Someone to Tell

Tonight the wind whipped across my face in the dark. The full moon was hidden behind the moving storm clouds. The rustle of the grasses and the shaking of the aspens created a symphony of sensations. Light mist kissed my cheeks turned up to the sky as I leaned against the car. The scent of the pines wafted downhill and surrounded me. I stood alone in the driveway buffeted by the evening and I wished, I had someone to tell.

I loped around the arena being carried by a thousand pounds of muscle and heart. She moved like a rocking horse evenly and steady. Ta Dum, Ta Dum, Ta Dum. My hips moved in rhythm to her legs; we were as one - she and I. I could feel my chest ever expanding, overflowing with love and affection for my partner. Her ears flicked forward then back, listening to my every word. She was light on the reins, waiting for my slightest command. The mare and I had traveled a painful journey and now we had arrived. All of the trials and fear, waiting and perseverance had been worth it. We were moving in unison, connected through bodies and breath. My hands steady, my weight dropping into the saddle, my legs slightly forward-and she slowed to a halt. Perfection. This feeling was intoxicating. I floated from her back and wrapped my arms around her neck; heart to heart, my forehead pressed against her shoulder. The ride meant everything to me and I wished, I had someone to tell.

The sun baked upon the tour group as we traversed across the ruins. I felt I had stepped into a National Geographic magazine. The Coliseum, the stone aqueducts, the columns a thousand years old. The marble angels, the David, the Celestine Chapel. I was in awe of the beauty of Rome. Fountains everywhere, each a grouping of Gods and Goddesses pouring water over their nakedness. The aroma of tomatoes boiling and bread baking filled the air. These were only enhanced by the scents of espresso and wine. I took pictures of families and they returned the favor. Me at a cathedral, me at the Duomo. The history, the architecture, having seen these places only in calendars and books, I was living a dream. I only wished, I had someone to tell.

I pulled the towel from my head and combed out the knots. The morning ritual had begun as each tress was dried and curled into place. My hands moved rhythmically across my hair in a silent dance of preparation.

My thoughts are on the day. I set my intention. I contemplate the struggle between Spirit and Ego. I wrestle with the option to build or to buy, a house in town or a house with a view? I drift into dreams of luxury vacations aboard a sailing schooner. Can you see the Greek Isles while the sail billows above? The salt spray is inhaled with each wave we crest. The gulls circle our ship as the chef carries the tray of champagne and cheese. The white linen pants I wear, gently sway against my tanned legs. My lover lays a kiss on my brow as I toast another day of love and abundance.

Ouch! The iron descends into the sink after scorching my finger. Drink the coffee. Pack the lunch. Clients to see. Decisions to make. As I lay on the lipstick, I drift once more. How do you know when to push and when to let go? How do we know what comes after this existence? Does everyone question life as much as me? Sometimes I wish, I had someone to tell.

I was so afraid alone in the desert. Hadnt he accosted me? Hadnt I used the only threat that could save my life? What was I doing on the other side of the planet from all that I knew? My vow was to return to this place one more time. It was a now or never, do or die precipice in my life. I was going to stand on that dune in the Kalahari, on Easter as the sun came up on my 50th birthday. I made it! My tears poured forth in joy and relief, as the rays crept over the sand. He had not touched me, the torrents from the storm had not washed me away and the lightening had not struck me. I was still here.

I have known violence from an early age at the hands of men. A knowing sprung forth that no man would ever force me again, the day I earned my black belt. Abuse stopped here. No more stalking, rape, beatings or hostility. Someone referred to me as “rage under control.” That was me and that was then. I had spent decades in fear. Now I am free. I have faced terror and pain. I carry those scars inside. I only wish, I had someone to tell.

I lay down on my pillow. The flannel is soft wand warm. Cats purring along my legs. The dog stretches and yawns. I can hear the pellets drop into the stove as the fan begins to hum. All is quiet, time for sleep. I long for the strength of a man to lie beside me and hold me close. Trusting that he will be the protector, the defender against the things that go bump in the night. The woman in me is yearning to cook and provide for him, to make a home that is peaceful, sacred and serene. The child in me searches for a playmate, a friend to share secrets and play hide and go seek. Buckets of ice cream long after dark, pillow fights and racing on bikes. We run; we laugh; we play. I am a woman and a child. I only wish, I had someone to tell.

A best friend is someone whom we share our most intimate thoughts – our dreams, our fears, our passion. Our stories feel empty when we are separated from this person through distance or death. My wish for you is that you always, have someone to tell.

Unexpected Pathways pre-order!

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Unexpected Pathways: "The Journeys of Women in the Workforce”
I am excited to announce the publication of this new book. I am one of several authors that have contributed their life stories to motivate and inspire other women. Take a peek!

Perfect

In my Tuesday post, I mentioned an offer I pulled on a house a couple weeks ago. I didn’t have time to elaborate but it seems like a good time now. Aries is lying by my feet and the fire is burning in the wood stove. It’s too early to go to bed; too late to start a project. The snow is just beginning to fall outside my window but it’s cozy in here.

Photo by Nicole Tavenner

Over seven years ago, my dear friend – a veterinarian in Albany, NY offered me one of his German Shepherd puppies. These dogs go to law enforcement agencies including the New York State Troopers, the Colonie Police Department, U.S. Border Patrol and Onondaga County Sheriffs. I said, “Thank you, no.” I had recently lost my dog in an automobile accident and was not ready. We talked several times and he was doing his best to convince me I’d be doing him a great favor by fostering this exceptional dog. One of the female pups had scored extremely high in an aptitude test and he wanted to keep her for breeding stock. She would eventually take her mother’s place in the line. While she was growing, it would be a shame for her to be kept in a kennel at the clinic. I could train her, keep her until she was two and after she had two litters, she would be spayed and returned to me. All her pups would be police dogs and be of service to the community.

I had worked with her grandparents many years before. These dogs were smart, hardworking and never stopped trying to please. It would be an honor to receive one as a gift. Why was I having such a hard time saying yes?

I walked along Six Mile Creek, the way I always did when I needed inspiration. There was something magical about this place. It felt like any second I could stumble upon a fairy kingdom or a nature spirit. Maybe it was the way the sun splattered through the Sycamore trees and danced on the water’s surface. Maybe it was the series of waterfalls that plunged from the limestone cliffs covered in moss to deep pools below. Whatever it was, I loved it. I sat on a rock that was warm from the sun. I dangled my toes and played with the minnows.

I don’t have visions. I don’t hear voices. A knowing seemed to force its way into my consciousness and asked me a question as clear as day. “Why can you not accept anything perfect?” I couldn’t have heard that. I wouldn’t even think of that. What? There it remained, still and strong. The dog. I had always picked up dogs from the shelter or a rescue group. Dogs that needed fixing. Holy cow! Was this the reason I could not accept this dog? Did I feel unworthy? Did I feel that someone else could give her a better home? I sat with this and reflected how this theme was reflected in many areas of my life.

I drove the three hours to visit the puppy. David had her packed and ready to ride before I could protest. Her name came to me before I even saw her. I knew she would be perfect and that everything was going to be ideal. Aries and I have been inseparable all these years. She is my reminder not to settle.

A couple weeks ago, I called my real estate agent to make arrangements to see a house that had just been listed. It was in a wonderful neighborhood, only two or three miles away from where I am now. Aries would have a small lake to play in and I would have a large lawn where I could putter. The view from the balcony looked across the lake and into the mountains. Perfect. It also had a great east exposure for me, the morning person. All of this information I gathered by doing a drive-by. Now, to get inside. The house would be shown for the first time in two days. I was the fifth person in line to make an appointment. By the time I saw the house, I was one of seven to have a showing. I have come so close to buying a house and had it slip out of my hands, that I made an offer by noon on the first day.

Instead of being excited, my stomach began to knot. It didn’t feel quite right. I began making a list of all the problems that would need fixing in this house. For one, it wreaked of dogs that had been housed in the lower level. The garage was permeated with cat urine. The master bath had been renovated to make it handicapped accessible. In doing this, the door had been removed and a hideous mismatched tile shower installed. The bedroom clothes closet was opened from inside this bathroom. The whole master bedroom and bath had to be remodeled to be useable. I started adding up the costs of renovating and looking on line at the closing prices of houses in the neighborhood. There was no way I could get my money out of this house if I made the investment. The next morning, I spoke to my agent. We discussed my concerns. Out of seven showings, I was the only person that made an offer of any kind. In my desire to get out of the cabin, I had offered way more than I should.

Why was I thinking I had to buy a fixer upper? Why could I not imagine buying something perfect for me? I thought of Aries. Was I doing it again? I pulled my offer. I will look and I will find a house that is perfect for me. Yes, I may have to put work into it – just like training Aries – but then it will be mine. I will enjoy it and make it fun. My house will be perfect for me.

Cat to Eagle

Restlessness stirs deep within me. I listen but it has no sound. The tension builds as I know that in an instant I will leap. Just as a cat waits patiently, knowing that the moment will come, I am ready. I cannot see the direction or the goal but I am aware of its imminent arrival. My future is calling me. Love, do not hold me back.

As a doe in the hedge line, I have spent years avoiding any sound approaching, sure that each step bears a weapon that will pierce my heart. I nibble the fruits and twigs safe inside my thicket. On occasion, I venture out in the moonlight to the meadow with my friends. Kicking up our hooves until someone hears a snap. Then it is tails a flying and back to safety. I leave the doe behind, secure in the undergrowth of the forest. I am no longer running and hiding. I stand upright and hold my ground.

Now, I am the momma bear. My innocence is not always perceived. My intentions are simple. I protect and nurture my young by guiding them to rivers and berry patches. We travel from mountains to stream banks, always rolling and tumbling along in harmony. My strength is evident when I climb a tree for a better vantage point or defend my home from predators. I am peace loving and easy going. I will do what needs to be done when pushed into a corner. I walk empowered and confident.

When I am an eagle, my vision is expanded. The pettiness of the crows that taunt me are easily left behind. New worlds invite me as the gentle winds carry me every higher. From here, I cannot see the struggle of men. He is ever seeking to dominate his fellow man or build a grander monument. I say to him, “look up, look up, lift your eyes to the heavens.” Feel the magnificence of our world. A river of abundance flows from the Creator. Hold this in your mind and open yourself to receiving. You have created your walls that hold you. Fly with me. Release yourself. Let the currents of life guide you. You will not fall. Spinning, diving, coasting, silently landing atop the snag. Exhilaration permeates my existence.

Love, join me in my flight. Do not tether me and hold me to you. Let us dance on the wind as our cries echo through the canyon.

Transition

Where does the time go? Early mornings - it’s the gym, then the 8-5 job that can really extend in any direction and evenings are with Lakota, trying to take advantage of the last bit of riding before the winter darkness descends. By the time the dinner is made and swallowed, it’s time for bed and starts it all over again.

I am thrilled to be working with my editor and web person in the development of the book proposal for Bedtime Stories for Grownups. We've almost got it. My next step is to record myself reading one of my stories aloud and put it on my website. I can’t wait for you all to be able to download it and give me feedback. I envision people buying my “book” in hard copy and/or an audio version to listen to at night. I’d love to read you my stories as you drift off to sleep. I want you to feel all the wonder and beauty wrapped in these stories and gifted to you.

Have you ever been in that transition stage where your current career is functioning but not making your heart sing? You know it is not time to move forward yet and you feel squeezed but nowhere to go. I’m there. My job is rewarding in that I get to help people solve problems every day. I answer their questions about lawns, trees, fruit, wildlife, vegetables, and livestock. If I can’t, I find someone who can. This job is different every day and never boring. I have had the opportunity to meet thousands of people in my community and am grateful.

I hear another calling but the way is not clear. I am learning patience. In the interim, I look for a house of my own. The timing must not be right because I have put nine offers on houses in the last three years and they have not gone through. I need to tell you, each one has had a unique story. Three of the houses I put an offer on the owner said my offer was too low and did not counter. All three eventually were listed for less than my original offer. I could not build a house because a construction loan requires three times the down payment. Two houses had a stunning view and offers came in for more than the asking price. Only one house did I pull my offer after 24 hours. I realized I was desperate to get out of the cabin before winter and I bid too high on a house that was not worth it. I couldn’t sleep after making the offer. I didn’t feel excited; I felt sick. It required so much work and when I stayed up developing an estimate, I knew I’d never get my money back. It would also take so much time and energy; it would completely derail my writing efforts. I had to look at why I was so anxious to get out of the cabin. One reason was obvious. Last year, we suffered through three different weeks of minus 23-25 degree nights. My bedroom was about 40 degrees and had a layer of frost on the carpet. Each evening, I sat in front of the wood stove in tears with a blanket over my shoulders trying to stay warm. I couldn’t go to a friend’s because the pipes would freeze and the pets were here. I vowed never to be another winter in this draughty cabin.

My second reason, was my feeling that by now I “should” have my own home. My husband and I parted 15 years ago and I have never had my own home since then. I question my ability to provide this for myself. I had to dig deeper. My father never believed females could make it on their own. I don’t think my mother did either. Women have to be cared for and provided for. How ingrained was this belief? How many generations bought into this assumption? I was trying to prove I could do it. All this battling windmills had made me tired. It used up every spare moment I could squeeze into my day. My attempt at making something happen, like swimming up river, was discouraging at best. Between my job, my responsibilities to my horse and this frantic search for a dwelling, I burned myself out. I wonder why I haven’t even thought of dating. Joking.

The ground is covered with snow. The fire is burning brightly. My landlord insulated the windows and built a new wall under my bedroom. The cabin is warm and snug. I didn’t go to the gym this morning. Today my choice was to write or workout. I love writing in the morning but it is the only time I can make it to the gym. A friend of mine said that, “You think you will be Patty the Hut if you don’t work out.” Yes, that is a whole other issue for another day. Every time I feel an overwhelming urge to push or run away, I dig. I unearth another belief or promise that needs tossing. I still grapple with when to put your heart and soul into a dream to manifest it and when to let things go and let God. The whole “Divine timing” is a conundrum to me. Ok, I could ramble all day but it’s time to hit the shower and get to my job. Talk soon!

Posts

When you see a pattern in yourself, you can either laugh or cry. I first started this blog, so I had an avenue for my writing - an excuse to write, a place to put my thoughts, a trial run at short stories. My goal was to write consistently at least two or three times every week. It evolved into being a place I wrote on Sunday mornings, which was the only time I wasn't running off to work or the gym. Writing is a hobby that can transcend me; I lose track of time and everything around me when I am in the flow. The blog was to inspire me to write more often and enjoy the process. 

Instead of writing for the pure pleasure of it, I made it the place to craft my articles for the magazine. If I didn't have enough ideas for a page or two, I'd feel it wasn't worth writing. It was not fun anymore. Now it was a job. Deadlines. Commitments.  I had over-complicated  one more thing. My words dried up. 

I'm going to relax. If I ramble on and it becomes a story, then fine. Otherwise, it will be a place to once more exercise my writing muscles. I had someone tell me that I am always "pushing the river." My assumption is that is the opposite of just going with the flow. Guilty as charged. 

I find the most difficult issue is knowing when to create, manifest, make your own destiny or when to let life takes its course and roll with it. It's a tricky balancing act. This is the situation I am in with my house hunting. I have done everything possible for the last 10 months to buy a house. I have made eight offers, a couple of  houses more than once. I watch the listings; I read the paper. I am pre-approved. All I  can do for now is stop struggling. I have to stock up wood for the winter in the cabin and hunker down. Spring will come and the search will begin for the fourth year. Time to relax and flow. Maybe I'll just write.

Walking through our fears

Lakota and I, reunited

It had been another year of one of us healing. The latest injury had been Lakota tearing off most of her hoof under a sharp metal fence. Seven months of summer- hand walking and an additional six months of winter. Now with over a year off from riding, the mare had fallen back into her previous fearful behavior. Cripes. Not this again. It had only been two years before that, when I broke my back in a horse accident. She waited more than a year for my bone to mend. I threw the saddle over her back; she flinched and drove her nose into the corner of the stall in terror. “Oh, come on. I am not going to hurt you. I have never hurt you.” I threw the pad on and off her until she settled. I hoisted the saddle up first from the left, then off and up on the right. I sure hoped she calmed down before my arms gave out. She did. As I came around her rump, I noticed her skin actually rippling along her right flank. When I ran my hand over the area she cringed under my touch. Lakota looked like a watch spring wound just a little too tight. This location on her body had been abused years before. I imagined a right handed rider using a whip along her side to motivate speed. The rider was long gone but the fear remained. Each time we were laid off, we lost our rhythm and these fears came back to haunt her.

Fast forward two months. I decided I didn’t have time for Lakota. It would be better to let another owner take her who would give her the attention I could not. I felt guilty when my work kept me away from riding her. My schedule is erratic and I was house hunting. Maybe I’d be even busier with a house and then maybe I wouldn’t be able to afford her board. I would sell her and it would be the best for both of us. Our relationship had deteriorated and neither of us was enjoying the situation. I was tired of riding around a farm alone and she would rather eat grass than listen to me.

I delivered her to a trainer who would work with her for two weeks, show her to perspective buyers and then she would be gone. I choked back the tears as I drove away. The sobbing and heartbreak was relentless for three days. I went back to the barn to check on her. The trainer had been using ground exercises to help her work through her anxiety and return to work mode. She was responding beautifully. More days went by and more I saw Lakota willing and eager to cooperate. As time allowed, I learned the exercises and continued them on weekends. She whinnied for me when I arrived and nickered with head bobbing as I left. Our friendship was blossoming once again. When a buyer called, I told him I needed a couple more weeks to decide.

The words fell on my ears like bricks. “She’s ready to ride. You have your old horse back. Go get her.” I tied her. I brushed her. I applied fly spray. She stood calmly as I lifted up the Tucker onto her back. Lakota lowered her head to allow the bridle to slide gently into her mouth and up over her ears. I led her to the arena. My bowels turned to jelly. My stomach churned. The wind rattled through the aspen trees. Bits of leaves and dust danced across the ring. She stood silently as I climbed slowly into the saddle. I nudged her forward into a walk and then a trot around the fence line. “Breathe,” I reminded myself. “Lakota has done her work, now you do yours.”

Traumatic images percolated up as soon as my foot hit the stirrup. Long forgotten, or purposefully buried, painful equine mishaps reared their ugly heads. My confidence had been shattered by a long history of horse accidents. The events were suddenly remembered in vivid detail. The wind reminded me of the thoroughbred off the racetrack I purchased 25 years ago.   I attempted to retrain him for a dressage horse. Each time something startled him, like the wind, a leaf, a gum wrapper – he would bolt, racing then bucking – always, always resulting in a trip to the emergency room. I broke both of my wrists, my nose twice, my ribs two or three times, the bones on my hand. The last time I was thrown off my Achilles tendon was torn so badly I was told I would always walk with a limp. After that gelding, I bought a quarter horse that did not run away with me. In fact, when asked him to trot or lope, he bucked and tried to throw me into a fence. I took him to a trainer who told me that the horse needed an expert with a sharp set of spurs. I handed him over to an expert for a month of training. The horse never thought about bucking so there was not much for him to do. The moment I climbed on board, much to the amazement of the trainer, the horse began bucking around a huge rodeo arena determined to do me in. That is another story, but when I finally got off that horse, I handed the man the reins and said, “I never want to lay eyes on this horse again. Sell him.” More recently, I had just purchased Lakota. My daughter was visiting and I put her on my new prize. A friend handed me a horse all tacked and ready to ride. “Join your daughter. Go on a trail ride; this mare will be fine.” I took her to the round pen to try her in a small area and got on. I had no sooner asked her to move forward when “she broke in two”. Meaning = she exploded into a fit of bucking. The pain I felt when I landed will forever be burned into my body. The doctor at the hospital said it was as if someone had taken a sledge hammer to my sacrum. The months of therapy, medication, loneliness and agony are every horse person’s worst nightmare. All of these horrors flooded into my psyche once I was aboard Lakota.

Had I really become too busy or had I simply lost my nerve? Each time Lakota and I took a year off, we both fell back into our fears.

I was upset at Lakota because when she gets scared, I get scared. When she gets tense, I get tense. I wanted her to stop thinking of the past and know I wont hurt her. Stop being afraid! How ridiculous is that? Can I just stop being afraid of getting thrown off a horse again? I wanted her to do what I had not been able to accomplish. It would have been so much easier to deny these feelings and send her down the road, than to face this terror.

When I made this realization, something inside of me shifted entirely. I threw my arms around her neck and I am sure she understood. I am in this for the long haul. I would like to be riding until I am 75 years old. I would like Lakota to be my horse. By the time I am that age, we will both be ready to hang up our boots and call it good. There is no race. If it takes me a month or years to completely trust a horse again, it is OK. She helps me see where I am each day in the process. Around and around the pen she lopes like a carousel horse, allowing me to be comfortable with speed again.  I don’t have to be afraid she will run away with me. When the wind blows, she is unaware and keeps to the lesson. My new instructor says, “it’s is all about trust.” Lakota and I are learning to trust each other again. We are helping heal each other’s wounds. We can’t take away the experiences that happened before. We can only move forward with what we have today. Every day I see her moving through her fears, I hope she sees me moving through mine.