horses and what they know

When I went out to the barn this morning I told the herd, "I'm okay, but I'm going to be slow."

The demeanor in the barn was absolutely quiet and respectful. Cody stood in the back door of his stall, as if to say "I'm giving you plenty of space, don't worry!"

There was no Hanoverian chorus, no pony hoof, no squeaky hinges. They were prepared to wait, even when I had to make 3 trips, a cautionary measure, as it is raining AGAIN and I normally have quite an armful when I walk out to make breakfast tubs.

Funny, though, when my daughter arrived to help, the volume went on and up. It was as if they knew: she has back-up now, so we can get back to our normal breakfast routine!

By the end of it, as tubs were being served, Keil Bay had held in so much anticipatory energy he was about to burst. He was bobbing his head wildly over the stall door, and drool was flinging everywhere. But when I got to his door and said "go to your manger" he did it, knowing that today I really couldn't tolerate any sudden moves.

It's the same as when someone who isn't used to horses comes to the barn, and they are that much more careful around that person, knowing somehow that they need to be a bit more mindful than usual.

It doesn't surprise me when the horses respond this way, because it's what they are wired to do - but it always gives me pause and a sense of awe.

I'm a little bit sore today from being bowled over, but I think a hot bath will help with that. Moving through the morning chores (slowly, carefully) already worked out some of the kinks.

Now if we can just get through this rain without floating away.

a little bit of this and a little bit of that

I'm watching Salina, Rafer Johnson, and Redford marching down the hill in the front field. Since the snow, I've kept them separate from the geldings to avoid the possibility of a herd run. Although the snow is melting, it's probably the muddiest it's ever been here, and there are places where the footing is very slippery.

I can't stand keeping them in, though, so the geldings go out back and Salina and her donkeys go to the front, and at least they are moving and doing their usual routine to that degree.

Yesterday while I was mucking the bare paddock (which was a huge mess) my daughter took each horse individually into the arena and hand-walked for ten minutes. The arena is nearly clear now, except at the end by the woods, and I figured it would be good for muscles and joints for the horses to get in a little focused movement on footing they didn't sink into.

They seemed to enjoy the break from mud.

There's still quite a bit of snow scattered in patches, and it remains heavy all along the forested edge of our property, even after yesterday's sunshine and 52 degree temp. Today we'll warm up again but it's cloudy, in anticipation of snow, freezing rain, and rain tomorrow. Sigh.

We seem to be locked into a pattern of two days sun, and then some form of precipitation that undoes any drying out progress.

Meanwhile, I lost track of the 700th post, which I was going to make special, given it was the seventh hundred and my favorite number is 7.

I like 8 pretty well too, so I'll try again when that one rolls around.

On other fronts I'm 4 days into the herbal regime and thus far doing okay. I had one brief spell of woozy head, a short bout of achy knees (could have been the weather, not sure), and a headache one morning. Although I'm still struggling a bit with the notion of no bread, processed sugar, starchy foods, or anything fermented, I also noticed this morning that when my husband accidentally put sugar in my coffee (we had run out of half and half, so he used milk and a little sugar) I couldn't drink it.

I'm not a fan of sugar in coffee anyway, but the taste of the sugar was actually repulsive. It makes me wonder how our taste buds are affected by the amount of sugar and other flavorings we get when we eat most processed foods.

Hopefully going completely without will make it easy for me to be very careful what I add back in, when I can.

I've noticed a surge in energy this week. It comes and goes, in between the above side effects of the yeast die-off, but it's definitely present and has caused me to stop and think - now, right now I feel like my old self.

Right as I finish this first two weeks, I'll be hosting writing group, and that will be a great way to celebrate the end of the limitations and the move to stage two of the supplements.

Last month's writing group meeting was probably the single most inspiring time I've had with reference to writing since my last retreat, and I'm looking forward to another shot of that this month.

Lots of new and exciting things in process with that - will post about them soon.

the voices on November Hill

This morning I typed in my previous blog post about the FEI, encouraged readers to write and voice their opinions, and then I left my keyboard and went about the business of my day, which at that moment was feeding equines on November Hill. As important as I think it is to speak out against wrongdoing in the world, I also feel that when we live with integrity, generosity of spirit, and live the actions we call for in others, we send equally important ripples into the world.

I stopped and listened this morning as I stood in the feed room, preparing breakfast tubs. The voices of all the equines are very distinct and beautiful.

Keil Bay's musical whinny, which rises in scale and then drops perfectly to its end note.

Salina's low, soft nicker that vibrates and comforts all at the same time.

Cody's voice is silent, but if I listen carefully I hear him turning a circle in his stall, using movement to express his eagerness.

Apache Moon takes a pony hoof and scrapes it down the stall door. Insistent and yet not overly demanding, he makes a different sound so that it stands out from the rest.

Rafer Johnson and Redford are in the barn aisle, usually right outside the feed room door, and they have mastered the art of sounding like squeaking hinges. The metaphor is not lost on me. The squeaky wheel gets the oil, and they are served first each meal.

My commitment to speaking out against rollkur continues because of all those voices in my barn every morning. As long as they speak to me, I will speak for them.

the FEI's not so secret meeting

The FEI has invited various representatives to meet and discuss the controversial topic of rollkur, or hyperflexion of the neck, at the FEI headquarters in Lausanne, Switzerland, on Feb. 9, 2010.

Apparently this meeting has not been announced publically by the FEI, but we all know about it anyway.

Project Horse has listed all the people the FEI invited along with their contact information.

If you'd like to make your feelings about rollkur known, now is the time to contact the attendees and bend their ears.

double woolgathering and the magic of metaphor

Last night I happened onto a link that took me back to my own blog posts in 2007, and before I clicked away again, I noticed a post titled woolgathering.

I love the notion of woolgathering, the word itself, the image it provokes in my head, and the idea of the physical action of gathering bits of wool, which in my mind are all the lush, deep colors I love best.

When I was in graduate school, seeing my very first client as a therapist, I had a powerful dream in which the client, a young child, brought me bits of wool. Together we wound the wool into a ball, which came to life, and over the course of several months, I taught the child to care for the living ball of wool. Later, in the end of the dream, the child came up with the idea of knitting a sweater with the wool, which would keep him warm long after I was gone from his life, and would be alive with all the work we'd done as client and therapist.

I wrote a paper using that dream as the basis for what has become my personal metaphor to doing therapy. So the notion of woolgathering grew another layer for me, much like that growing ball of yarn grew for the client in the dream.

Last night, instead of leaving the page of posts I'd happened onto, I scrolled on down, scanning my own writings from two years back, intrigued with the ability to travel so easily back in time for a little while.

Then I came across the following excerpt:

Addendum: I was looking through some old writing this a.m., looking for a particular passage that I thought might fit into the work. Didn't find it, but did come upon this dream I had back in 2005:

a huge garden (writing) spider built a gigantic web over my bed - it was thick and wide, the shape of a book when lying open. woven into it was a cross (runic cross??) there was a beautiful hummingbird hovering behind the web, trying to get through, but the web was so thick ... and then it began to glow, gold and green.

My gosh - I have absolutely no memory of that. What a wonderful dream. This is why we should write them down - we forget, even the ones we don't think we will.

I had written that dream down in 2005, discovered it in 2007, at which time I did not even remember having it, and then, last evening, rediscovered it yet again in 2010.

I still don't remember it, but even five years later it creates a huge wave of wonder in me, and appreciation both for my dream world and for the ability of words to transport, not once but many times.

In a way, the act of forgetting here is a gift, because it's the rediscovery of such a joyful memory that makes it so incredible. If I remembered the dream it wouldn't have the magnitude of impact it does when I find it now.

I don't know what meaning I attributed to the dream in 2005, but now it describes, in a perfect symbolic image, what the process of writing means to me.

And without going into a long ramble about where I am right now writing-wise, suffice it to say that finding that forgotten metaphor last night held a particular magic. The timing for my woolgathering was perfect.