much to un-learn, including how I interpret his behavior. I’m really beginning to understand that everything he does when we’re together is a way of trying to communicate with me. He’s not “bad,” “difficult,” or “stubborn.” Those are just interpretations I’ve put on him. He just has a good sense of himself and a great and patient willingness to keep trying to communicate until I finally “get” it.

I’m always humbled by his patience. But something happened the other day that really shocked me.

We had done a little bit of work in the small indoor arena, then we went for a walk down the lane past where Midnight used to live. I let him graze there while I just hung out enjoying the beautiful day. We’ve had a stretch of cooler weather, and that morning it was in the mid-70s. The grass was damp and there was a bit of a breeze blowing from behind me toward my horse, keeping things especially pleasant. It was pretty amazing for mid-August in Missouri!

I wasn’t thinking about anything much at all, but I gradually became aware that the grasses smelled unusually strong and sweet. I watched as Galahad picked through them to find the tastiest ones, and I could tell them apart by their fragrance. At first I didn’t think much about it, but just wondered why I hadn’t noticed this before. It just seemed so natural. Of course, grass smells wonderful after it’s mowed, but this grass hadn’t been mowed for at least a month. Neither had the adjoining pasture. And the wind was coming from behind me. It did seem a little strange to find myself salivating at the fragrance from the grass that Galahad was most interested in. It smelled kind of like it does in a pastry shop when they’re baking croissants or cookies.

I put him back in his pasture after an hour or so, and headed home in a state of contemplation. As I was driving up the road out of the valley where the ranch is located, I looked at the beautiful trees and foliage and asked God how She/He made things so incredibly beautiful. The realization came that we—Nature and humans—are made for each other, so of course we see it as beautiful when we really look.

The Knowing went on to say that in fact, we are one and the same, we and Nature, and we humans have as much beauty inside us as the trees, rocks, rivers, and animals. We only need to realize that, and begin to see that beauty in each and every one of ourselves—human, animal, plant, mineral…. Then the whole world changes. I had the sudden awareness of that Oneness—it was much like the worldview in the movie “Avatar.” It was a strange, wonderful, and fleeting experience. Wow….

It was only then that I realized what had happened between me and Galahad that morning: My gracious horse had shared his world and his senses with me, and I had, for that brief time, experienced Nature as humans almost never do any longer.

But I believe that it’s our birthright, as children of Nature, as part of Nature, to share experiences with others in this way. This is how our ancestral hunters knew the habits of the Swimmers and the Four-leggeds who were willing to feed us with their bodies; it’s how our ancestral gatherers and healers knew which plants could feed us or heal our illnesses and wounds. We in these days are so isolated and cut off from Nature that most of us no longer even understand that these kinds of experiences are possible. But they are possible, and I believe they are becoming more common.

Let’s pray that enough of us realize our kinship before it’s too late.

 

Cross-posted on The Alchemical Horse.

 

Another long silence

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It’s been months since I wrote anything at all—really, not since Midnight died back at the end of March, and quite a long time before that. The chronic pain has been acting up worse than it ever has, since just before Christmas last year. That’s a long siege. The medication I finally tried in desperation saps what energy the pain doesn’t, and leaves me a bit muddled and foggy. Very difficult, under those circumstances, to write anything coherent even if something does occur to me.

The last month or two, though, things have been looking up. I’m learning so much about the pain and how to have some influence over it—definitely not control, but influence. It’s a complicated beast, for sure, and tied in to both physical and psychological factors that will still take a lot of study and empathy to figure out. But I am hopeful, most days.

So, my dear readers (and I have heard from more than a few who actually miss my posts!), there will be more coming very soon. I have three in the works at the moment, and hope to get at least a short one up tomorrow.

Thanks for reading—your support really helps in the dark days.

 

Farewell, Midnight Dancer

2013-04-30 MidnightOn the 31st of March, a phone call, the kind you never want to get, roused me from the comfort of my Saturday-morning coffee in bed. Midnight was down in his paddock and couldn’t get up.

 The day before he had been prancing around like a youngster, and the evening before he had eaten his dinner with relish, as he always did. He had a great time enjoying one of the first spring-like days we’d had—sunny, warm, windy, cool. 

As near as we can tell from the timing, that cold Saturday morning he had gone out to roll in the dirt like he always did before breakfast, but his body just wouldn’t cooperate to get him back up. The staff found him when they went to feed him.

 In part the problem was his elbow, the one that was broken several years ago. That leg never regained its full strength. But it wasn’t just that. His swayback had been getting noticeably worse in the past year, and I think he just didn’t have the muscle power there, either, to get himself up off the ground.

 By the time I got the message (I’m not Midnight’s actual owner) it had been about an hour since they found him and realized he was in trouble. By the time I got to the barn, they had been pushing him, pulling him, dragging him around, turning him over, and fighting to save him for nearly two.

 Midders, though he had been working with the vet, barn staff, and his owners, was exhausted—it was clear from his eyes. He was glad to see me, and gently lipped the end of my scarf and sniffed my hand. He and I go way back, and I’ve nursed him through many an illness and injury. But this one felt different.

 After a couple more tries, Midnight just quit. There was discussion of bringing in the local, wonderful large-animal rescue team, which has an a-frame and a winch; but in the end, the decision all of us came to was to let this old guy go with some dignity. I stayed with him to the end, hoping to offer some comfort. He passed so peacefully….

It’s always such a terrible and awe-full decision to put an animal down. This one was no different. But to all of us, it felt right somehow.

 Midnight had a warrior’s spirit. We might have gotten him up on his feet that morning, and he could have overcome this incident. But then what? What would have happened the next cold morning when he tried to roll? And the next? Though no healthy animal ever dies willingly, I believe in my heart that this valiant fellow, like any warrior, would rather have gone out in battle, whole and fighting, than have crept off into death toothless and frail from some forgotten spot by the hearth….. This was the end he would have preferred.

 He has visited me since his passing, and all I can feel from him is joy….

 Bless you, Midders. You are sorely missed, but everyone who knew you is grateful for your presence in their life.