A Halloween Birthday--Three Generations of Mothers

My mother was born on Halloween, seventy-eight years ago. I am blessed to still have her in my life--she has looked after herself and strives to stay healthy and fit. I'm not going to divulge personal things here--but suffice it to say that my mother steered our family through a very tough time when we were young. She came out of it with a peaceful and positive spirit. My brothers and sisters and I came through it knowing she loved us and always would.

I know people who don't have that--it makes me value my mother and her special gifts even more. Mom has also became a dear freind to me in my adulthood. Her advice and support has carried me through many things. Mom is a very talented musician; her love is part of the background music of my life.

My mother in turn had a very caring and loving mother. I was in my early 40s when Grandpa died. She and my grandfather were like a second set of parents in some ways. When you spent the day with them, they made you feel as though you were the only child on earth. I have so many memories of going fishing, eating Christmas dinner at their house, standing next to Grandpa during mass, calling them almost every Sunday when I was away at college. One of my most cherished memories is when I was older, in my 20s, I'd try to stay overnight with Grandma and Grandpa for old times's sake. We'd sit in the kitchen in a contented silence--I read my scriptures; Grandpa silently went through his rosary, and Grandma would crochet or knit. It was a silence of utter acceptance and contentment--it must be what heaven feels like.

I remember often going with my grandmother to my great-grandmother's house and the great aunts' house--Grandma would clean house and help them with whatever they needed. Grandma, too, like my mother, served her family with great love and loyalty. A few years ago on our family website, my sister Erin asked us and our cousins, of all who had passed on, who did we miss the most? All of us, every single one of us, said we missed Grandma and Grandpa the most.

Grandma's mother, my great-grandma, was a sweet lady. She made lovely mints that were always to be found on a sideboard. Her kitchen always smelled nice with the yeasty scent of homemade rolls. My best memory of her is sitting on her porch swing, chatting with her. She, too, had the gift of making you feel as though you were the only child on earth.

I come from an amazing web of loving women. I watch my sisters and my sisters-in-law with their children. This web will continue to grow. I hope I have and will foster the tradition for future generations.

Thank you, Mom, for all you've given me. Now, off to do my yoga (how's your yoga going?)

Goddesses of the Dark Days

Yup--I rarely come back from the stables without a poem of some sort. Here's the latest--there are no horses in it, but those who love autumn and Celtic mythology will like this. Hope you enjoy it:

Goddesses of the Dark Days

Mountains burn with the last pale flames of autumn—

Burnished red, smoked orange, antiqued yellow.

Boreas, bringer of winter and the cold north wind, has breathed

Upon the utmost peaks the first snow, the first blessing of spring water.

Persephone is gone to the Lord of death—the last of the burgeoning pumpkins

Slowly waken to Demeter’s grief. Dry leaves whisper against stone and fence,

Whisper of the Dark Mother who walks among the dry forest.

A circlet of oak leaves crowns her nutmeg hair; she fingers the acorns in her hands.

The other women come: silver-haired and gray-eyed Beira, haq queen of the dark days

Between Samhain and Beltaine; doe-eyed Brighid who tends the hearth and cattle;

Blue-eyed Ceridwen who sings poetry and music into the hearts of men;

And dark, quiet Boann, the mother of rivers. They have all come, singing, chanting,

Walking through groves of pine and the aspen with yellow leaves bright

Against the first mountain snow. Into my garden I will go under a full moon,

Fill a silver chalice with water and watch the goddesses breathe runes across

The pooled surface in ripples and in laced, wind-driven shadows across pumpkins.

 

Sunset Down at the Barn

It never ceases to amaze me how when I'm outside doing manual work--mucking stalls, mowing my lawn, weeding, walking the dogs--how details emerge from the hub bub of life, gemlike, speaking of poetry that is their own. 

There's plenty of it in this beautiful valley--the granite peaks turning red and gold at sunset, the moon rising over the mountains, strands of fog caught in the rushes and marsh grasses in early morning.

This evening Niamh and I were down at the stables at sunset.  A flock of geese flew overhead, their bodies black against the dimming sky. Darkness flowed down from mountain and canyon, spreading over the fields towards us. The horses seemed wild, moving through the dark, nickering to each other before they came over to see what we were doing. My daughter's long hair gleamed gold in the lamplight as she knelt and coaxed Alice, the shy yearling, over for a pet.
 
I started helping out with barn chores one day a week in order to help Niamh earn some riding time--soon I was doing it even when she didn't go. I just wanted to be there among the horses, the fields, and the folks down there.  Barn chores are a good way to get exercise, too! I think the place reminds me of Iowa just a little bit in some ways as well--in the middle of Lindon you feel like you're out in the country.

Tasha has said this to me more than once--that caring for your horse yourself really helps you bond with the animal. I don't have my own horse right now--but every week it I get to know the horses better.

There's Souix, the big bay gelding who Niamh loves--he'll try to get out of his stall if you give him a chance so he can go socialize with the horses on his side of the barn. When you discipline him, he gets this hurt look on his face. He tolerates me, but I think he's genuinely fond of Niamh.  And Dream, Tasha's mare, is amazing. She's in her happy place when speeding around barrels. You can just feel the joy of movement and speed when you watch her. PC makes me laugh. He's so curious and wants to be around people. Shy Alice, the yearling, is just sweet. I don't know what draws me to her. Then there is the magnificent stallion, Cash--he's not tall, but he's beautifully muscled, has a great personality (Shauna has worked with him a lot), and he's gentle.

Some of these horses I was able to see when they were not even a day old yet and have watched them grow up. It's amazing to watch. If you spend enough time down at the barn, you get to know what spooks each horse, whether they are affectionate or not, what they are lazy about, what their strengths and weaknesses are.

I've watched Niamh become attached to certain horses through the years as well. She's likely to end up being a fairly tall woman and I think she'll always go for tall horses. I would imagine if I keep on riding and get close to a few horses, that I'll come to really understand how different horses and riders pair up well. Niamh has gained much confidence through riding--I believe if she's able to, she'll always have horses in her adult life somehow. As for me--well, from a young age I drew horses, drew picture books, then wrote stories about them. I read Margurite Henry's books about the ponies of Chincateague; I blazed through Walter Farley's series about the Black Stallion, sobbed my way through Flicka. Two of my sisters have had access to horses or have owned them; currently, one of my brothers has horses on his farm in Iowa. Learning to ride is something I've wanted to do for a long time and it's fun that I can share this with Niamh.

I've written several poems now over the past four years inspired by horses, the barn, and Niamh. Who'd have thought to find such poetry and peace among horse manure, hay, and dust? Works for me.

Throwing a Javelin on Horseback: The Language of Horses and Aging

I had my third riding lesson today; I realized I am learning a new language. Perhaps even two new languages. First, I'm learning to communicate with a horse, to send clear signals about what I want the horse to do. Second, I'm learning how to read my aging body properly. Let me explain briefly what I mean by this.

The Language of Aging

It's pretty clear to most of us that as we age, we won't be as fast, as strong, as sturdy as we once were. When I was in my late 20s, I could cross-country ski in the back country for hours and not feel a thing the next day. Fast forward to today--I'm 52, struggling to lose weight and get into shape. I really have to warm up to activity slowly.

This morning down at the barn, I had to empty out nearly all the water buckets. I had to heave them from side to side to get them to turn over, with a "ho-ya!" exclamation. I'm sure I'm slower than the teenage girls who do most of the feedings during the week. Tasha is 25 and is certainly faster than I am--but bless her for being patient with me. I am also certain it takes me longer to muck stalls than a younger person--but I seem to still have mental endurance that pushes me.

Once the barn chores were done, Tasha gave me a one-hour riding lesson. During this lesson I stopped every so often to take my feet out of the stirrups and stretch. Later in the afternoon my husband and I drove up to Sundance and walked up a trail aways. We didn't find the one we wanted--and I knew even if we found the trail I could only do so much--no way was I going to walk up the mountain again.

I hope next year I can do some really good hikes; I also hope I might be jogging and doing some sort of weightlifting by then. I have to listen carefully to my body though--particularly that right knee that has some arthritis in it and my lower back. It's a new dialog between my mind and my aging body. It is certainly a different conversation than when I was 29 and hired a personal trainer to help me strengthen my ankles for back-country skiing; it is a different conversation yet again from when I was in my 30s, listening to my body for signs of fertility, then pregnancy. This season of my life feels like early autumn with bursts of intense color on the side of the mountain. I hope it will be a long, crisp autumn.

The Language of Horse and Rider

Today I choose to concentrate on riding posture, walking, turning, and one-rein stops with Bitsy. I had one small triumph today--I was able to mount the horse without using the steps. Tasha held on to the saddle for me, but I got up on my own power. This also means I'm becoming a bit more flexible.

Tasha set up poles around the arena and I practiced turns around them. The one-rein stop wasn't going too well at first. Tasha pointed out that while I was moving my legs and feet away from the horse's body to indicate a stop, I was bending my legs up behind me  and the toes of my boots were touching Bitsy. Being an obedient horse, she interpreted this to mean I wanted her to keep going!

So I had think through what I was doing, motion by motion. Tasha talked to me about what different gestures and touches, the lean of a leg or foot, can mean to a horse. If you say "whoa" to Bitsy, she calmly comes to a stop. If you say "whoa" to Cash, the resident stallion of the barn, he stops with such force it could send you flying.

Not only must I learn the standard signals to give to a horse, but I will also need to learn how each horse will behave and respond. To demonstrate some commands to me, Tasha got up on Bitsy. As she showed me different things, I wondered, for how many centuries have we used some of these commands? Some could literally be at least 2,000 years old! Athenian historian and soldier Xenophon (c. 430 – 354 BC) wrote two treatises on the selection, care and training of horses and on the duties of a cavalry commander.

Now I don't have to worry about throwing a javelin from horseback--but I do have to worry about safety and communication with the horse. I envy people who have a chance to spend every day with one horse and really get to know it. I am convinced that these animals, if they spend enough time with us, also learn to read us. Recently, my daughter was feeling very sad and upset about a few things. The big bay she loves, Souix, nuzzled her gently in the crook of her neck. He did this repeatedly until she calmed down.

I have to give that horse some credit. My nickname for him is the "Big Beastie" because he can be SUCH a stinker. He showed an innate emotional intelligence with Niamh in that moment; he seemed to know exactly what she needed. He was like a big old dog. It was sweet--but always in the back of my mind and Niamh's is the fact this is a huge animal with a mind of his own.

I've a lot to learn about horses from observation and experience. And you know--I still have a lot to learn about myself as well. I'm aging as my kids grow from teens into adults. They are finding out more about themselves and their capabilities. I still am at my age. I hope this learning thing is eternal.