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.

First Breath of Winter

This morning held the first breath of winter here in our valley. Mt. Timpanogoos on the north end of our valley was hidden by low-slung, dark blue clouds. The mountains to the east were been swathed in white clouds backlit by the morning sun. These clouds poured out of the canyons as though they were the exhaled breath of the mountains. The peaks were covered with a dusting of snow--which I hope means we'll have a good winter for water and that our drought here may be ending. The mountains to the south were bare of clouds, covered by sunlight. It's days like this when I remember how I lost my heart to the landscape of the American West.

Tonight I found more pears laying in the wet grass under the tree. What is the tipping point? The point at which the fruit is soft enough, the sugar content at the right sweetness, the density of the fruit--what is it, short of wind, that makes the fruit drop on a calm day from the tree? Is that a mystery that Persephone knows?

When does she cross over into the world of the dead to join her husband? Is it on the night of Samhain--Halloween--when the veil between the dead and the living thins, even parts? Or does she linger among the pines, with holly in her hair?

I feel like I'm waking up from the long dry hot summer to the changing of autumn--it's the seasonal changes that have me observing details again as a writer and poet needs to. I've been in a numb, writer's block state this summer, on a treadmill with my novel. Things are moving again.

I have been surprised at how blind I'd become. Sunday down at the barn, Tasha asked me to help her tie together two sections of the metal corral. "The paddock horses are not where they are supposed to be," she said.

I looked out beyond the row of stalls to the paddock. I saw a few horses. Nothing looked out of place. "What do you mean?" I asked.

Tasha looked at me funny. "Look over there right in front of you," she said.

When I'd looked out into the paddock, I'd ignored the scene right in front of me. The corral segment that separated a stall from the paddock had been knocked open. Someone had bitten through the twine that kept the segments tied together. So in this stall stood most of the paddock horses, milling around the little old white Welsh pony who was boarding for just a few days. They wanted to pick on him. Tasha shooed the herd away, and gently coaxed the pony back into the stall. I helped her move the segments back together and then she tied them up with new twine.

Later I chatted with her as she sprayed fly repellent on her mare, Dream. I commented that the flies seemed worse than usual this week. Tasha said, "The barn swallows have gone south. They're not around to pick off the flies."

It was then I noticed how quiet the barn was. No bird song. No chittering. No swallows darting among the eaves of the barn. They have flown to Mexico or South America.

I decided in that moment I needed to awaken. Monday morning I waited in the turning lane on University Parkway for a red light to turn green so I could drive into UVU campus. In a few seconds, the rim of the sun appeared over Y Mount. It seemed to burst over the peaks as the earth turned, casting a pink glow onto cliffs. Joy and awe warmed through my blood.

When I was young, I could hike among those cliffs and watch sunrise, watch clouds roll in below me. Perhaps next year I'll be able to do that again. Who wants to come with me?

Growing Old with Persephone in the Autumn

(Update: As of today, 17 pounds lost.)

We have one peach tree and one Bartlett pear tree in our backyard. They're small even though we've had them for years. The peach tree gave us enough this year for a peach crumble, a few peaches to snack on, and a tray of slices to freeze. The peaches were small and came on early in the withering heat of this summer. Still, they were beautiful with that rosy blush overlaid  a sunny yellow--it's as though in ripening, nature distilled the color of sunsets and sunrises, sweetened it with the taste of early morning coolness and moisture. When I pulled the last of the peaches from the burgeoning tree, it seemed that Persephone was there, watching from the shadows of our juniper trees, with dark green eyes and nutmeg hair.

For me, there has always been a distinctly feminine feel in the air of spring and autumn. Some might call it Gia, the spirit of Mother Earth; others might say it is a female goddess. I don't know--but in a corner of my mind I feel as though I should leave out a bowl of wine for the moon to reflect in and a plate of vegetables and fruit from our small garden as an offering.

Our pears are really coming on this week. Every day more fall to the ground than did the day before. The pear tree is leaning over like a heavily pregnant woman about to give birth. The first batch of pears were ripe, but mushy on the inside. The ones we're harvesting now are beautiful through and through with a smooth, mellow taste. I love pears with almonds or walnuts in yogurt or oatmeal with just a dash of cinnamon and maple syrup. Each fruit that is dropped upon the ground seems a small divine gift. Persephone's soft breath is in the hissing of dry leaves against the fence, the barely audible plop of fruit falling from branch to ground.

I am glad that even though my time of fertility is past, that I still feel that mysterious female presence of the Earth at this time of year. I felt it mostly keenly when pregnant with my daughter. She was due in September, but came in late August. I remember sitting on my front porch in the cooler evenings of late August, resting my hands on my swollen belly, feeling my daughter move. Geese flew in formation, practicing for their autumn migration. It seemed right that I should be giving birth during the season of harvest.

Two years later, we had an incredible harvest moon one evening in late autumn. The moon was huge and it was green! I scooped up my two-year-old daughter and walked out into the humming night. I thought of how the moon had been worshipped as a female goddess in centuries past.The moon, looming as close as it would get that year, had a spiritual presence I cannot give words to. I pointed out the moon to my daughter. I wish I could remember whether she said anything--but she was awestruck, then snuggled in close to me, wrapping her arms around my neck. It was wordless thanks and recognition that the two of us, both women, felt a tie to one another and to the feminine side of nature.

As I slipped into middle-age and left the child-bearing years behind, I felt a deep sadness at first--there would be no more babies growing inside me, no more feeling the butterfly movement beneath my skin, no more quiet moments nursing. I had always dreamed of four children--but when you marry and have children in your mid- and late thirties, you have to recalibrate your expectations. I focused on the two great kids I have.

They're both in high school now--one is a senior and the other a freshman. They still need me, but not as constantly as they did when they were little. I have emotional and physical space for the things I need to do for myself--to pursue my creative writing, to develop my career, and to get into good shape so I can enter old age as healthy and fit within whatever parameters are in my control.

I wrote in an earlier post that at times my mind thinks I'm still a young woman who can still do things that my body is no longer up to. I think that by getting into shape and becoming healthier, the disparity between my mind and body will go away. I will become in tune physically and mentally with the woman I am becoming. Yes, I'm aging--but I am, you are, all of us, are works in progress until the day we take our last breath. And then who knows what journey is beyond that? Living fully is surely preparation for that unknown flight.

On a Journey with my Daughter

My fourteen-year-old daughter joined her high school's color guard this fall. In August, she survived almost two weeks of band camp, nine hours a day, with an hour lunch for break. Every week, she has three afternoons of practice after school; on top of this she has a gym class, a modern dance class (at school), has an English jumping lesson once a week and rides another day of the week after she does barn chores. My daughter has always been at a good weight and she's a beautiful girl. Yes, I'm her mother, deal with it--but others will tell you she's very pretty as well. :-)

She's noticed after a month of doing all this that she's starting to get really toned up and finds it easier and easier to stretch, dance, and march for hours. In addition, all that dance exercise has made her stronger for her English jumping class. Anyone who has ridden in an English saddle knows what a workout that type of riding is for your butt, thighs, and calves. My daughter is more confident, "more comfortable in her skin," it seems. She really has become even more radiant with all this exercise.

She's been very supportive and encouraging of my efforts to lose weight and to take up riding lessons. She'll give me advice on how to handle the horse, how to post a trot, etc.

She's got good taste in clothes, too, which is coming in handy because as I lose weight, I am having to weed out my wardrobe and acquire new pieces. I'm almost out of the dress size I started my weight loss in--I'd say another 10 or 15 lbs. and I'll be down to the next dress size. As I modify my wardrobe accordingly, I consult with my daughter on various outfit combinations. She's been enthusiastic and helpful. I think she's been surprised at times that I may have some fashion sense. (I can just hear her snickering as she reads this.)

When I lost 50 lbs. six years ago, I became interested in clothes again, in styling my hair differently, in wearing jewelry. Now I realize I'm 52--but ladies, I ain't dead yet and neither are you! I get so frustrated by the rather matronly clothes out in the stores for those of us who are "plus-sized." I certainly don't intend to wear a leather mini-skirt and thigh-high boots (I can hear my daughter snickering once again), but would it be possible to have a little style?!

Yesterday when I went grocery shopping at Walmart, I browsed through the Misses clothing section. There was a slate blue sweater for just $22 that would go with two pairs of dress pants I own. I decided when I drop down into the next dress size, I'll treat myself to that sweater. I also have a deal on with a dear friend at work--she's in her mid-40s and is just a stunningly beautiful woman. She has stayed fit; one of her favorite things to do is hit the resale shops in the wealthier parts of Salt Lake City and buy gently used designer clothes at less than Walmart prices. Our deal: when I reach my weight goal, we're gonna fight over the skirts at Deseret Industries.

About a month ago I bought a used dress at Savers. It's one of those gauzy maxi dresses and looks rather "artsy." It's in the next size down for me and I only paid $4 for it. The day I can slip that dress on, I'll know I've reached a very important milestone for health and fitness.

I'm almost over my bronchitis--when I am ready in a few days, I'll break out that yoga DVD and start the yoga challenge my mother issued me. No way am I gonna let a 78-year-old woman show me up--well, she already does. Guess I'll just be catching up to her!