Journey with Honor

Drawn by Pleasure

2012-02-24T12:18:00.000-08:00

The weather in Missouri has been kind. No, more than kind. For February, it has been positively benevolent. And every day I tell myself that I need to get out there and work with Honor, or at least trim his hooves and Journey's. But at day's end, I find I have never quite made the trek from house to barn. Being a responsible person at heart, each time this happens, I feel just a little more pressure and a bit more worry, not to mention increased guilt over my procrastination.

As usually happens in such cases, the balance of concern finally outweighed other activities, and this week I headed out into a brilliant 60-degree February afternoon to get the chore done. Taking Journey first, who stands like a statue while I trim and rasp, I began the long-deferred job. Birds filled the air with song, the sun warmed my back, and the quiet calm with which she handed me each foot in turn soon elevated the experience into the realm of pleasure. I had been missing out on this?! Occupied with the kitchen remodel and subsequent housecleaning coupled with the tyranny of life in general, I'd lost touch with how much I love being out there with these big animals.

That's why I have horses in the first place. It's not like I need more work to do or more responsibilities. Horses bring me pleasure. They really do. But all too often something else creeps in--the "oughts and shoulds" of life, and soon, I'm avoiding, dreading, and finally doing under duress what came into being as a result of a dream. I suspect that I am not the only one who can become driven by duty rather than drawn by pleasure.

C.S. Lewis talks about this phenomenon in his book An Experiment in Criticism.Though he is referring specifically to why and how people read, I find that the principle applies to many other aspects of life. We begin something for the pleasure it gives us, and we love it. But somehow along the way, a sense of duty creeps in. We forget the joy we once felt and know only the obligation we now labor under.

Journey

This can happen in relationships, too. God, friends, family, spouse--if we allow it, familiarity and the "every-day-ness" of life can drain these vital connections to the point where they slide into obligation. What began as pure pleasure erodes into a nagging guilt, prodding us to do what once we longed after, and somewhere along the way, we become human doings instead of human beings.

So I'm pondering that this morning, (which promises to be another gorgeous day), and thinking that I will turn down the voice of duty and focus on the joys set before me--God, people, writing, horses, house, and the great outdoors. In short, the job I have given myself today is to look beyond duty and re-discover pleasure.

Dreaming and Doing

2012-02-16T04:33:00.000-08:00

Toots Negotiates the Mess

In an earlier entry, I referenced the hopeful chaos of our kitchen remodel. Well, the kitchen is almost finished, but the chaos does not seem to be diminishing. I've almost taken to watching around the corner to see if some of the mess is erupting from the crack where the baseboards meet the floor (something I've long suspected).

I'd like to blame it on such happenings, but the real problem is that I find myself strangely loathe to face facts: #1--Rooms do not clean themselves. #2--Most kids, mine included, do not clean rooms without parental insistence. #3--Whereas the chaos may exist for a reason, it is time to reclaim not only the dining room, but all the other rooms that have suffered from neglect in the past six weeks. Much as I'd like the situation to remedy itself, if I want to live in an orderly, peaceful environment, I am going to have to make an effort.

As I begin sorting and vacuuming, I'm also revisiting what I want my everyday life to look like and what steps I need to take to help that picture happen. Truthfully, I am a bit appalled by some the discrepancies between my dreams and my realities. However, while dusting a bookshelf this morning, I came across a beautiful edition of poetry by Lord Byron.

Most of my adult life, I've aspired to read poetry. It seems like such a gracious, thoughtful thing to do. Indeed, I feel an afinity to the statement by Lady Catherine DeBourgh of Pride and Predjudice fame: "If I had ever learnt [piano (or in my case, poetry)], I should have been a great proficient." :-) But in the same manner that my housework has never accomplished itself, poetry has not managed to impress itself upon me and transform me into said proficient while it sits unread upon my shelf.

Poetry Nook

People have said that we either happen to life, or life will happen to us. Of course, we all want to be those of the first variety, but I find that in most cases it is not so much a matter of either/or, but both: sometimes I happen, and other times it seems all I can do to keep from drowning as life happens to me.

Ah, well. Whatever may have transpired in all my yesterdays, today I happened to my life. I chose. I took steps toward what I want my life to include. I won't list all of these here, but besides connecting with daughters and reclaiming my living room, I sat in a favorite chair and pondered "A Fragment" from Lord Byron's poetry, while snow feathers sifted down from a February sky. Tomorrow I may visit Byron again, or one of his fellows. And I may play my harp, sip a fragrant cup of tea, and do a little more vacuuming.

For like it or not, while the "what" we do is important, the doing of it is the essense. Every day presents new opportunities for intentional choices. Perhaps yesterday was not so brilliant in that realm, but that's okay. We have today, and, Lord willing, a long line of tomorrows in which to happen to our lives. Strung together one after the other, these moments of intentionality begin to create a reality much more in keeping with the dreams we each carry in our hearts.

Mother Thoughts

2012-02-08T11:33:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about mothers lately. Besides the fact that I am one, and have opportunity every day to mother my kids, an epic thing has occurred: a little baby girl has been born. I know that every child is a miracle, and I never cease to feel amazement and joy at just how perfect each one is. But this birth is different because the peaceful little mite of a being just happens to be my first grandchild. Yes! I have joined the doting grandparent club, membership dating from February 2, 2012.

Though it's been a while since I pondered newborn wonders, I do spend the bulk of my time mothering: I'm in the season of learning how to mother adult children while still parenting three teens. So it has been sweet, in these past few days, to re-visit mother-thoughts of an earlier day.

Truly, mother love is a deep and wondrous thing. In a moment we are transformed into selfless hearts that beat only to give life and love and peace to the little one we hold in our arms. Our world expands to encompass the universe, while simultaneously being reduced to meeting the primary needs of food and comfort. And that love does not diminish. It deepens, widens, stretches, so that it may continue to hold the child as he or she grows--up, up, up into adulthood where we may get periodic breaks from providing food, but still have unlimited opportunity to learn the nuances of providing comfort and connection.

I am not speaking as an expert, but as a learner here. I think I have done okay in the care-giving arena over the years--food, warmth, clothing, safety--but the whole realm of connecting on the heart level is one which I have always felt like a mix between an explorer and a pioneer. Much of it is uncharted ground for me. How do you do this thing called "loving well"? Everytime I open up new territory, I long not just to stake a claim, but to plant trees and prove up on that ground in order to create lasting habitation where love can bloom and grow and fill the earth with fruit.

It's that way in all our relationships, really--parent-child, husband-wife, brother-sister, friend, grandparent-grandchild. There is exploration. There is the sowing, the tending, the watering. Yes, it's work, and yes, sometimes we grow weary. But there's never a question of not pressing forward, for love compells us toward a sure reward. Of this I am reminded afresh as I watch my granddaughter, memorizing her tiny sweetness and remembering that long-ago yet not so far away morning when I cradled her mother in my arms for the very first time. Ah yes! Love is infinitely worth the investment.

Chicken Wisdom

2012-02-02T08:00:00.000-08:00

Mother Hen Update

In an earlier post, I spotlighted our little black hen who hatched six little fluffballs, and was doing such an amazing job of nurturing and protecting them. In mid-winter, her own warmth kept the Missouri cold at bay while the babies grew feathers. With special calls and peckings here and there, she taught those chickies how to find food, how to drink water, and to do all things chicken-y. (http://journeywithhonor.blogspot.com/2011/12/speaking-of-chickens.html ),

Back off, buddy!

There is a rooster twice her size along with five other hens, all in the same pen, but this mama kept a no-peck zone around her babies, facing down even the curiosity and pomposity of said rooster while her birdlings peeped and scratched as if they owned the entire world. Week by week feathers replaced fluff, until almost three months later, they now look like miniature adult chickens.

Chicks at three months

Which brings us up to this week. One morning while checking on them, I realized that their mother was not with them. The six fledglings perched on the edge of the feeder in a little huddle, but she did not. A quick search found her: she was on the roost with the other hens. My first reaction was concern. Why would she leave her babies? Could they survive without their mama?

Mother and son (or daughter)

But as I watched the interplay of the flock--hens and rooster hopping off the roost, heading to the newly-opened outside run, leaving the chicks in their group pecking about the floor without a glance toward where their black mother had exited--I was struck once again by the instinctive wisdom of that little chicken-mother. She had given her babies all they needed in order to survive and thrive in their world, and as they had grown, she faded into their background until one day, much like any other, she took a final step away and rejoined the life she'd known before she set out to hatch those new members of society.

Call me if you need me.

Okay. I know there are some gaps in the analogy, for human moms can never forget their mother role, no matter how old their babies become, and chickens don't have enough brains to go through the parenting process with cogniscence. Nevertheless, I admire the calmness with which the little black hen stands to the side and observes how her children carry on. She doesn't hover, as she once did, making little clucking, encouraging noises, leading them every place they need to go, and forever keeping them dependent on her.

They are growing up as they were meant to, and she does not try to keep that from happening. Rather, she encourages and blesses, instructs and models what it means to be a grown up chicken, and they in turn follow in her footsteps as if it were the most natural process in the world. Hats off to you, small black hen. You have done a wonderful job, and your children are beautiful :-)

Hopeful Chaos

2012-01-25T08:34:00.001-08:00

My house is a disaster area, and I'm not just saying that. Ask my friends. We now have just a path where we can walk through one end of the dining room. The rest of it--table, floor, and chairs carry a six-inch or deeper layer of everything that came out of the kitchen.

And need I mention dust? The whole downstairs (and upstairs as well, if I dared admit it to myself) is coated with a layer of dust that not even a child could be oblivious of. Between displaced and misplaced articles, a week spent in California, and a general overwhelmed-ness, I'm managing only to keep mostly current with laundry, and put food on paper plates.

If we lived this way all the time, I think I would be buried beneath the weight of the workload. However, this is one of those hopeful chaotic situations that exists on the way to something better. My dear cabinet-making husband is installing a new a kitchen--which in this 1880's house means removing a certain amount of lathe and plaster (hence the excess dust), rewiring, and re-plumbing. However it will be worth any level of mess when once the new is in place.

The whole experience has led me to ponder chaos. I know I risk stating the obvious when I say that chaos is a stressful state and by nature disheartening. We seem to be wired to avoid it at every turn. And yet--chaos can be a good thing if--and that's a big if--there is a reason, a vision for something better just around the bend. I'm thinking of the verse "Where no ox is, the stall is clean. But much increase comes from the strength of an ox." I'm all for clean stalls, and clean dining rooms rank right up there along with them. But there was no way to avoid the chaos we're in right now if I ever wanted anything to change in the kitchen.

So it's really about vision, after all--the hope of the prize set before us--that enables us to go through the messes of life, whether in houses, jobs, school, relationships, or dreams.... We're on the quest for something more. Something higher. Something better. And so we persevere, not content, exactly, with the chaos, but secure in the knowledge that it exists in order to arrive at a more excellent state.

Sometimes You Have to go to Medford to get to Ashland...

2012-01-17T06:53:00.000-08:00

I was in California last week, visiting my daughter (hence the hiatus from blogging), and while there, we took an excursion to Ashland, Oregon. We were on the hunt for a chair for her bedroom: something that would help create a reading nook and turn her rather generic space into one that more clearly reflected who she is. Not exactly sure what we were looking for, and unfamiliar with the territory, we ventured into a 2nd Hand/Antique shop off of Eighth Street. A quick perusal of the contents yeilded only one possibility--a set of 1880's Napoleonic parlor chairs in an interesting shade of green and a price perhaps a bit more than we'd anticipated doling out.

We passed them at a quick stroll, exited, and moved on to another shop. Nothing. But the owner of this particular store directed us down the road to a huge second-hand mall in Medford. In his words, "If you don't find it there, you won't find it anywhere." So down the road we went--a rather slow, traffic-light-pocked by-way of dubious beauty, eventually arriving at what we were sure was the place of which we'd been told. Wandering through a myriad of booths turned up only one possibility--another handcarved 1880's chair, closer to our price range, yet more of a desk chair than a setting chair. Recalling the man's statement, we almost purchased it, for fear that we would find nothing more in keeping with our shadowy picture.

However, after a period of hmm-ing and haw-ing , we ultimately headed back to Ashland to give the green chairs another look. That return trip brought its own set of anxieties: would the shop still be open? Would the chairs still be there, now that our eyes had turned back to them? Yes, they were, and before long, we were tootling down the road with one of them. Through the course of the week, we used that chair as the touchpoint to create a whole different feel in my daughter's room. A cover for her quilt. Pillows. Wall and window hangings: everything referenced back to our found treasure.

As I think back upon it, the whole experience seems fraught with allegory from the time we descended from sunshine in the mountains to heavy overcast in Ashland. We found the perfect thing there after much circuitous searching, and topped back into the sunshine just in time to watch the sun set. Having found something we didn't know we were looking for, it then became the reference for all successive choices.

How often we wander through our days looking for something we've glimsped in our hearts, be it direction, relationship, or dream, hoping we'll know it when we see it, and not totally confident we'll find it, after all. We wander about in the cloudiness of uncertainty, hesitant to depart from the familiar, fearful of missing the best, and not confident we know what that looks like. It is in these times that we often settle for less, as almost happened with the 1880's desk chair. True, it was lovely in itself with its dark carved roses and graceful cabrolet legs. But it was lesser.

Lord, from the lesser things in life, preserve us! May we not make decisions based on fear, but on the dream in our hearts. May we travel the byways in hope and faith that somewhere, sometime--if we do not settle for less--we will hold in our hands that which delights our heart. And may the knowledge that the sun still shines in the high blue heavens comfort and sustain us as we search the cloudy lowlands for treasure.

Christmas Past

2011-12-25T15:07:00.000-08:00

Pieces of Christmas

Merry Christmas

2011!

We remember childhood in bits and pieces. Some parts we might want to forget, but others are magic everytime they surface. Since I'm in a reminiscent mood today, I think I'll share one of those magical pieces of my Christmas past.

NOW I WONDER

It was the week before Christmas and snow lay sparkling white and deep as the fence posts. What a relief to my seven-year-old heart. I wasn’t interested in playing in it so much as concerned that Santa’s sled could arrive. Although I knew his reindeer could fly, surely a good three feet of snow guaranteed that should they get tired of being airborne, they could still reach our tiny house in the sagebrush a good fifteen miles from the little town of Monticello, Utah.

Confident that a visit on Christmas Eve was assured, my sisters and I flitted from one activity to another, willing the time to pass. My mother, however, seemed quite busy in one corner of the dining room.

“What are you sewing, Mama?” I asked. “Dollclothes?”

She rolled her finger down the thread, knotting it at the end. “Mmmhmmm.”

“For who?” I stared at the miniature bonnet taking shape in her hands. Gauzy lavender material lay like butterfly wings and matching satin ribbons trailed on her lap.

“For some little girls who need them.”

My younger sister and I eyed each other. “We need them,” we said, pressing closer.

Mama smiled, holding a bonnet up for us to see. “Well, I’m making these and leaving them for Santa Claus to pick up when he comes here. I’ll write him a note so he knows to give them to some little girls he thinks might need them for their baby dolls.

“Oh.” Disappointment mingled with admiration. My mother—my very own mother—was making doll clothes for Santa! I knew I should be happy for whatever child he would take the beautiful bonnets and dresses to, so I resigned myself as best I could.

Mama sewed in all her spare moments. My sister and I took to leaving our barely clothed dolls near her, hoping she’d notice how needy they were and put in a good word for us with Santa.

Christmas Eve arrived at last. Mama helped us arrange a few cookies on a plate and a glass of milk, in case Santa wanted a snack before he left for his next house. She even braved the cold, dark night outside to bring an armload of hay onto the porch in case Santa’s reindeer wanted a snack as well.

There beside the cookie plate she placed her finished sewing with an accompanying note. I’d never seen such pretty doll clothes: One set of lavender organdy containing bonnet, bloomers and dress complete with tiny puffed sleeves and pearl buttons, and an identical set in cotton candy pink. I must have gazed at them a full ten minutes, visualizing how they would have looked on our dolls, thinking of how fun it would have been to dress them in such finery, and hoping that whoever got those clothes appreciated them as much as my sister and I would have.

“Santa can’t come until you’re all asleep,” Mama reminded us, and we scurried to hide under our covers, so full of anticipation that surely we could never relax long enough to drift off to dreamland.

But of course we did, waking again in the wee hours of the morning and managing to rouse the rest of the sleeping house.

“Let’s go see if Santa came,” Mama said, and we blinked our way toward the glaring light of Daddy’s movie camera.

Only a few crumbs were left on the cookie plate, and the milk glass was empty. “Well looky here,” Daddy said, picking up a note. In big letters I could read, “Thank you for the cookies and milk. Love, Santa.

A few scattered wisps of hay were all that the reindeer had left on the porch. Yes. Santa had definitely been here! But then I saw them, lavender and pink, laying there crisp and new, just like Mama had laid them out.

“Oh, Mama, I wailed. “Santa forgot to take the doll clothes!”

“Are you sure?” she ask.

“Yes, see?” I reached for the lavender set to show her. Just then I spied a note tucked under the pink bonnet. Unfolding it, I read,

“Dear children,

Your mama asked me to give these to some little girls who needed them. I think your dollies could both use a new outfit.

Love Santa.”

My doll wearing her lavendar organdy Christmas outfit.

Enveloped in wonder of what Santa Claus had done, we rushed to dress our “babies” in the new finery. “Mama, look!” we squealed. “They fit perfectly. How did Santa know?

Mama’s eyes twinkled, but all she said was, “Now I wonder...”

Many Christmases have come and gone since that magic morning, and one never passes but that I see again my mother’s smile as she shared with us the enjoyment of the doll clothes she’d made “for some little girls who need them” and wondered with us how Santa could have ever known the exact size that would fit our babies…

This essay was previously published in the anthology Classic Christmas, edited by Helen Szymanski. (http://www.amazon.com/Classic-Christmas-Stories-Holiday-Goodwill/dp/B001QCX1NO/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1324843481&sr=1-1)

Gaining Experience

2011-12-24T17:33:00.000-08:00

Children, like horses, come into maturity and self-knowledge through experience.

I trust that this statement is sufficiently vague, leaving me room for illucidation.

While riding Honor last week, I pondered this truth. Honor is a mover, and at this point, he seems to move mostly in high gear. He walks fast, trots fast, and I'm not sure but that his lope is closer to a flat-out gallop. This is slightly disconcerting in a small enclosure, and my initial reaction was to pull back on the reins. His response was to resist being slowed down. Obviously, I had to do something different.

According to Clinton Anderson, one of the best ways to teach a nice, easy jog-trot and a slow lope is not by pulling back on a horse's mouth. Rather, it comes from putting miles under those hooves. Let him move, and keep him moving. As he starts to tire, he will begin thinking about how to preserve his remaining energy. When he reaches this point, Anderson advocates keeping him in that gait, and letting him figure out that a slow jog trot or easy lope is a whole lot less tiring than push, push, pushing.

So Honor and I set out for a long ride. We probably covered eight to ten miles, and of those, I'd say he trotted more than half, and loped a fair amount as well. Did he begin to conserve energy toward the end? Well, it was not a night-and-day difference, but he did seem to trot with more moderation than I had hitherto seen, and when loping, did not seem to tear down the road with quite the speed he'd shown earlier in the ride. At the very least, it was a good installment, one that I can see we will need to repeat frequently until he automatically finds that easy trot or lope when I ask him for it.

Interestingly, it reminds me a lot of parenting and how often we parents tend to keep constant pressure on the reins, trying to micromanage our kids, teens, even adult children into more moderation in behavior and life choices. Yet under such handling, they, like Honor, often do not learn to regulate themselves. They learn to resist the pressure--fighting our efforts to control them or cause them to act as we desire.

How much wiser, then, if we give them the space to begin to figure out which actions, attitudes, and choices work for their benefit, and which, like Honor's flat-out gallop-lope, don't end up so well. This self-knowledge won't happen in one ride, nor one choice. But let them put enough choices and consequences one after the other--enough miles under their hooves, if you will, and they're sure to figure it out.

The unexpected bonus of my ride? I enjoyed it so much more than the ones on which I'd spent the bulk of my time hauling back on the reins, micromanaging Honor's progress, all the while wondering if I was going to survive intact.

I'm all for that. So here's to gaining experience and enjoying the journey: Trot on!

Journey Forth

2011-12-18T08:37:00.000-08:00

I rode Honor this week. I try to ride him often, but this time we trotted down country roads and through timber and creek, and it was lovely.

After weeks of drilling him on groundwork, and riding in the corral, we had long ago graduated to riding in the "big" field to the east. But you can only go around a field so many times before new horizons beckon. Was he ready? Was I? I wasn't sure, but the field was shrinking with every ride, and so I donned my helmet and my blaze-orange jacket (in case some avid hunter might think we were edible), and Honor and I ventured forth, along with my twelve-year-old daughter on Journey.

Honor, Journey, and Abigail

It was one of those times that help you remember why you're doing what you're doing. The horses were willing, the weather was decent, and the company? Delightful. It also brought on another spate of musing, this time about how often I practice and prepare, but when it comes to actually doing the thing I'm aiming for, I procrastinate.

I doubt I am the only one.

So why would we limit ourselves like that? My theory is that, more often than not, we're afraid to fail. Therefore, we over-prepare and sometimes just never quite step forward, because we're so attached to safety.

I know there are individuals for whom the adrenaline rush that accompanies a good scare is worth the trauma. Not me. I love feeling safe. But the question I have to face, not just in horse riding, but also concerning endeavors in my areas of passion and in relationships with people, is whether a life without risk is worth the price. Is a stale existance, defined by the effort to avoid fear, really how I want to live my life?

Further up and further in!

Fear shrinks our world. It causes us to go around and around the same territory. Yes, we may be really good at what we do in that small area. Yet if we are ever going to experience the greater horizons, the long country roads, and the effervescent joy of taking new ground, we're going to have to move out of the realm of preparation and take a step forward into uncharted and longed-for ground.

Speaking of Chickens

2011-12-11T08:11:00.000-08:00

As you can see from my title, I'm going to depart from horse-derived insights to muse about chickens and parenting. Chickens? Yes. Granted, even at their best, chickens cannot claim to be bright. However, this does not mean they cannot be profound. You see, I've been watching a certain little black hen who recently went to setting.

The fact that her chicks would emerge into a December-chilled world obviously never occurred to her bird-y brain. But in her defense, she didn't know any better. Brought to life in the sterile enviornment of an incubator, she grew to feathered chickenhood beneath the impersonal warmth of a brooder light. This little black hen, stirred by something deep and solemn within herself, sat on her clutch of eggs three long weeks, barely leaving them for a quick meal or drink.

Six little peeping fluffballs of black and yellow hatched, and now follow her everywhere. She leads them to food. She leads them to water, calling them to her in a special mother hen cluck-voice, wings half spread to receive them should they become chilled, tired, or frightened. The chicks seem oblivious to the fact that they are experiencing something precious. They will never know that their mother is giving what she never received in order that her babies may thrive.

In our world, I know there are parents who, either from inability or unwillingness, do not give their children what they need in order to prosper emotionally, spiritually, mentally, and physically. But here's what I love: for every one of that kind of parent, there are fifty, a hundred, a thousand parents like the little black hen. They do not become embittered about what they did not receive from their own parents, therefore refusing to give it. Instead, they look down into the trusting eyes of their children and, reaching into their own beings, they give all that they wished they'd been given.

A second miracle often occurs as well: In that selflessness, they begin to understand how their own parents most likely did the same, and how they, the children of that generation, were oblivious to the gift, just as these chicks are. They cheep and scrabble and maybe even get tired of their mother's everlasting clucking and care. They have no knowledge of what it would be like to have to turn to the impersonal glow of a heat lamp for their only comfort. All they have ever known is warm, cuddling feathers and sheltering wings.

I also find it fascinating that we assume we can do what our parents did, never realizing until much later that in many instances, just like the black hen, they were breaking open new ground, giving us what they had not been given. To me this epitomizes a beautiful aspect of parenthood: we want our children to go beyond us, and we're willing to invest all we are to give them a launching pad to that beyond. May our ceiling--the best we can achieve--be their floor. May they stand on our shoulders to reach for that which is beyond our abilities. And when they look back at us, may they see us smiling as we cheer them on to ever greater heights. :-)

Thinking Thoughts

2011-12-04T16:32:00.000-08:00

“When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.” ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Indeed. I find this happening to me nearly every time I begin a new blog entry. I ponder a point. The more I ponder, the more what I have to share feelsThingish. But once commited to paper (or website), the words look back at me in a timid sort of way, as if not quite sure they are ready for other people to read them.

I will launch out regardless, because I've been pondering peace again. Specifically, how to go about creating it. Though I have tended to resort to shifting the atmosphere by such things as quelling noise, lighting a candle to lend a golden glow, or playing something calm and classical on the CD player, I'm realizing that creating peace is not so much about enviornment as about how I choose to respond when strife, anger, worry, or fear are present.

For those that may be waiting for the horse tie-in, here it goes:

In the same manner, I have found that the best way to help Honor overcome fear or agitation is not necessarily to remove the stimulus--a short-term fix sending him the erroneous message that a fear reaction can cause scary things go away. Rather, if I remain calm and compassionate, unaffected by his fear and steady in my support of him, he finds a place of peace within himself greater than he possessed before.

This is true with people as well (though personally I find people a whole lot more challenging than horses). At the risk of sounding simplistic--I'm seeing that it is really about love. Love disarms. It soothes, calms, and comforts. I am not very good at loving during a non-peaceful episode. But if I can tap into compassion; if I can see the person or situation from that position of care; I can extend peace toward them, and they, in turn, may choose to respond to me in like manner. But even if they do not, there is still peace within me.

Okay. That is the Thing I have been thinking about. Whether it is "Thingish" enough for anyone else to ponder is yet to be seen...

Thanksgiving Resolution

2011-11-27T10:40:00.000-08:00

Okay. I know I'm already too late to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. But in one way, I don't mind, because there's something that bugs me about the practice of setting apart one day out of the year to be something I have equal reason to be the other 364 days (thankful). In spite of this pet peeve, the truth is that I could be a whole lot more mindful of the many blessings in my life.

The news is so full of catastrophe, cruelty, and chaos that it is easy to begin to view the world through a darkened lens. But every day, all over the earth, people--regular people whom the media will never mention--love, laugh, and live with honor. Flowers still bloom. Cats still purr. Babies still grin their toothless grins. Beautiful realities, these, and I know which viewpoint I want to focus on. To quote Bill Johnson, I want to "Celebrate who people are, rather than stumble over who they are not."

I got to thinking about this in regards to my journey with Honor. Not that long ago, I had become so focused on what he was not that I could not see what he was. But once I began to look for the good in him, he has continued to amaze me with how quickly he learns and how willing he is to try whatever I ask him to do. I never saw these strengths when I was concerened about his busy feet and his lack of ground manners.

He is the same horse.

I just have different eyes.

This next year, I want to walk with a greater awareness of the things that are right, whether it's in the world, my community, or my circle of family and friends. And you know, I have a feeling that if I can look with this deeper sight, come next Thanksgiving, I'll have an even longer list of blessings to count :-)

Pondering Peace

2011-11-20T12:03:00.000-08:00

Where is everybody???

This windy morning I turned Journey out to pasture and put Honor in the corral so that I could come out and work with him later. What I didn't plan on was him working himself up into a first-class tizzy over the fact that he couldn't see where the other horses were. Round and round and round he went, trotting, head tossing, and generally stirring himself up. By the time I made it back out there, he was one distracted horse. So I started out with some de-sensitizing exercises--flipping the end of the lead rope all over head, legs, etc. Added some yeilding exercises--backing, one-rein stops (from the ground) and that type of thing. What I found fascinating was that as I gave him something else to think about, he became progressively calmer, forgetting his preoccupation with being left alone, he settled down and focused on what we were doing together to such a degree that when I took his halter off at the end of the session, he had become calm and relaxed.

Peaceful.

I've been thinking about peace lately--specifically the contrast between peace within and peace without. Outer peace is a many-faceted thing. I can create it in my enviornment. Well, sort of. But because it often depends on elements I cannot control (such as other people, the economy, or the weather), it is also a fleeting and fragile thing. Yet I have spent so much time and energy in my life trying to force exterior peace to exist.

And, I wonder--is it truly peace if I must control people and circumstances in order to create it? Honor, for all his running back and forth neighing and carrying on, wasn't able to cause the separating fence to dissolve, hence restoring his peace. In fact, the harder he tried to alter outside circumstances, the less peace he found.

The correlation is painfully obvious. I have wasted huge amounts of time and effort in that same pursuit. Hmmm. How much more effective it would be to bend my efforts toward cultivating peace within myself than trying to get others to behave in ways that create it around me.

Toots demonstrates inner peace in the midst of outer chaos.

(While I aspire to this, I hope to maintain consciousness at the same time).

My new goal? To walk in the ways which make for peace. Inside peace. I'm a bit perplexed as to how to do that, though intellectually I know some of the elements. (This will undoubtedly give me food for future posts). All I can say right now is that it's a pity I've spent so little of my life getting good at caretaking peace within myself. However, I'm not overly bummed about it because I have confidence that not only will the Prince of Peace give me assistance in my endeavors, but surely it must be easier to try to control one mind and heart--mine!--than to control everyone else.

Cogitations on a State of Wimpiness

2011-11-13T05:46:00.000-08:00

Rosie waits for feed

A cold, foggy drizzle wrapped the Missouri hills in gray earlier this week, at least in my neck of the woods. The land may be thankful for a good drink, but in me the chilly rain set off a whole different reaction. So I let Journey out with Honor, gave our milk cow (Rosie) and pony (Ginger) their feed, and hurried my muddy boots back to the house, all the while consoling myself that I had too much to do to spend time working with a horse. But the truth of the matter is that I was feeling definitely wimpy.

What? Leaving so soon?

When did I become such a comfort lover, I asked myself? I suppose it crept upon me as slowly and inexorably as have the passing years, and now I find myself at a place where mere weather can suck courage and vision out of my heart, reducing me to a house-dwelling, woodstove-hugging shadow of my usual self.

This is not okay with me. For one thing, horses need consistency. If I let rain, cold, or wind keep me from working with Honor on a regular basis, I may never reach the point where we ride off into the sunset together.

But what really scares me is that I would give up so easily on a dream. It's not like becoming a long distance rider is my ultimate goal. I have other things I care about more. It's the fact that what should be no contest is a very real issue. One rainy morning and I'm inches away from breaking open my stash of corn candy, picking up a book, and hibernating until spring.

Seriously? It's not even winter yet!

The sweeter the dream, the higher the price we must pay to attain it. If in the face of pain, fear, or weariness, I let comfort be my guide, will I have what it takes to fight for the things that really matter to me? I may be more than half-way through my earthly journey, but this I do know: I don't want to slow down now. If anything, I want to take the experiences I've accrued so far and apply them in such a way as to enable me to run faster. Harder. Wiser. More passionately. With joy.

I write this in a warm and quiet room with a cup of coffee at hand. I have yet to encounter any disturbances in my day. Comfortable and safe, I ponder these things, and I pray for strength. For resolve. And for a pair of insultated coveralls in which I can meet the next chilly morning :-)

Concerning Titles

2011-11-06T13:29:00.000-08:00

I've been pondering the title I've given this blog: Journey with Honor. The simple weight of that phrase never fails to sitr my heart with desire that I would not merely live--survive, as it were--but live with intent to honor and value those whose lives touch mine in this earthly journey. That said, I am hindered by the fact that I often do not know how to actually walk it out. I suspect it is much more simple than I make it and more profound than I know.

But the title is about more than just living intentionally. You see, we have a horse named Journey.

JOURNEY GIRL

Journey is a Morgan/Cob cross, and what can I say? She is the ideal horse is many ways. She's safe, wonderful to ride (especially in the woods), and has a classic beauty I love. Calm, alert, willing, and with her Morgan breeding, she loves to trot--once you have convinced her that you really and truly want her to move.

The rest of the time, she seems perfectly content to eat and doze her life away.

HONOR

And then we have Honor.

He's a gorgeous red dun Quarterhorse/Arab cross (a "Quarab"). If looks the horse doth make, then I probably wouldn't be writing about him in this blog. Suffice it to say, true to his Arab lineage, he is smart, quick on his feet, and ready to be the one in charge if he's not convinced someone else is.

To tell the truth, I wasn't at all sure I was up to Honor. Maybe I'd just stick with Journey.

She is safe. Known. I can arrive at my destination unscathed, unchallenged, and not having to deal with unpleasant episodes where I must insist on respect. This prospect had--and still has--appeal. In fact, I had pretty much decided to sell Honor--the onery thing--but even as I made up flyers and posted ads, I couldn't help but notice the parable playing out right in my own field.

Living? We all do that. To live in such a way as to show honor to others and ourselves--that is a whole different animal, as they say. How do I want to finish this race, this earthly journey of mine? Safe, or satisfied? Do I want to merely journey, content to avoid pain, or do I want to focus on honoring others, respecting their worth, intentionally enjoying who they are rather than trying to re-make them into someone more like me? Honor can be scary. It's not always given in return, for one thing, and there's the chance of failure. And yet--as others much wiser than I have said, better to try and to fail, than never to try at all.

LEARNING TO BE PATIENT WHILE TIED

This is what I thought about today as I worked with Honor. I can always sell him. But if I will work with him, invest some time and build a relationship with him, this horse can go places Journey will never take me. That, in a nutshell, is what my journey with Honor is all about. I expect a few scares, bumps, and hot, dusty, miserable days along the way. But the glimmers of far greater glory and far greater pleasure are calling me from the safety of the familiar and into the realm of promise.

However, I definitely plan on wearing my riding helmet!

Musings, horse happenings, and other odds and ends of life.

2011-11-03T15:16:00.000-07:00

The idea of writing a blog has niggled and nagged at me ever since I learned what it meant. Web log. Weblog. Blog. Not the prettiest name I've ever heard, and certainly not one I would have chosen. But then, no one asked me. Now that the word doesn't rattle my lyrical sensibilities quite as badly (due to the fact that the world is innundated with more blogs than a garden with a potato bug infestation), I've decided add yet one more to cyberspace.

So why would a relatively sane, very busy writer, wife, mom, and caretaker of various animals, flower gardens, and relationships even consider adding to the information overload or taking on another activity which by its very nature must be maintained if it is to survive,? As close as I can figure, here are my reasons: So much happens in day-to-day life--mostly small events, intense in their sweetness or their struggle. Many of these no one knows about or gets to enjoy. I find myself wishing to share odd moments on the off chance that others might relate, appreciate, or be encouraged in their own journeys.

Mine is not a famous or exciting lilfe, yet it is challenging, interesting, and emmminently satisfying (at least to me). Perhaps that fact, more than any other, is sufficient reason to start this blog: I belong to the rank and file of the world: those of whom the media has never heard nor likely ever will. I want people to know they matter even if they aren't famous, and that they are incredibly valuable. I want to encourage them to see the beauty in their lives, and to experience their hidden moments with new joy (things I'm trying to learn how to do myself, BTW!).

That, and I am undertaking to train our 8-year-old Quarab (Quarter horse/Arab cross) gelding, Honor, with the intent of turning him from "expensive lawn ornament" (a direct quote from my amazingly tolerant husband) into a trail horse I feel safe to ride. I half suspect a corollary, and expect to learn much more than how to turn a semi-onery animal into a one I feel in sync with. This, too, leads me to consider blogging. Call it self-therapy, but writing works that way for me--I experience, I go on about that experience, and when I read back over my words, I begin to understand.

Thus I embark, wondering what tomorrow holds and where our journeys will take us...