braving the elements

We had a fairly intense night of rain and wind last evening, and although the sun came up bright and early this morning, we're still blowing pretty hard outside.

When we get a lot of rain in a short span of time we get a stream flowing through the front field, and this morning it was enough of a stream that it occurred to me we needed to take advantage of it to do some work with Cody and crossing water.

There were actually two streams in front - a smaller one that was a fairly easy success for him, guided by my daughter, and then the bigger one, which he crossed one way and then turned around and came through a deeper, muddier section that really tested his bravery.

He did it with much praise and a few alfalfa pellets as a reward.

Back up at the top of the hill, daughter took off his halter and let him negotiate the huge mud puddle now sitting at the gate that leads back to the paddock. He walked the fence line a few times, hoping maybe we would let him off the hook and bring him through the other, drier gate, but we didn't. When he realized hay was being served in the paddock he walked to the gate and hesitated, then marched on through.

He will often brave the water by either going airborne or going through fast, but today, he did a good job of marching through, keeping solid contact with the ground.

We're proud of the big red Quarter Horse.

re-reading L'Engle, pondering middle life

Madeleine L'Engle's A Circle of Quiet is a favorite book of mine. I re-read it every couple of years, along with the other volumes of her Crosswicks Journal series.

This time the re-reading happened on impulse. I was doing some cleaning in our book loft and for some reason this was lying on top of a bookshelf. I picked it up as I headed down the stairs and put it by my bed. That night, it pulled me away from the novel I'm reading, and I haven't been able to stop.

Mid-way the book I came across a page where I had turned down the corner. Curious as to what I'd wanted to mark, I read quickly and then stopped short at this passage:

Jung disagreed with Freud that the decisive period in our lives is the first years. Instead, Jung felt that the decisive period is that in which my husband and I are now, the period of our middle years, when we have passed through childhood with its dependency on our parents; when we've weathered the storms of adolescence and the first probings into the ultimate questions; when we've gone through early adulthood with its problems of career and marriage and bringing up our babies; and for the first time in our lives find ourselves alone before the crucial problem of who, after all these years, we are. All the protective covering of the first three stages is gone, and we are suddenly alone with ourselves and have to look directly at the great and unique problem of the meaning of our own particular existence in this particular universe.

I suspect I marked this passage when I last read it out of wonder. Would I agree with it when I got there?

I'm close enough to this stage to realize the truth of what L'Engle was getting at. Like L'Engle at Crosswick, I've ended up in the country for this stage of my life, where the pondering can be done while doing chores, or in the company of horses and donkeys, cats and Corgis, or even standing inside the house looking out at the mostly quiet landscape.

There is pasture and forest, paths that lead to clearings, and although I can't sit with my feet hanging in the stream as L'Engle did, I often find myself filling water troughs with the hose in hand, just listening to the water, letting it soothe my mind.

There is a busyness to the first three life stages. In childhood we seem driven from within to master basic skills: self-constancy, the notion that we exist separately from our mothers; sitting, crawling, standing, walking - the ability to move about; and of course numerous other milestones.

In adolescence there is the energy of growth and maturation, of separation and individuation from parent figures, of peer relationships and the beginnings of sorting out who we are, separate from our parents and family. Who we are in our own essence.

Young adulthood brings partnering and career and childbirth.

And then middle life comes. And it is quiet. I know for many people the quiet is difficult and there can be a sense of loss and confusion. Who am I can be a terrifying question when one is no longer the child of parents (who may be dead), no longer focused so intently on career, and no longer needed quite so particularly as a parent to one's child.

For me, the quiet is a return to something I always needed and gave up for awhile to pursue the other things. And I'm thinking of it as a time to create the kind of life I always wanted, to find joy in the moment and let that ripple out, because I think it does. I think it matters.

I read on and reached one more page that had its corner turned down:

I am naive again, perhaps, in thinking that the love and laughter of Crosswicks is, in its own way, the kind of responsibility Mann was talking about. I do not think it is naive to think that it is the tiny, particular acts of love and joy which are going to swing the balance, rather than general, impersonal charities. These acts are spontaneous, unself-conscious, realized only late if at all. They may be as quiet as pulling a blanket up over a sleeping baby. Or as noisy as the night of trumpets and stars.

She describes a night at Crosswicks, watching the stars with toy trumpets in hand, heralding the arrival of each star with a "wild bray" of the trumpet.

And I was totally back in joy. I didn't realize I had been out of it, caught in small problems and disappointments and frustration, until it came surging back. It was as radiant as the rock, and I lay there, listening to the girls trumpeting, and occasionally being handed one of the trumpets so that I could make a loud blast myself, and I half expected to hear a herd of elephants come thundering across the far pastures in answer to our call.

And joy is always a promise.

excitement on the hill

We were watching Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince last night, woodstove gallantly attempting to warm the house with mostly wet wood, all the chores of the day and evening behind us. Daughter was on one sofa wrapped in a blanket, and I was on another. Husband generating his own heat, apparently, as he was on the bare floor with no blanket much of the time!

Daughter suddenly asked, "what is that noise?"

Husband answered, "the cats."

I hadn't heard anything but then my husband exclaimed and when I looked, Dickens Edward Wickens was walking through the living room holding a live bright red cardinal in his mouth. The bird was squeaking repeatedly.

Husband removed the bird and found that while it had been injured somewhat, it seemed not to be too bad. He decided to drive the bird a little ways away from our house and release it where hopefully none of our quite interested cats would find it.

At that point, all the resident felines were circling with big eyes.

Husband went down to the garage and the squeak squeak squeak continued until he got in the car.

When he let the bird go, it flew away, so we are hoping he heals and lives on.

I can't quite believe that late on a cold, rainy night, Dickens managed to capture a cardinal. The entire scenario was quite surreal and I don't think I'll ever be able to watch the movie without thinking of the dramatic entrance, vocal bird, and circling cats.



Today the rain stopped except for a very occasional misting, and I took off all blankets, throwing grooming caution to the wind, and let the horses into the back field, with access to the arena in case they wanted to get out of the mud.

Rafer and Redford had donkey derby practice, Cody and Redford had a re-match, they all went at the load of fallen firewood I gathered as if I had hand-picked it just for them to chew the bark off, and I served as master gate opener from the arena to the back field while I did some much-needed arena grooming. They were like cats deciding whether to go out or stay in.

Other than the extreme mud, it was a lovely day. Perfect temp for working without sweat, and although it would have been nice to have some sunshine, the muted landscape was soothing and peaceful.

I have to say: after dealing with Cody's hind end stiffness and finally finding the right diet and supplement for him, it was pure pleasure to watch him cavorting with Redford, matching Redford's feints and quick tiny turns without problem. The Quarter Horse talent for working cattle was apparent, and even if we never need Cody to do that job, it was wonderful seeing that he's healthy and feeling good enough to move so well.

Tomorrow - one day of respite from the rain! And then it's back for Sunday and Monday.

reasons to be grateful for the rain

I'm so tired of mushy ground! We had several weeks of respite, when everything froze solid, but other than that it has not truly dried out here in probably 6-8 weeks.

And now more rain is coming.

In an effort to overcome my increasing grumpiness this morning, I'm starting a list of reasons to be grateful for the rain. Feel free to join in with me in the comment section!

1. Rain fills the creeks and rivers and lakes, cleaning things out.

2. When the creeks, rivers, and lakes are full, kayaking is more fun! And we now have kayaks!

3. Rain gives the earth a drink. More rain gives a deeper drink.

4. Rain makes the bare trees in winter look black against the gray skies and muted landscape - one of my favorite vistas.

5. Some people actually pay for mud treatments. We can get all we need for free.

6. Horses and ponies love to roll in mud. Little donkey boys not so much.

7. We have cats lying about all day long in the living room. Sleeping cats are peaceful cats.

8. The sound of rain can be meditative.

9. While basic barn chores still get done on rainy days, many things get postponed, which makes the rainy days good for writing novels.

10. If you're smart enough to park your car outside the garage during the rain, it will get washed off.

11. Rain falling is better than no rain at all.


That's about as far as I can get this morning. I had to stop myself before I put number 12:

Sometimes weather forecasters are wrong!

it was like spring here today

No jacket this morning when I went out to feed breakfast, no fire in the woodstove, and the pile of gloves lying near the back door offered a distant memory of the bitter cold from two weeks ago.

At the barn I discovered a cycling mare who spent half her day chasing (and sometimes at a trot) the big red QH, fly predators on my composting manure piles, and later in the day, tiger-striped mosquitoes on the Big Bay's face.

Keil and I had a lovely late in the day ride. He met me at the gate and I got most of the dried mud off him before tacking up. My daughter was already riding her pony, and we crossed paths many times before the sun started to set.

Cody got ridden too, which made me happy. I was in the arena two days ago and not only were the donkeys shoving at the gate to get in, but Cody too. The day before that the pony had nearly knocked the gate down, wanting to get in where I was riding. I love it that the arena is such a popular place!

After the ride, I untacked Keil Bay in the barn aisle and gave him a snack. About 2/3 through it he heard something and strode purposefully to the barn doors and looked out. It was moments before sunset, and he had done that magical trick horses do where they seem to gain several hands. With his head held high and his entire body on alert, he was 18 hands and counting, highlighted by the last few rays of sunlight.

We ended up by the round bale, with me putting his oil of oregano onto frogs. I happened to look up and the sky had suddenly gone pink and purple, in long layers of alternating color. Only a few minutes later, the pink had gone to white and the purple to a deep indigo blue, in the same layered pattern.

There's not much more one can hope for in a day: perfect weather; a handsome, happy horse; and a gorgeous sunset.