...quiet, about a lot of things...

My trainer's pregnant mare, is aborting her foal. She's nine months along. Horses carry their foals around 320-340 days. She's at 270 days. It doesn't look like it's goning to happen. So sad and so sudden.

Foals are one of the many great things about spring. They are all wobbly and bleating. They call for their moms and travel sideways at high speeds. Little clowns in fur costumes. Foal's are beginnings.

People say odd things. The owner of my barn, said to me, upon hearing..."Well., Mares know. They just know if somethings not right...and they abort. Not stupid like humans, who mostly carry the whole term, and give birth to problems." Nice. Really nice. But I am always surprised by this opinion. That only life of a certain quality has relevance.

I don't know what I would do if I had been told a child of mine would have a disability...No, actually that's a lie..to sound sensitive to all opinions. The truth is I do know what I would do. I would have the baby. Definitely. It's like preaching to the choir with me, I guess.

But I try very hard not to judge others views on that. I am always startled by this philosophy of problem children. I'm just not cut of that cloth.

It's a spectrum issue really. What "problems" are doable?..which are a death sentence? I was born in 1964. For some, including my Dad, "not perfect" WAAAY back then, was a deal breaker. Perfectly viable, useful, and adequate was not sufficient. How far have we strayed from this paradigm? I'm sure we have come a distance....at least I hope we have.

Which brings me to The Secret I watched a free copy on you tube..thanks to one of Neil's friends. Thanks Neil. I can't help it. This is DANGEROUS stuff. Why? Because just enough of it is true. I do believe we are all energy. We all do have to mind our "P's and Q's" when it comes to directing our energy to the higher good. How many times have I spoke of karma, fate and all this stuff. Generally, I believe this. They are singing my tune.

However when they say that anyone who has disease, somehow has not mastered the thought to cure it...I say POPPYCOCK! To be fair, they don't come out and say that. They just feature a woman who cured breast cancer with funny movies and healing thoughts. They also feature a man, who should be a quadrapelegic..but walked again. To these people I say HOOORAAYY! I am so happy that they were gifted with miraculous outcomes. I know several paraplegics, who are some of the most "on the bus" people I know, postive, nuturing courageous and bold. But their spines are still broken. It is what it is. Many good people go down fighting. Many good people die, fighting the good fight. Willing yourself well should not be yet another thing we heap on to cancer patients, and the terminally ill. This is sadistic.

And as for people, me for example, who were born with something we had nothing to do with...what does the secret make of us?? Are we a punishment for our parents lack of positive thought... Doesn't take to long before you look at the disabled as "less than" or as in some cultures..(yes even in today's world) as evil. If good thinking brings health...It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out that illness comes from somewhere.

I do believe that you must do the best with what you have been blessed with. I do not pretend to understand the grand plan. But I try to think of my life, good and bad, as a gift. A mixed bag of experience. My job is to do the most I can.

This explains the quote I have on my kitchen wall. I see every morning, and try to live it every day.

"Happiness is the art of making a bouquet of those flowers within reach"

Look and see what's there in front of your nose...No need to create abundance. It has been here all the time.

and it's free. Totally, perfectly free.

Today is Michael's 39th B-Day. So heres a little look into the family album. Enjoy!!



He's really been very tolerant of me experimenting on him. I believe I took all the photo's in this brief expose'.



with Mags on Dumbo.




Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.....He looked so yummy in those glasses..I think I asked him to leave them on a bit longer....




Daddy's girl's




Yep, I took this one too...with a tripod and a friend to help with the shutter release.




After Bailey,(see above) our St. Bernard died, I bought Michael Mia. I had to fly to Portland, drive almost to the Califonia border and back, fly home...to get her to him. This explain the exhaustion I am wearing. But look at his face. It was worth it ps..me...before braces...Rach took this shot at the airport.



Like I said..Really good sport! Plus he's proud of his best girl...and his Harley.



My best Bud

Well, there ya have it. I can't help it..I just love the guy.

I am soooo stoked... I figured out a great gift for him... Police Tickets in Denver...I can hear him now screaming off key..."ROOOOXXXAAANNEE, you don't have to put on the red light". I'll be right there with backing vocals. That's what friends are for!!

My poem for PT prompt "The Body Knows" is about my manipulation of my Mares heat cycles. She knows the days are longer now and it's time to breed. However, that's not happening this season. But what do ponies know of birth control?

Edited to add..This is really an odd little poem. I wrote it late last night..so bear with me. Sometimes you just have to write about what's on your mind...even if it appeals/relates to no one...


To Fool Mother Nature


Reproduction can be
thwarted by a glass bead
slipped into the womb
of the horse
a marble really,
the cats eye shooter

weighing only ounces
of false beginnings.
It fools only the
mare, she settles
into a motherhood
she will never know.

She gives up
the fight or flight
lulled into patience.
she begins the work
of creation.

She is easier to guide
round and round
the circles we go.
She is happy
for the company.

Sliding down to the ground
I run up my stirrup
patting her neck,
I lead her home.

I wonder, as I tuck her in
if she will know my cruel trick.

Worrying many nights away
"Where is the foal I dreamed?"



wlf

See what else the body knows at Poetry Thursday

Labels: Poetry Thursday

I collect old books. Drives Michael CRAZY. These aren't fancy first additions. Usually, they are just campy old novels. Kinda a Nancy Drew fetish, I suppose.





Women call "horses" ponies. Well, fun unpretentious women call their horses ponies. The really snooty ones call them "warmbloods," or "foundation Thoroughbreds". But to me, all horses are ponies.

The classic definition of a pony is a horse under 14'2 hands high. The definition of a "hand" is four inches. This is measured from the bottom of the hoof to the top of the wither. The definition of wither is...um base of neck, top of shoulder (sorta). OK, so by definition, a pony is 4' 9 11/12"tall at the shoulder. Any taller, and lo and behold, you have a horse. Yes there are people who measure the ponies and record the finding. Anyway, I am 5 feet tall so a pony to me, is anything I can see over. Not as exact, but my method of choice.

I have never owned a true pony. I ridden quite a few naughty one's for parents. This works like: Pony takes off with kid, bucks kid off or stops at the jumps and dumps the kid on the jump or near the jump. Parents look for a small adult to "school" the rogue beast. A better rider than the kid is a must..but not to finesse -y. Ponies know exactly who is on their backs. Put a trainer on them and they straighten right up and sprout angel wings. A small amateur crash dummy is needed. Enter Wendy.

I have fallen off my share of quick devil ponies. But I hope I have left each one a better mount for their children. So, all my horses will always be ponies.

Hence, with all this in mind, take a look at the beast I rode in Texas..17.3 hands high. That's 5'11" at the wither. That's one big dude!!!But he's still just a pony...a VERRRY tall pony.



Notice, that where my legs hit his sides, makes me look 7 years old...maybe 8, max.

After receiving SUCH a romantic gift from me...(see yesterdays post)you may wonder what my Michael gave me for Valentines day. This is a partial list:

1. Off color jokes. All the time, every day.
2. A chance to sleep in, whenever he's home.
3. An understanding of my "cave-like" tendencies, when I "vant to be alone"
4. Support for my horse addiction.
5. Help with all heavy lifting, both psychical and mental.
6. Adventure.
7. Stability.
8. Loyalty
9. His ability to cook and clean and fold laundry as well as(if not better)I do.
10.A friend for life.

and a nice ass to boot!!

I stopped into the store to get some treats for my school kids tomorrow. What a pathetic sight...indeed. So many men with plastic wrapped bouquets of overpriced roses. Obligation roses do not smell as sweet.



I saw on Sunday Morning ( the CBS show) that grocery store roses die quickly because the floral department are placed too closely to the produce department. The gasses that ripen the fruits, cause the flowers to die more quickly. The show also reported that commercial florists are trying to breed the smell back in to roses. Seems they bred it out, decades ago. Ooops.



Michael and I planted 60 bare root rose bushes at our second house in California, bought the year Maggie was born. All heirloom roses, bought by mail order from Oregon. People would stop, as they walked by, to marvel at those roses. All shades of pink, white and apricot. No yellow. No red. They were unbelievable. Full double blossoms, and each had a smell...so unique. I'd always catch people bending down to smell this one or that one. I would often snip them off a flower, and send them home with it. My little keepsake. Most of our neighbors were elderly. They would always say the smell reminded them of their childhoods. Now I know why.



I left the grocery store today, strangely sad. I was remembering the months of nursing those bare roots into flower. I was remembering releasing ladybugs to eat their aphids. I was remembering pruning dead blossoms and coaxing rose climbers up trellises. I was untouched by the impostors sold at the markets.

But still, I guess it's the thought that counts.

So what did I get for Michael?? I got him a printout of all my pharmacy costs he's been after me to get...romantic huh. But he'll be happy with it. It's what he wanted.

(Another point of arbitrary knowledge, is that roses, not dressed by a florist, often still have their guard petals on..The outer somewhat leathery petals. These must be removed for the roses to bloom. So if by chance you receive some this valentines day.You'll know what to do...

This is a strange and twisted,yet every bit true tale, about what happens when you chose to pull the curtain, and talk directly to the muse. One should court, yet never converse.

I've said before, my muse is a person, a man. Every once in while I check in on his "real self" through his blogs. With him, this is not a hard thing to do. He is not omnipresent,...but lets just say he is not hard to find. He's been living in the net for a very long time. It's very easy to catch his tail.

As my muse, he is really not a man at all,but rather, a boyish memory. I am not the kind of girl who has had one true love. So, he wasn't "the one". But he was one of the ones who shaped me. Even as a young man, he impressed me. In ways he was much younger than I was. But in others, he was way ahead of me. At one time we were simpatico. I was bold then, and very soft. Not the quiet, somewhat hardened girl I've become. I had ideas. He had ideas. We shared ideas.

So, browsing his blog...I decided to "raz" him a bit about his recall of certain events. I show up every so often, to tease him about this thing or that. I'm sure he's just thrilled. But no matter, it rekindles the creative juices. He is still smart, concise....and guarded. Makes him a good muse. He draws a line and stays behind it. I like that. This is not flirting...but coaxing, courting.

After little banter over semantics, I asked him how his back was. My muse has a bad back. This is a distinctly human trait. This is where the gods(I think) got a little peeved at my lack of decorum.

He gave a pinched answer. Clearly, my toes were to close to his line. The brief exchange ended. I went off to ride my horse. To be honest, I searched for something clever to offer back to him, in retort. That's what the muse kindles in me...energy.

I thought of talking about my comrades in the paraquestrain world. How those who have been injured have so much more grieving to do. They have lost the bodies they once had, that used to obey and perform on command.But his ailment is not that bad,(I don't think it is)I didn't want to scare or offend him.

Ultimately, I had nothing clever to say. So I rode my horse. I forgot all about muses and thing to say. My horse always does that for me. I had a jumping lesson. Things were going quite well. And then...There was a four stride line..out over an oxer (wide square jump) and Roux stopped, then jumped...in a split second. We were together over the top...and not together on the far side. I looked up to see his hooves jumping to avoid my head, as I landed on my side and back. It was one of those knock your breath out falls, in which you think you are going to die. You desperately try to jump start your diaphragm....and then thank god you can breathe again.

I was up, on my feet, in the saddle, over that jump within 5 minutes.However, I must note, I am getting WAY to old for this...Did you hear me ROUX...WAY TO OLD!!!!

Driving home it occurred to me...clever things to say..my back is screaming the details to me. The muse had come through. The gods were happy to oblige me with more stories of Kismet...they just demanded a price. I was getting a little big for my breeches!!I was more than welcome to find common ground with my muse. But it was gonna cost me.

Ouch.

The girls have moved uptown, to a new site in the sky. Such grand new surroundings have me feeling a bit intimidated. The old poetry thursday felt like a cup of coffee at a friends house. This new one feels like high heels and a martini glass. I can't hold my liquor well.....and as mentioned before, I trip a lot..even in flats.

Then, there's this weeks totally optional theme. Changes. Another BIG ONE. Not my fav. The big ideas get lost and garbled between my ears. Giants have always scared me.

But this is a launching party, so I must hit this new flag ship with something. Make my offering to the Helicon goddesses. I have this funny feeling though, that I will be like the lady who can not break the bottle on the bow. But not for want of trying.
So all Hail the new PT. Long may she sail.

Goodbye


I thought
it would
announce
itself

appear with
a little
dignity.
show some
class.
make an
entrance.

Rather
like a storm
on the horizon.


I expected a bang
or a thump or
a trumpet
in the distance
the clashing
of cymbals
a final curtain
falling.

instead I met
your eyes
strangely quiet
lacking hunger
sadly tired.

I knew
we were done,
holding hands.
love had changed
just like that.

in the still
small space
between
you
and
I.



wlf 9:29 am

For More Go here.....Don't be scared..the more things change the more they stay the same.

Labels: Poetry Thursday

Well, I got my answer over the last weekend. I went down to Texas to a clinic. I rode a 17'3 hand grey TB. I could barely touch the top of his withers on my tippy toes. So I am a (wo)man!!Right?? wrong. This was not the event that defined this weekend.

Instead it was a clogged toilet. Not clogged, but lets say slow,yes, challenged.

I left the motel, a low end Marriott, at 8am each day. On the second day, I let the desk know there was a problem brewing in room 325. It would be fixed, they assured. I went on my way, and returned at 9:00pm, to find not only had the room not been cleaned, but the toilet still looked stuffy. A call down stairs, confirmed that the MAIDS had said I wanted no service, so nothing had been done. Never mind that I had in the flesh, reported the problem to the desk. Maids trump guests, I suppose.

What happened?? Did I raise a little Texas Hell? nope. I went down to the desk, picked up the icky plunger, (I looked for the hazmatt suit....to no avail)and rectified the problem myself. I am not skilled with a plunger. That's what husbands are for...ask Neil..at Citizen...he knows. Still a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.

So a man or a mouse? A mouse. Definitely. My husband laughed so hard when I told him I had plunggered my own ca mode..at the MARRIOTT..He could not believe my need not to ruffle feathers! He's going to take over from here...calling...getting comped for the stay..so on and so forth. He is the man!! I am the mouse. The mouse with a plunger..The mouse who had to pee. Well, what's a mouse to do??