tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50371077970136417052024-03-05T16:34:28.907-08:00Equestrian InkWriters of Equestrian Fiction<br>
Ride with us into a world of suspense, romance, comedy, and mystery -- <br>Because life always looks better from the back of a horse!Jami Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05259390150273030284noreply@blogger.comBlogger1123125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-8018364044147428742016-01-27T10:29:00.003-08:002016-01-27T11:49:36.337-08:00IT'S ALL ABOUT THE BASE...OF THE NECK<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Qrac and I at a show in the south of France, September 2015</td></tr>
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Qrac turns 12 this year. I can hardly believe it's been five years since my trainer and I moseyed on down to the south of France to look at a seven year-old Lusitano stallion we knew literally nothing about, that someone had suggested we go see. It seems like yesterday that she and I were led down a short, dark corridor housing a collection of Cremelo Lusos with light blue eyes and bright pink noses, our enthusiasm sinking deeper and deeper into our mud-splattered Timberlands. I know that a lot of people love Cremelos, but they just don't do it for me. Just as she and I glanced at each other, simultaneously thinking we'd wasted an entire day travelling, there, right in the very last stable, right at the back, stood a gorgeous black horse with soft, almond-shaped eyes, a beautiful big neck, and a tiny white kissing spot on the tip of his velvety nose. Oh, and he smelt really good, too. Most horses smell good, but I swear that Qracy smells particularly yummy.</div>
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They saddled him up, and I got on, and despite him not being anywhere near as advanced in his work as would be expected for a seven-year old, and that riding a super-short backed, mega reactive, uber-wiggly Lusitano felt really strange after having ridden warmbloods all my life, I totally fell in love with Qrac de la Font. </div>
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Five years down the line and I'm still smitten. It hasn't been easy, and we're still not as advanced in our work as we "should be" (say the text books, but text books are, well, just text books), but we've come a long way since that first drunken zig-zag across the circular walled arena just south of Avignon. I'm tickled that I thought Qracy looked all big and manly back then! Compare his "then and now" photos and it's hard to imagine they feature the same horse. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Qrac, January 2016</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Qrac, February 2011</td></tr>
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I'm probably (alright, make that definitely!) biased, but I think that Qrac has the wow-factor. His massive shoulders and neck are the subject of many a grooming-area conversation while I'm tacking him up. He isn't an easy ride, has a stubborn, macho personality and keeping his attention focused on his work is always going to be an issue. His spins are legendary; he has an insane ability to drop his shoulder and spin left in a mini-fraction of a nano-second when he decides he's had enough. I've got a lot better at controlling his naughtiness and his spins, at sensing he's about to blow just before he blows, but there are times when he still gets me. Everyone who knows horses knows that patience is a virtue when it comes to training, but Qracy has upped my horsey patience virtuousness big time! He get's his knickers in a twist for the silliest things and is always full of surprises. I suppose professional people wouldn't give him high marks for "rideability", and yet while I find his bag of tricks frustrating at times, his monkey antics have also taught me a heck of a lot. Yes, it really is all about the base....of the neck. And that big neck, those big shoulders, that short back and that pesky personality are a constant challenge.</div>
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Qrac has more gears than most horses. He has about 47 different trots, yet until a few months ago he didn't have an extended trot at all. Desperation was beginning to set in when, thanks to Irish National Dressage Champion Roland Tong, the amazing trainer I discovered early last year and who now flies to Geneva every month for two-day clinics at my stables, Qrac and I suddenly twigged it. I'll never forget that one magical session last October when Roland had us careering around the arena, yelling at me to "keep going, keep going, I want him to go go go, like a show horse at an auction"! I was red in the face, sweating like a nobody's business, mortifyingly aware that little Qracy's long legs were whirling away like an uncoordinated can-can dancer on crack, when all of a sudden everything became smooth, powerful and rhythmical. Even the light played a part in that memorable moment; it had been a grey, grumpy-weathered day, and I was riding late in the afternoon. During my lesson the sun came out between clusters of bruised clouds, slipped beneath the level of the roof of the indoor school, spearing us with wild laser beams of golden light. Lights, camera, action! Yep, it was epic! Ever since, our extended trot has been far more consistent, and I truly believe that Qrac now enjoys showing off his newfound ability. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The day we twigged the extended trot, October 2015</td></tr>
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Our current challenge is mastering the flying change. Qrac can do them beautifully, but most of the time he only does them beautifully when he decides to do them, and not when I ask him to do them. He's a very compact, very wiggly, very hot little horse and controlling the placement of his shoulders and his haunches can do my head in. I have his back, and then I don't, and then I do again, and so feeling, precision and timing is everything. Right now I'm working hard with my long time trainer and friend, Marie-Valentine Gygax (with whom I found Qrac five years ago), at keeping the quality of the canter and counter canter, at keeping control of the shoulders, at keeping him straight, at getting more bend, at keeping his mind busy by using leg yield and shoulder-fore and haunches in and (big) pirouettes and half-passes and small circles and half circles and you name it we (try to) do it, making sure he's truly through his body before I ask for the change. It's coming, slowly, very slowly maybe, but it's coming surely and I think we're going about it right. I'm armed to the teeth with patience, and I'm trusting that patience, together with the help of my two fabulous trainers, will get us doing Prix St Georges (at home, not in competition) before the end of 2016. That, to me, would be an amazing achievement. </div>
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What has taken you a long time to master? What are your horse's strengths and weaknesses? Have you found particular ways to work through specific training issues? What are your goals for this year? </div>
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Thanks for reading, and a happy mega-belated New Year!</div>
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Francesca xxx</div>
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Francesca Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16312915602595615476noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-26870268972644159692015-11-18T10:04:00.000-08:002015-11-18T10:05:21.459-08:00Landscape as Villain?<!--StartFragment-->
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by Laura Crum</div>
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“It is not possible to be quite
sane here. The region has a mood that both excites and perverts its people.” </div>
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“Was it the wild rock coast and the
reckless wind in the beaten trees and the gaunt booming crashes of breakers
under the rocks that taught her this dark freedom?” </div>
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“Much of Robinson Jeffers’ poetry
is a study of what the strange landscape around Carmel and Big Sur can do to
people. It is a ‘haunted country,’ according to Jeffers.”</div>
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These quotes are from the book,
“Robinson Jeffers, Poet of California,” which I have just finished reading. I
was inspired to read this book because Jeffers is much quoted in the Tom
Killion book I read previously (California’s Wild Edge), and Killion recommends
this biography of Jeffer’s life. I found it fascinating.</div>
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As with many books I’ve deeply
enjoyed, I tend to engage in mental arguments with the author. And in this book
my arguments centered on two things—sense of place, and the nature of God.
Today I am going to write about “place” (as the easier subject), and save God
for another day.</div>
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As the quotes above tell, Jeffers
was aware of the disturbing energy that swirls around the coast from Carmel
through Big Sur. It is palpable to me—I’ve been there often and I never fail to
feel it. I could no more live on the “south coast” than I could live on the
moon. It would break my heart with its fierce, uncompromising, almost hostile
nature. Beautiful, yes—but not friendly.</div>
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Jeffers chose to live there, and
the inhuman ghosts of Big Sur/Carmel underlie his writing, as well as his life.
It was a choice that perhaps suited him, but it would not suit me.</div>
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It’s all about place. Different
places speak with very different voices and tell very dissimilar energetic
stories. Not all places will embrace you and protect you, no matter how much
you love them and how long you make them your home. Some places, like Big Sur
and the high Sierra, will never be comforting to a human heart. They can thrill
you and challenge you, yes. They are beautiful and desirable, yes. They are
inspiring to visit. But they are not steady, kind, lifetime companions. Big Sur
is oddly haunted and the Sierra heights are aloof. Too wild, too harsh, too
steep, too rocky, too windblown—you name it—they are overwhelming to human
consciousness. Certain sad human endings, I think, come from a failure to
understand how places in/on the earth speak to our hearts. Make your home in a
place that will never condescend to be your friend, and watch what happens.</div>
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But there are some valleys, some
meadows, some protected hollows in the coastal hills (as here in the most
inland arc of the Monterey Bay) that will comfort you. They will take care of
you, in so much as landscape can love the animal creatures that walk around on
her. Vast and intangible energy, but none the less love. These places are
friendly and fond. It is there in the soft color of the light, the gentle,
relaxed feeling of the land, the freedom of the native plants. It is there in
the winter sunlight of a certain southern exposure where I live on this
California coast, and it is there in the way of the wild things, plant and
animal, that have been here before men walked on this ground. There are places
that will nurture you. If you love them long enough, you come to trust them.
And your trust is not misplaced. They will protect you.</div>
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Love is possible. Love between
person and place. But not all places are fitted to love people. A person needs
to pay attention to the nuances of the light. Is it warm or cold? Does it
soothe you with a calm strength, or challenge you with its restless energy?</div>
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Those who choose the wilder,
storm-tossed places-- as Robinson Jeffers chose an exposed headland near
Carmel, above Big Sur-- are not choosing wrongly. But they are choosing a
certain loneliness that will not go away. Such places/choices can make great
art; they possibly make an inspiring human, if that being is strong enough. But
these places will never hold you in their lap, as a mother holds a child. And
there are places that will do this. I live in one.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judging by the stories in the book I just finished reading, a
great many people who lived near Jeffers ended up caught in the wild meshes of
a truly untamable land, and came to sad and untimely ends—driven there, as far
as I can tell, partly by the inhumanly beautiful and awful (in the old sense of
the word) landscape. Jeffers seems to understand this, and to some degree
relish the drama of it all. I can’t say that I feel the same.</div>
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To those who can read a sense of
place and see clearly, the choice is there. The choice is yours.</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-24277706849064845422015-11-14T00:00:00.000-08:002015-11-14T00:00:03.534-08:00Paris, nous sommes avec vous.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Par Gayle Carline</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Auteur et France amant</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was in the middle of edits on my 4th book in the Peri Minneopa series (non-equine mystery stories), when I got the email reminding me that Saturday is my day to post on this blog. My horses are doing fine, my family is all well, so I was planning a Thanksgiving blog, to list all my blessings and ask you to post yours. It would be fun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the midst of editing, I confess, I fell asleep. It seems to be a thing I do in the afternoons, whether I want to or not. I think it's a combination of too little nighttime sleep, too little caffeine, and a too comfy chair. At any rate, when I woke up, the world had changed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Paris was burning. As I write this, reports are still coming in, the story is still being written. At least 100 are dead at the moment, and I suppose we won't know the whole of it for at least 24 hours. All I know now is that a city I love is under a horrid attack, that people I love are searching frantically for loved ones, and that once again, we are left to deal with our anger and helplessness in whatever manner we can. In the meantime,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Paris, je t'aime.</span>Gayle Carlinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15783449240138097315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-87084359174619595872015-10-24T11:19:00.000-07:002015-10-24T11:19:00.686-07:00California's Wild Edge<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
title of this blog post is also the title of the book I’m currently reading. A
present from a friend, the book is another collaborative effort between the
woodblock print artist Tom Killion and the poet Gary Snyder. Both the words and
the illustrations are equally beautiful and evocative of the California
coast—where I was born and raised and where I hope to live until I die.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
particularly like the title of this book. I have always seen this coast as the
wild edge of the world. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat on my horse,
looking out over the Monterey Bay from the spot in the nearby hills that we
call the “Lookout,” and thought that I was gazing out at the ragged fringe of
the continent. If I could see far enough across the vast blue, I would see
Japan. (The Lookout features prominently in my last two novels—“Going, Gone”
and “Barnstorming”—for those who have read those books.)</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway,
I’m really enjoying this book about the California coast. Today I thought I’d give
you a few photos of my own that illustrate what the “wild edge” is to me and
some quotes from the book that touched me. I’ll try and attribute the quotes
correctly. Many of them are by the poet Robinson Jeffers. I love his
description of his wife, Una Call-- “more like a woman in a Scotch ballad,
passionate, untamed, and rather heroic—or like a falcon—than like an ordinary
person.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here,
I think, is one of his last poems (1951), one that Tom Killion describes as
something that “still might serve as a guide for all aspiring artists of the
coast—poets, painters or woodblock carvers.” It’s titled “The Beauty of
Things.”</div>
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To feel and speak the astonishing beauty of things—earth,
stone and water,</div>
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Beast, man and woman, sun, moon and stars—</div>
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The blood-shot beauty of human nature, its thoughts,
frenzies and passions,</div>
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And unhuman nature its towering reality—</div>
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For man’s half dream; man, you might say, is nature
dreaming, but rock</div>
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And water and sky are constant—to feel</div>
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Greatly, and understand greatly, and express greatly, the
natural</div>
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Beauty, is the sole business of poetry.</div>
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The rest’s diversion: those holy or noble sentiments, the
intricate ideas,</div>
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The love, lust, longing: reasons, but not the reason.</div>
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And “Orion in December evenings was strung in the throat of
the valley like a lamp-lighted bridge.”</div>
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And “There is yet one ocean and then no more, God whom you
shine to walks there naked, on the final Pacific, not in a man’s form.</div>
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The torch answered: Have I kindled a morning?</div>
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For again, this old world’s end is the gate of a world fire
new, of your wild future, wild as a hawk’s dream”</div>
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And here, in a poem about Jeffers ghost by Robert Hass:</div>
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“He shuddered briefly and stared down the long valley where
the headland rose</div>
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And the lean gum trees rattled in the wind above Point Sur;</div>
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Alive, he had littered the mind’s coast</div>
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With ghosts of Indians and granite and the dead fleshed</div>
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Bodies of desire. That work was done</div>
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And, whether done well or not, it had occupied him</div>
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As the hawks and sea were occupied.</div>
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Now he could not say what bought him back.</div>
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He had imagined resurrection once: the lover of a woman…</div>
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So she burned and he came, a ghost in khaki and stunned
skin,</div>
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And she fled with him. He had imagined, though he had not
written,</div>
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The later moment in the pasture, in moonlight like pale stone,</div>
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When she lay beside him with an after-tenderness in all her
bones,</div>
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Having become entirely what she was, though aware that the
thing</div>
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Beside her was, again, just so much cheese-soft flesh</div>
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And jellied eye rotting in the pools of bone.</div>
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Anguish afterwards perhaps, but he had not thought
afterwards.</div>
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Human anguish made him cold.</div>
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He told himself the cries of men in war were no more
conscious</div>
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Nor less savage than the shrill repetition of the Steller’s
jay</div>
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Flashing through live oaks up Mal Paso Canyon</div>
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And that the oaks, rooted and growing toward their grace,</div>
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Were—as species go—</div>
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More beautiful.”</div>
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And:</div>
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I am a child of California’s wild edge.</div>
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If you want a tame creature</div>
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To sit by your side,</div>
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I am not that thing.</div>
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Wind and water, stone and sky—</div>
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These speak to me.</div>
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The female moon longs</div>
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For Orion the archer,</div>
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As he strides across the night.</div>
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This would be you and me</div>
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In that dark room.</div>
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There is a Tom Russell song that Andy used to sings bits
of—about the coast near Big Sur. The part I remember goes like this:</div>
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“The south coast is a wild coast and lonesome</div>
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You might win a card game in Jolon</div>
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But the lion still rules Amaranca</div>
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And a man there is always alone.”</div>
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It’s a sad song—but it sticks in your mind.</div>
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So yeah, it all seems to fit together. And here are a few
photos I’ve taken of horsemen on the wild edge-- just for fun.</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-41880188095048497092015-10-17T00:00:00.000-07:002015-10-17T00:00:00.886-07:00The tchotchkes of life<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>By Gayle Carline</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Author, horse lover, and distracted mental toddler</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When people tell me they're having a senior moment, I say I much prefer the term "toddler moment." I haven't forgotten anything, I'm just distracted by a shinier toy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So today is my day to post, according to the calendar, and I haven't got a whole lot to discuss. My horses are doing well. Snoopy has finally settled into his new home. We had to get the vet involved. After a shot of hormones and Dr. Brigid telling him that she knows where he is and will tell Santa, he got the message. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He's still a big goofball, but at least he's a relaxed goofball.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My trainer Niki and I are planning which horse shows we'll go to in 2016. As you all know, we plan and God laughs, so we'll see which ones we ACTUALLY attend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As far as new books, I have some new non-horse books on the market. In addition to being an author, I also write a weekly humor column for the Placentia News-Times newspaper. This year is my 10th anniversary, and in honor of that, I put out three (yes, count 'em, <i>three</i>) books of my humor columns. If you're interested in reading humor essays, go to my Amazon Author's page (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gayle-Carline/e/B002C7FHZW/">http://www.amazon.com/Gayle-Carline/e/B002C7FHZW/</a>)</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and check out these three titles:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjMSmocJ06Y2obDQby_HySE_HoIJsB74pk_D8pFVZQpI-5K-00ioqrj5ZEWOi0mqBayVafXERrbid85TosBiN-SWo7b97je9AbAvbEk98dI6P8YsTHjn92TRErRz8nDOyZj72nx_Y4uqQ/s1600/eventpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjMSmocJ06Y2obDQby_HySE_HoIJsB74pk_D8pFVZQpI-5K-00ioqrj5ZEWOi0mqBayVafXERrbid85TosBiN-SWo7b97je9AbAvbEk98dI6P8YsTHjn92TRErRz8nDOyZj72nx_Y4uqQ/s400/eventpic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They're currently in paperback only, but they'll be available in ebook on or before Halloween.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beyond all that, the reason I referred to <i>tchotchkes</i> (Yiddish for "small, inexpensive trinkets") in my title is that I thought, since I don't have anything horsey to report in my own life, I thought I'd share some photos and videos I've seen in the past month or so and really liked. Nothing important. Just small, inexpensive trinkets. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First of all, I feel like I must have this, but I don't know where I'd put it:</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlu9hZgWIIUXS0HEv49Gns1K0JmwN2R2GWqkLT0Enms2xhruDHukSnc-7TvFhbVJHUBMxS5Dmj0XyO-HEtVuM_mZ1uyoC0DfoEikgFwaVGcWFyWAwz0Hc6McL6yy0GI-exkvimsWxeW6w/s1600/horsefountain.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlu9hZgWIIUXS0HEv49Gns1K0JmwN2R2GWqkLT0Enms2xhruDHukSnc-7TvFhbVJHUBMxS5Dmj0XyO-HEtVuM_mZ1uyoC0DfoEikgFwaVGcWFyWAwz0Hc6McL6yy0GI-exkvimsWxeW6w/s400/horsefountain.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go to <a href="http://www.patriciaborum.com/index.php?module=pagemaster&PAGE_user_op=view_page&PAGE_id=3&MMN_position=3:3">http://www.patriciaborum.com/index.php?module=pagemaster&PAGE_user_op=view_page&PAGE_id=3&MMN_position=3:3</a> to purchase</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Next, I really liked this video of horse/dog trail. I could probably train Duffy, my corgi, to do this course. I'm just not sure if I could train Snoopy not to try to catch Duffy so he could pick him up and toss him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gH_LMax5O6Y" width="560"></iframe>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Corgis are football shaped, you know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDmemsChzR_q6Z5EWpPjdszPpJXPICyuliBEBIVvM3hE7mXma0hMZ6XvctfSmdrPRBHxbq9kO5mgPje6z-_b0S-Epc8HKGxGSN-iNatAG9cfz5vtdFiw6BQ_LTQ6xKm_nU2TT0-YHNPU/s1600/2013-10-17+09.55.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDmemsChzR_q6Z5EWpPjdszPpJXPICyuliBEBIVvM3hE7mXma0hMZ6XvctfSmdrPRBHxbq9kO5mgPje6z-_b0S-Epc8HKGxGSN-iNatAG9cfz5vtdFiw6BQ_LTQ6xKm_nU2TT0-YHNPU/s320/2013-10-17+09.55.34.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I am NOT a throw toy!"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, I just never get tired of this video. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LMdmZpNZ_Jc" width="420"></iframe>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You're quite the imp, Possum.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Have a great week!</span>Gayle Carlinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15783449240138097315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-82178189430347585182015-10-04T15:40:00.000-07:002015-10-04T15:40:20.758-07:00Now<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
once again, apologies for the lack of posts. My life has been interesting and
magical, but it is beyond my current abilities to put many words down about it.
So today I can give you a few snippets and quotes and that’s about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lately I have been
sitting by my pond in the evening, drinking rye whiskey and soda, and reading
“The Dharma Bums” by Jack Kerouac. How did I miss this book in my youth? I read
“On the Road,” but not this one. And this one is magical. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;">I found the book because a friend gave me a book called
“Tamalpais Walking”—a collaboration between the woodblock print artist, Tom
Killion, and the poet, Gary Snyder. I posted about this book last time (I Know,
No Posts). The book had a lot of back story about Gary Snyder and Jack Kerouac
and explained that Gary Snyder is the “hero” in “The Dharma Bums”—a character
named Japhy Ryder. So I decided I needed to read The Dharma Bums. And it
arrived a few days later—thank you, Amazon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;">For the last few evenings I have been sitting by my pond and
reading this book. And laughing out loud. And being amazed. So many things seem
to be coming together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;">The book reminds me of sitting by Burgson Lake in the Sierras
when I was 22 years old, miles from any other person, reading “Roughing It” by
Mark Twain, and laughing out loud as I drank cheap jug wine and watched the sun
go down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2s9yP0L1QVR9pWo1P5sxCKOuNaW9M6udrlR75WeDROvjLjvl8m3aAsBv-99LYD0XwdeTPlIpJskc9Lx-1-T7m0tFnGC8W7xyGGvN12U2ZecBITb0lGVf1t5FbiNeqKDT0dhUBTM5BnA/s1600/B_lake.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2s9yP0L1QVR9pWo1P5sxCKOuNaW9M6udrlR75WeDROvjLjvl8m3aAsBv-99LYD0XwdeTPlIpJskc9Lx-1-T7m0tFnGC8W7xyGGvN12U2ZecBITb0lGVf1t5FbiNeqKDT0dhUBTM5BnA/s320/B_lake.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;">The passages about the Sierras take me back to the summers I
lived in those mountains—one year alone by Burgson Lake, one year working at
Kennedy Meadows pack station. And all the many horseback pack trips over the
mountain passes that came later. When Japhy and Ray go into the Sierras out of
Bridgeport, Bridgeport comes back to me as vividly as if I were there
yesterday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;">And there are so many lines in the book that are things that
Andy used to say to me. I know he read this book—but I didn’t realize that the
lines came from the book. As Ray tells Japhy what he thinks of other people:
“Equally empty, equally to be loved, equally the coming Buddha.” Andy used to say
that to me all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all
feels so connected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;">Anyway, hey, if you haven’t read “The Dharma Bums,” read it.
It’s a whole lot of fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;">And, just because I like them, here are some quotes that my dear
friend, Shannon Schierling, posted on facebook. Thank you, Shannon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;">“I have come to accept the feeling of not knowing where I am
going. And I have trained myself to love it. Because it is only when we are
suspended in mid-air with no landing in sight, that we force our wings to
unravel and alas begin our flight. And as we fly, we still may not know where
we are going to. But the miracle is in the unfolding of the wings. You may not
know where you’re going, but you know that so long as you spread your wings,
the winds will carry you.” – C. Joybell<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and
living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning.
You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You
are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it
happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes
near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all
around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many
as you could.” ~ Louise Erdich, The Painted Drum</span></div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-48282541391296010522015-09-27T09:23:00.002-07:002015-09-27T09:23:48.511-07:00I Know, No Posts<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
again, my apologies to those who liked to read my blog posts. My life has just
been so busy lately. Many new projects, much change-- very engaging, but no
time to write.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
magic is real. I’ve written about this so many times—I don’t really have any
new words for you. Watching the almost full moon rise behind the big eucalyptus
tree on a gloriously warm September evening, my heart is full. It amazes me
that after all I have been through I can feel this way as I look at the moon.
Or perhaps it is because of all I have been through?<o:p></o:p></div>
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In any case I sit by my pond and drink whiskey and soda in the evening, watching dragonflies and the light change in the sky, and feel content. And I'm grateful for that.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9vsGKdQM5hgkTu4XlzpEMvHlSavUe4OCD5ziJL-zbcFph-ICt-VANKXgV9lbCYwFQdOvD2nHylqimS7ihtKK71kHfVWWRWUhHDMOHV1qJgHT_HTW4JNledUeW2uwtUOnCH02IY3dkwk/s1600/IMG_8045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9vsGKdQM5hgkTu4XlzpEMvHlSavUe4OCD5ziJL-zbcFph-ICt-VANKXgV9lbCYwFQdOvD2nHylqimS7ihtKK71kHfVWWRWUhHDMOHV1qJgHT_HTW4JNledUeW2uwtUOnCH02IY3dkwk/s320/IMG_8045.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
a warm, moonless night I sat by the pond and watched Orion rise above the eastern ridge and stride
across the dark three AM sky. Twice I saw shooting stars. And yes, I wished.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
friend gave me a lovely book—“Tamalpais Walking”—a collaboration between the
woodblock print artist Tom Killion (I have several of his prints here on my
walls) and the poet Gary Snyder. I highly recommend this book. And I’m going to
close this brief blog post with some quotes from the book that touched me. Most
of them are by Gary Snyder.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
even once,” someone said, “can you step in the same river.” Landscape with
nuance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Every
night the drama will have new turns and meanings. One who learns this will
never be bored.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nature,
not in the abstract, but (like anybody) a kind of being actually there to
respond to being seen in the moment. Gratitude to the particular is never in
vain. Relationship to place is real, not as an idea but as a way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
paths lead nowhere, so choose a path with heart.” Don Juan<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A
way that can be followed is not the ultimate way.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
don’t play music to get to the end of it. Or make love to go to sleep (I hope).
Or meditate and study to become enlightened. Realization or somesuch might come
along, but suppose it doesn’t? So what? Basho said, “The journey is home.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>May
we all find the Bay Mountain that gives us a crystal moment of being and a
breath of the sky, and only asks us to hold the whole world dear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-34904660798938701682015-09-19T00:00:00.000-07:002015-09-19T00:00:06.835-07:00Everybody's got one.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>By Gayle Carline</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Author and Horse Mom</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, I'm talking about opinions. It's been almost 3 weeks since we've moved to our new stables. I think the move went pretty well. It was a lot of work, and I would have liked to have left with better feelings from the owner of the previous place - we were (and hope still are!) friends, but the last day was filled with tension. </span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXmic1rSMtfk_i_EIPKkzOcfdclk4r97w3ETgFrfI3A_ryOuD9pA07q-usZ0DRJur4CBGYIMuOaQpM_5qrT0XJKeQi0ptYoamdstFBt-vSyS3l3euLPS0zJbo2QftIimhskmpELukYKg/s1600/2015-09-01+11.52.50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXmic1rSMtfk_i_EIPKkzOcfdclk4r97w3ETgFrfI3A_ryOuD9pA07q-usZ0DRJur4CBGYIMuOaQpM_5qrT0XJKeQi0ptYoamdstFBt-vSyS3l3euLPS0zJbo2QftIimhskmpELukYKg/s320/2015-09-01+11.52.50.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We got our tack room all organized!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />We're still finding our way around the new place. Everyone is very friendly and accommodating, willing to show us where things are, take turns for the turnouts and round pen, etc. I love the arena. The footing is a combination of sand and synthetic that is very soft and springy. Very good on Snoopy's legs.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJnu45G9GVAQL96s8d5azg9YUfJsDIw4aA8CR3zRnghXrfE1Vn8ap_Rlg5VRviusFDhfAAPTMXZAAeB94CR0R4ltYaTFE_S61eej51TV4thfX5qwAunH2ppWuV80R3mscRk7ZIvU4Khs/s1600/2015-08-20+14.51.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJnu45G9GVAQL96s8d5azg9YUfJsDIw4aA8CR3zRnghXrfE1Vn8ap_Rlg5VRviusFDhfAAPTMXZAAeB94CR0R4ltYaTFE_S61eej51TV4thfX5qwAunH2ppWuV80R3mscRk7ZIvU4Khs/s320/2015-08-20+14.51.32.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Speaking of Snoopy, he's not as happy with the new place as I thought he'd be. Where Frostie settled into her stall without complaint (and is already growing to fat-as-a-tick status on the new diet), he has not quite accepted the fact that he's in a new home. He's eating a lot of hay, plus senior feed, but the first week, he paced so much in his stall that he lost significant weight. Any time another horse is taken out of the barn, he screams until they come back, and sometimes, he rushes his stall door so frantically that we close the top, afraid he'll try to jump out.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6PfoEWC0fDKYrrlqrYOn3x3Iyc37BDqGwtf3OSwDA6aistn7IbLmSsCFC10PPwpxm0NGmhHNEfq0qwS6jnnMNIeT2WRHjNDwv0CDdx68n3jRDEQM5PTG16ahSUOSTASt09cK4PdTYPs/s1600/2015-09-12+10.53.37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6PfoEWC0fDKYrrlqrYOn3x3Iyc37BDqGwtf3OSwDA6aistn7IbLmSsCFC10PPwpxm0NGmhHNEfq0qwS6jnnMNIeT2WRHjNDwv0CDdx68n3jRDEQM5PTG16ahSUOSTASt09cK4PdTYPs/s400/2015-09-12+10.53.37.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frostie loves her in-and-out</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is not normal behavior for him. (Even at shows, he is calm after his first lunge.)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSIS8MD8uzcV52umQQZ9O8bL70j49fZRVPqGfK4voM10fmj4Cx4c3xjxC0m23FwD5Hirm31t3Qz5aNchIxc4mTEnzCxXFob6Fp05rp66t1WzcxIE64MrebCu78oQ9nGsPgciTx0ttvSi8/s1600/2015-09-01+11.51.50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSIS8MD8uzcV52umQQZ9O8bL70j49fZRVPqGfK4voM10fmj4Cx4c3xjxC0m23FwD5Hirm31t3Qz5aNchIxc4mTEnzCxXFob6Fp05rp66t1WzcxIE64MrebCu78oQ9nGsPgciTx0ttvSi8/s320/2015-09-01+11.51.50.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Where am I?!?!?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The best we can reason is that he knows he's not at a show, but he can still smell/hear/sense his old home nearby (it's two doors down), so he is confused about just where he is. Some days he acts like he's settling. Then a horse leaves the cross-ties and he screams and rears and generally behaves like a loon. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This week, we called the vet to try to see what to do. The weight loss isn't good for him, as I'm sure the stress is getting to his stomach. The vet gave him a shot of a hormone designed to relax him within a week, and last for a few months, plus some pills to counteract the excess acid in his stomach. It's only been one day, but he seems to be a little quieter. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, it could be because his favorite vet, Dr. Brigid Murphy came to visit. She told him that he's going to live here and it's okay because she knows where to find him, and she'll tell Santa where he is. The entire time she's talking to him, she's feeding him apple treats.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I told her I tried to tell him, but he didn't want to listen. Maybe he listened to her. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqogPE4m2TFkXYBOAzWR__2VgawuZnRDIhpO2YwFeL-YwC7rACZHZBBuXwVEm_mdpYUE8iNH_KVKLMkNUKWibS0BkqSPbg9RCtgsp1fIn6UIPfoW2isaK7TYJ_C0Aaehk7gHLGc07vy8Y/s1600/2015-09-03+16.01.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqogPE4m2TFkXYBOAzWR__2VgawuZnRDIhpO2YwFeL-YwC7rACZHZBBuXwVEm_mdpYUE8iNH_KVKLMkNUKWibS0BkqSPbg9RCtgsp1fIn6UIPfoW2isaK7TYJ_C0Aaehk7gHLGc07vy8Y/s400/2015-09-03+16.01.16.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Come and visit us at the top of the hill - Hillcrest Equestrian Center!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Have any of you had a horse that just wouldn't settle into their new place? What did you do to ease their anxiety?</span><br />
<br />Gayle Carlinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15783449240138097315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-59000909475734779352015-09-01T17:03:00.002-07:002015-09-01T17:03:14.720-07:00Coming Soon: New Equestrian Fiction "Show Barn Blues"<div data-mce-style="text-align: justify;" style="color: #141412; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; text-align: justify;">
by <a href="http://www.nataliekreinert.com/" target="_blank">Natalie Keller Reinert</a></div>
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At last, a reason to blog! I posted over at nataliekreinert.com for the first time since spring, and now I'm going to share it over here with all you fine Equestrian Ink readers, because good news! A new book!</div>
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It's been a long, hot summer, readers -- or has it? I've been working so much this summer, it went flying by like one of those particularly deranged dragonflies that goes right past your nose and scares you to death and you shriek and wave your hands in your face and everyone turns around and stares at you and you say "did you SEE that thing?" but nobody did...</div>
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Oh wait, that was me the other night at work.</div>
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I'm telling you, that thing was HUGE.</div>
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Anyway, it's been busy. Working at Walt Disney World by day (well, really, by night) and working at my computer by night (usually by day). It's a wonderful balance, when it works -- working at Disney lets me get out from behind a screen and chatter with people from all around the world, and working at my computer lets my voice (and my brain) recover from eight hours of all that chattering.</div>
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It's great, but summertime can be challenging at one of the world's most popular vacation destinations... long hours, late nights, and a newly rediscovered penchant for sleeping until 11 AM can all take their toll on one's writing goals.</div>
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However, I set myself a goal of finishing <em>Show Barn Blues</em> by the end of August, and I'm happy to announce that I've achieved that goal! Fully edited and ready to go, all we need now is the final cover design and internal formatting, and we will have ourselves a new novel!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwQ_wi_SozSPccM7BESdWN4ls_WYZpoYl7FkGSzaFcmq6mxiIq4fNaAPsQzScGA8RXuLhNVfEFwUAr5HMWbaCFnWF4sb9GrU5TaE9FIEXjEm0uD0xOTIdqy4Ae957gI4agFhjuHx3IWo6/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-08-28+at+10.21.02+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwQ_wi_SozSPccM7BESdWN4ls_WYZpoYl7FkGSzaFcmq6mxiIq4fNaAPsQzScGA8RXuLhNVfEFwUAr5HMWbaCFnWF4sb9GrU5TaE9FIEXjEm0uD0xOTIdqy4Ae957gI4agFhjuHx3IWo6/s400/Screen+Shot+2015-08-28+at+10.21.02+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #220e10; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 27px; text-align: left;">One of my favorite characters is Ivor, a sassy gray stallion.</span><br style="-webkit-user-drag: none; background-color: white; color: #220e10; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 27px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #220e10; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 27px; text-align: left;">Photo: Serge Melki/flickr</span></td></tr>
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I'm excited to bring you this story, which has some characters and horses I just love, including Grace Carter (her name might be different in previous blog posts, this has been a long process), who is a been-there-done-that barn owner; her sassy gray stallion, Ivor; a former dinner show/hunter princess named Kennedy; and a cast of grooms, working students, and boarders who keep life interesting.</div>
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One challenge that I'm having with <em>Show Barn Blues</em> -- how to categorize it on Amazon. You might notice that on Amazon, the books in a series will show up on the same page. Look at <em>Turning For Home'</em>s page and you'll see the other novels in the Alex and Alexander series right on the page, listed numerically. Nice, right?</div>
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Well, <em>Show Barn Blues </em>is technically part of the Eventing Series, which begins with <em>Ambition.</em> The Eventing Series was plotted out as a trilogy, and the next novel, <em>Pride, </em>will follow <em>Ambition. </em>So that's logically Book 2.</div>
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However, we're going to meet the characters from <em>Show Barn Blues </em>in <em>Pride. </em>They're important to the story. They just don't fit into the trilogy. They're like a bonus novel. Does that make <em>Show Barn Blues </em>"a novel of the Eventing Series," perhaps?</div>
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It's a shame that Amazon doesn't allow "1.5" as a volume number, because I would just use that -- but I've already tried that particular scheme before and it doesn't work.</div>
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Other than that conundrum, the writing life is good. I have all the tools I need for my final draft of <em>Pride. </em>Barring work insanity, I should have the next Jules novel to you by the end of the year. I'm rereading <em>Ambition </em>to make sure I have her snotty voice in my head, although Jules is softening... a little. She's still prickly, but life with Pete is starting to sand down those rough edges... <em>a little. </em></div>
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Maybe it shouldn't take me two years to bring out the sequel to a book as popular as <em>Ambition, </em>but it really does take me that long to write a book. I found notes the other day for <em>Turning For Home, </em>and they were dated 2013. I released <em>TFH </em>in 2015, so there you have it -- that's just the way I write!</div>
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So get ready for <em>Show Barn Blues. </em>I'll have it out for you soon!</div>
Natalie Keller Reinerthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12171624494588937877noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-47769137905497321842015-08-22T00:00:00.000-07:002015-08-22T00:00:00.199-07:00Ch-ch-ch-changes<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>By Gayle Carline</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Author, Horse Owner, Enthusiastic Embracer of All Things New</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay, that last title is not only <i>not </i>a real thing, it's only partially true. I like new things. New Ariats, a cute new outfit, new gadgets. I had to order a new watch yesterday (my watches tend to fall completely apart and I do mean <i>completely</i> after about a year of sun, heat, horse hair, dirt, sunscreen, sweat, etc) and I'm super excited to see that Amazon box on my front porch.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrZa7_kzL6pMmTTdzn6ksi___m_PDxFoBbEayLVjSM1tOncCdvu4k4yWneAwunVHexrK618OSyzosp5ml2zXjSs4BxuMuTTrZhszZMMNsp2w26WPC4Gl4QCnH0FCeXVqS_2mRIldX0Is/s1600/2015-08-20+16.25.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrZa7_kzL6pMmTTdzn6ksi___m_PDxFoBbEayLVjSM1tOncCdvu4k4yWneAwunVHexrK618OSyzosp5ml2zXjSs4BxuMuTTrZhszZMMNsp2w26WPC4Gl4QCnH0FCeXVqS_2mRIldX0Is/s320/2015-08-20+16.25.56.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sides broke and it stopped working. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Changes, however, to my lifestyle? Not much of a fan, even when I'm the one who makes the change. Still, at my age, I know that nothing stays the same, you learn to roll with the punches, make lemonade out of lemons, and ask for serenity to accept what's out of your control. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, wine and chocolate help.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJzcauu6DdnQBDFoBl-F-HbHdsgkYfBQbcdSden1DKVS6V5JDOJGAaRGiaqMTSLWJuDuSQvqyg9bYagXNEj9rExFaOedXujuaW_w-xmUtsx2Xm2WOFeny8KxnKDjDRip8nUVokTo-9BqQ/s1600/2015-07-17+20.09.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJzcauu6DdnQBDFoBl-F-HbHdsgkYfBQbcdSden1DKVS6V5JDOJGAaRGiaqMTSLWJuDuSQvqyg9bYagXNEj9rExFaOedXujuaW_w-xmUtsx2Xm2WOFeny8KxnKDjDRip8nUVokTo-9BqQ/s320/2015-07-17+20.09.35.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry, I ate the chocolate.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The big change I'm dancing around here is that my trainer is moving to a new facility. It was a long-thought-out, carefully considered decision. She discussed it with all of her clients to get their opinions and their buy-ins. Our current facility has been slowly becoming less horse-centric and more dog-centric, and the new place is only two doors down from us.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECdZnh5diRylCDVPBVisiSyoukPSyx-rbz0YTxd978MkhQYBG2lAFwDdaqJRAfCIw8WjTOYQ5qMos__QeheSXxJZHiwC174BvgvHdnetnsggUpgUXCQWr2pV_NvWLF88ErJROl2CfBV8/s1600/2015-08-21+01.27.38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECdZnh5diRylCDVPBVisiSyoukPSyx-rbz0YTxd978MkhQYBG2lAFwDdaqJRAfCIw8WjTOYQ5qMos__QeheSXxJZHiwC174BvgvHdnetnsggUpgUXCQWr2pV_NvWLF88ErJROl2CfBV8/s320/2015-08-21+01.27.38.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our new tack room - so cute!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't blame the owner--dogs are a more lucrative business in southern California. It will be a win-win situation for everyone. The owner can develop the remaining horse stalls and arenas into dog training and kennels, and my trainer can be at a full-on equestrian facility with more opportunities to grow her business.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We've been at the ranch for 12-13 years. Snoopy was born there. Before the owner got involved with dog training, she was my horse trainer. It's still a quiet and relaxing place to hang out while my horse is out playing, or standing in the sun, drying after a bath. In a way, it's like leaving home.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn07d9fJuWufDaRPitx4bgYuZZwsWOxinVAWxBFcjMTl4x9cSeLVKHaqm2ovj7InLwDwvLkiS2JqN7ywtLtqpICQ76vQYGqcVmOa8wWWsGjjdArHG7OdLnkXcoB_5ZSfKsIFeVcuRCnHs/s1600/2015-08-20+14.51.24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn07d9fJuWufDaRPitx4bgYuZZwsWOxinVAWxBFcjMTl4x9cSeLVKHaqm2ovj7InLwDwvLkiS2JqN7ywtLtqpICQ76vQYGqcVmOa8wWWsGjjdArHG7OdLnkXcoB_5ZSfKsIFeVcuRCnHs/s320/2015-08-20+14.51.24.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snoopy's new barn. Frostie will be in a pipe stall behind it.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And while the new place is lovely and has a lot of perks, I know the grass isn't greener. We now have to share resources with other trainers on the property. Compromising will be done. Adjustments (as well as mistakes) will be made. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've made the decision to take each phase as it happens. We are currently moving our stuff, bit by bit (no pun intended) to the new facility. This is the "OMG, this place is wonderful and we're going love it here!" phase. We need this phase to keep the stars in our eyes while our muscles ache from all the schlepping.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once we move in, the "Hmm, this place has too much/too little of x,y,z" phase takes over. It's like piercing your favorite balloon and watching the air seep out. I will accept this and move through it with a glad heart. And wine and chocolate.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How do you handle changes in your life? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, I had to include the song. It's stuck in my head. Now it's stuck in yours. You're welcome.</span>Gayle Carlinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15783449240138097315noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-3458797692018534402015-08-12T10:20:00.000-07:002015-08-12T14:18:12.599-07:00Apologies, Magic and Life<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
sorry for the recent lack of posts. My life has been very busy lately and I
haven’t had the time for writing. This is actually a good thing, and I’m
grateful to be engaged with some new projects. But such a busy period doesn’t
lend itself to creating blog posts.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
don’t have a decent post in me at the moment, so I thought I’d share a few
photos to illustrate the magic that I still find in my life. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sitting
by the pond is always magical. Summer is the season of water lilies and
dragonflies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNCZ2TCBjL0ospKdHZCN6LPV2cKyqe4j5g4USDAwzGzxm1e6eyyCAQfKB2uwQ7NjnQUu-EqeT5ZcxGJnAj7lKc1AC7b0EcROlXIVGXfYAgsyIAd0QykI5QCv5XyyaO48WdX3uTpARjdI/s1600/IMG_8143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNCZ2TCBjL0ospKdHZCN6LPV2cKyqe4j5g4USDAwzGzxm1e6eyyCAQfKB2uwQ7NjnQUu-EqeT5ZcxGJnAj7lKc1AC7b0EcROlXIVGXfYAgsyIAd0QykI5QCv5XyyaO48WdX3uTpARjdI/s320/IMG_8143.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
boy is growing up (shown running away from the camera—does not like having his
picture taken).</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Seeing
spotted fawns in our garden and watching them grow up is magical, too.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgga6zxzDRslTfA5NvlKWl0iKWrX1C5BYR0jVSbHeyh44Yy_cyA_0sMJBwwA28Wx4vu6t8UNwugx-FPwJdvKRBmrHjK43DWw1Hl_3dIuoJFFXyZo1dUDo2ZwuFk-db-xcRGShTbskDcGBs/s1600/IMG_8131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgga6zxzDRslTfA5NvlKWl0iKWrX1C5BYR0jVSbHeyh44Yy_cyA_0sMJBwwA28Wx4vu6t8UNwugx-FPwJdvKRBmrHjK43DWw1Hl_3dIuoJFFXyZo1dUDo2ZwuFk-db-xcRGShTbskDcGBs/s320/IMG_8131.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
the begonias are in bloom again out at the Jefferson Ranch. I have been coming
here in the summer/fall for many years. Not to mention I have been gazing at
the amazing spectacle of the begonia fields since I was a little girl. Once
upon a time they grew at our family ranch, and for well over twenty years now
they have been grown here. I was grateful to be out here last weekend and see
it all again. No matter how many times I’ve seen it before, it’s always
magical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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My husband Andy grew the eucalyptus
trees that form the windbreaks from seed he collected out at the old family
ranch. When these trees were trimmed, we burned the wood to heat our home. It
always seemed like a very satisfying life cycle.</div>
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And finally, my son and I went to
see the stage version of Mary Poppins a couple of weeks ago. Our family always
loved that movie and watched it so many times we knew most of the lines by
heart. The live version opened with my favorite quote from the whole deal. Bert
the chimney sweep stands alone on the stage in a mysterious shadowy light. He
says:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wind’s
in the east, mist coming in,</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like something is brewing, about to
begin.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t put my finger on what lies in
store,</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I feel that what’s happening has
all happened before.”</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-72860340771517477562015-07-25T00:00:00.000-07:002015-07-25T00:00:00.068-07:00More precious than gold<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>By Gayle Carline</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Horse Lover and Author</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ET1KLcBppJ2hxIDbE89m938vtF6AOehV-hysC9Q-8GTPwNA-UaepB_ILNOj4WMB1rPnOpPc2ieYZx905mSNWeVzLRf2S-747IdC4umUV99lLjDENfP9BprXpFbuASxKDx0qazJluETE/s1600/2015-07-23+13.18.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ET1KLcBppJ2hxIDbE89m938vtF6AOehV-hysC9Q-8GTPwNA-UaepB_ILNOj4WMB1rPnOpPc2ieYZx905mSNWeVzLRf2S-747IdC4umUV99lLjDENfP9BprXpFbuASxKDx0qazJluETE/s400/2015-07-23+13.18.26.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is Rags. She's one of our lesson horses. We don't know a lot about her, except that she's a breeding stock Paint Horse and her registered name is supposedly Batteries Not Included. I joke that she's a repo horse - her owner walked away from her board at a friend's ranch. My trainer, Niki, needed a new lesson horse and she was a likely candidate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She proved to be a perfect lesson horse. Nearly bombproof, she toted kids or adults around the arena, doing her best to figure out what their wiggling seats and flapping arms were trying to tell her. Her jog was slow and steady, and she's the only horse I knew who could actually sleep-walk through a beginner lesson. Her only problem was when you asked for the lope. She only knew two speeds, a slow gallop or a fast gallop. Loping, even cantering, was a pipe dream.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This picture was taken this week. Isn't she pretty? So fat and shiny. Too bad, she's foundering.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It started with what we thought was an abscess. She was walking, or should I say, limping, on her right front toe. Niki did the usual soaking, farrier, Bute treatment and Rags improved. And then she got worse again. The vet came out, and prescribed anti-inflammatories, antibiotics, etc. Rags improved again, right before she deteriorated.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The vet returned to take x-rays, the last resort. They told the complete story. Rags' coffin bone in both front feet had turned to point down. Fuzzy areas on the x-rays showed the bone pulling away from the interior of the hoof. In addition, her right suspensory ligament was shot. The suspensory might heal with enough layup, but nothing would make those coffin bones stop their descent. Her shoes were evening her out and supporting her in all the right places, but they couldn't reach inside and level out her bones.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No wonder she was limping.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Niki doesn't have a lot of options for Rags. Perhaps we could find a pasture somewhere, but Rags tends to be aggressive with other horses and kicks at them, especially around mealtime. Since she can't have her shoes removed, she might injure someone. And retirement would not help her hooves. She'd still need daily medication and someone watching over her. I'm not even sure that would extend her life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We're making Rags comfy with Bute right now and letting everyone say their goodbyes. Niki will probably make The Appointment in a week or two. Send tissues. We'll all need them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's the thing about an old lesson horse: they are worthless and priceless. You can't insure them, they're typically scruffy, and not very well put-together. You'd never mistake them for a highly trained show horse with perfect confirmation. And yet, finding that horse with a good attitude, a quiet mind, and and understanding heart, one that will teach a new rider confidence, is like searching for that pearl among the oysters.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once you find them, you never let them go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How I wish our old horses would never die! Or at least, they'd introduce us to their replacement. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyt1-_SQcCgBrjxZiVbTHMyJREQATGLpHzpeMOd-Q6h2bE_z7U7gB4RIIz0fpprl2siBQkKHcVeYKpm7tIxSLy3sqLjaGS6xerNH1owf8xsAjuNx4kYBUEtJhAJqqyzN6pBUzYkqIEM2Y/s1600/2015-07-23+13.18.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyt1-_SQcCgBrjxZiVbTHMyJREQATGLpHzpeMOd-Q6h2bE_z7U7gB4RIIz0fpprl2siBQkKHcVeYKpm7tIxSLy3sqLjaGS6xerNH1owf8xsAjuNx4kYBUEtJhAJqqyzN6pBUzYkqIEM2Y/s400/2015-07-23+13.18.32.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rest well, dear Rags. We love you.</span>Gayle Carlinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15783449240138097315noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-46500152511495531022015-07-08T10:38:00.000-07:002015-07-08T10:38:26.463-07:00Is It Worth It?<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>(Believe
it or not, this rambling post is at least partly about horses and writing—for
those who wish I would return to the theme of this blog.)</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Truth
is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth
suffering for.” --Bob Marley</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
friend of mine posted this quote on facebook and it made me think. There is a
lot of truth there. The way I often phrase this concept to my son is, “Nothing
worth doing is ever easy.” I find this to be true of people, animals, and
pretty much everything else in life. I guess it depends on how you define the
word “suffering,” but my experience has been that all the good things in my
life have also been a very real struggle at times.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Take
motherhood. Every mother out there knows exactly what I mean. I don’t really
have to say more. There is nothing more rewarding and yet there is also nothing
more frustrating. Two halves of a whole. You definitely suffer—you shed tears,
are miserable, get angry…etc. But you know from the bottom of your heart that
it is entirely worth it. Your love never falters. (I wove all my insights about
this experience into my tenth novel—Chasing Cans—for those who are interested.)</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
relationship with my much-loved husband wasn’t always easy either. We were both
strong people; we butted heads when we disagreed. But there was no moment when
I didn’t know that whatever pain came to me from our struggles, Andy was and is
entirely worth it. My love never faltered. I don’t believe his did either.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If
she’s amazing she won’t be easy; if she’s easy, she won’t be amazing.” Another
quote from Bob Marley. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
can’t say I’m amazing, but I can say for sure I’m not easy. And yet Andy and I
were very happy together. At the end of his life, when I apologized to him for
all the ways I was difficult, he told me that he wouldn’t change our past even
if he could. “You’ve been a good wife to me,” he said. (Of course, this was a
guy who liked a challenge. I don’t think he ever would have chosen an easy
woman. He never chose the easy road in any part of life. As he put it, “I like
scary things. I’m the guy who likes going downhill fast on a bicycle.” And he
was also the guy who chose to learn to play the bagpipes in his fifties—after
never having played any musical instrument to speak of. Yep, not one for the
easy route…)</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
more I think about it, the more this concept sinks in for me. And yet we are
taught that being “nice,” being “easy to get along with,” is the right thing.
Being “difficult” is the wrong thing. I still remember a friend telling me that
my mother had once said to her (talking about me), “My oldest daughter can be
difficult, but she has a very loving heart.” The friend thought I would be
touched by the “loving heart” part, but what I heard was the “difficult” part.
Once again branded, as I have been my whole life—as “difficult.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yep,
if you speak the truth, you are difficult. If you don’t go along with the
crowd, you are difficult. If you stand up for what you think or feel, you are
difficult. If you don’t knuckle under when pushed on, you are difficult. If you
defy authority when authority tries to bully you, you are difficult. If you
follow your dreams when others find this inconvenient, you are difficult. So
yes, I am difficult. But maybe that’s not so bad?</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
it comes to horses, I have known my share of difficult personalities. Perhaps
the best horse I ever rode (Flanigan), was rejected by his previous owner for
being difficult. (In fact this owner tried to starve the horse into submission
and almost killed him—reducing him to skin and bones.) Flanigan was cinchy and
he would buck. He also wasn’t friendly and would pin his ears at you and scowl
ferociously. But if you handled him appropriately, he would do anything you
asked, and he was an immensely strong, competent horse that could perform in
amazing ways. I was able to do many things in my life that I can’t imagine I
ever would have done without this particular horse (compete effectively at team
roping, cross the Sierras numerous times over some very rough passes…etc). I
loved Flanigan. But he was undeniably difficult in many ways. A strong, honest,
opinionated personality—with a heart of gold. Maybe that’s not such a bad
thing?</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was sitting in my barn one evening pondering my many faults and being sad for
all the times I was/am difficult for those that I love. My little yellow horse
walked up to the fence and nickered at me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, suddenly, for a brief moment, I really got it.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because
Sunny is the personification of difficult. Those who have read this blog for a while
may remember my numerous posts about the way this horse wants and needs to test
his owner/rider/handler. Sunny will periodically try to evade being caught,
offer to kick, offer to nip when cinched, try to step on your foot when being
saddled, try to evade being wormed or fly sprayed, refuse to load in the
trailer, try to balk when he’d prefer not to go a certain way, crow hop when
he’s feeling resistant…etc. Sunny doesn’t do any of these things in a very
determined way—if you are firm with him he knocks off the cross grained
behavior very quickly. But he always needs to try it occasionally—it’s just
part of who he is. The thing is that I don’t mind it at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJp7TC0HgO-2L0jvZ-7WmBvIJ7wzDd73OGOAEpSziZkbTH_AFhHigyIIgHW9LwYEWp1UurQWvem3UgcvRnroB2cMs27hjgTfI1ZM22z1G1GwrxpUqXN8KC3Wm8noFBut0xMSsa2ZJMho/s1600/IMG_3823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJp7TC0HgO-2L0jvZ-7WmBvIJ7wzDd73OGOAEpSziZkbTH_AFhHigyIIgHW9LwYEWp1UurQWvem3UgcvRnroB2cMs27hjgTfI1ZM22z1G1GwrxpUqXN8KC3Wm8noFBut0xMSsa2ZJMho/s320/IMG_3823.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
quite willing to conflict with Sunny when he asks for it, and set him straight
on who is the boss in our relationship. I’ll wallop him any time he
needs/demands it. But I’m not angry with him. I like him. His ornery ways just
make him interesting. And it is this very same tough-minded attitude that makes
him such a steady, confident, reliable trail horse—and it is for this
reliable-ness that I love him.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because
I do love Sunny. I love him because he’s come through for me over and over
again—every time it counts. He’s kept me intact and helped me keep my son safe
in all kinds of situations that could have gone the wrong way. I trusted him
and my trust was not misplaced. I love him for what he’s given me and I will
take care of him for the rest of his life out of love.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Would
I have loved him more if he was easier and sweeter? I don’t think so. It is his
tough mindedness that gave him the ability to be so confident and reliable. And
it is his funny, ornery personality that makes him so interesting. I love him
the way he is—his cranky ways don’t bother me. And in the moment when this
truly sunk into my mind, I understood that maybe Andy felt that way about me.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because
for all my cross grained ways I am reliable as Sunny is reliable. I came
through for my husband and son in every way that I knew how—I was and am
completely devoted to them. Maybe being difficult is not just a negative?
Sunny’s ornery, opinionated ways are honest and open—he’s not afraid to show
who he is and how he feels. I like that about him. I like his strength of mind.
Whatever frustration he’s caused me, he’s been entirely worth it.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sunny
and Flanigan were and are two very strong individuals—and it is that very
strength that caused me to love them. Just as it was the huge strength of
character in my husband that drew me to him. Strong beings aren’t often easy. And maybe love is partly about feeling free to express who you are--even when it is difficult for others--and trusting that you will still be loved. As I say to my son, "Nothing worth doing is ever easy." Perhaps I should add, "Love isn't about what's easy, either."</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
has been true (for me) not only concerning personalities and relationships, but also events,
activities, disciplines…you name it. Finishing my first novel wasn’t easy. It
took persisting in the face of much undermining by “well meaning” friends and
family members. Getting published by a major publisher wasn’t easy. It took
years, lots of struggle, and many dark moments. Learning to train horses and
compete effectively at cutting and team roping wasn’t easy. Ditto the years,
struggle and dark moments. Creating a garden in these dry California hills
complete with veggies, greenhouse, rambling roses, fruit trees, swimming
pond…etc—yep, took years of struggle and constant effort. Not easy at all. But
all those things were entirely worth it.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
I guess my take home message is that maybe we should look past what is easy. In
horses, and people and life pursuits. Instead of looking for what’s easy, maybe
we should look for what’s worth suffering for. Any takers? </div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-76032798759176922302015-07-01T15:02:00.000-07:002015-07-01T16:22:15.558-07:00Magical Books<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
no, I don’t mean my books. I’m not even talking about “horse books”—sorry
Equestrian Ink members and followers. I know fiction about horses is supposed
to be our theme here. But the books I am writing about today are the ones that
have spoken to me lately. And, as you all know by now, lately I am only
interested in “what counts.” Life seems too short to me at this point to seek
entertainment for entertainment’s sake. Though I will admit that some of the
books that have helped me “see the light” have also been entertaining. (And I
have read horse books that seem pretty magical—there have even been a few fans
of my books who thought that my own mysteries were magical—so I’m not
discounting horse fiction here.) Also, I am enough of a writer to find a poorly
written book so annoying that no matter how touching the subject matter I can’t
get through the book. (Certain self-published books come to mind-- my apologies here to all the authors of excellent self-published books, because I know you are out there, too, but some self-published books are just nightmares to those of us who wrote under the guidance of the incredibly picky and experienced editors in large publishing houses. And I also grew very frustrated with several “mass market” type self help books that were clearly written quickly in
order to make the author a little more money.) But some books have been truly
magical—and a great gift to me at this time.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
first magical book I want to mention actually came to me in a magical way. Or
so I see it. Several people had mentioned a book called “Proof of Heaven” by
Eben Alexander to me on facebook. I was familiar with the concept of the book.
A neurosurgeon who does not believe in God or heaven has a NDE and becomes
convinced of the truth of the afterlife. I wasn’t actually too interested in
this book. I had no intentions of reading it. But lo and behold, when a box
arrived from Amazon one day, this book was in it—along with some shampoo that I
distinctly remember ordering. I do not remember ordering the book.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of
course, I could have ordered the book after a couple of whiskey and sodas—and
might not remember. But I ordered the shampoo one afternoon—completely
sober—and Amazon doesn’t usually put things in the same box unless you order
them close together. Go figure. I don’t know how I came to receive the book,
but once it was here I read it. And it was magical.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
know books about NDEs are relatively common—but I haven’t read very many of
them. This book touched me in several ways. The author’s obvious sincerity most
of all. The fact that the book confirmed many things that I have believed for a
long time also resonated. But the bottom line is simply magic. The book spoke
to me of the real magic that underlies this world. And that was so helpful. I
recommend it highly.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next magical book was given to me by a new friend. I am not a Buddhist and
neither is she. But the book is a collection of writings by a Buddhist nun.
(“The Pocket Pema Chodron”) Many of the concepts were rather disorienting to
me. But the book makes me think. It opens my mind. It speaks to suffering and
loss in a different way from the western notions we are accustomed to hearing.
And my husband did much Buddhist training and practice, though I don’t think he
would have called himself a Buddhist exactly. He didn’t much care for labels.
(I believe when he was asked his religion on a hospital form he wrote
“Evangelical Druid.”) In any case, the Buddha is said to have told his
followers, “Don’t listen to me. Go have your own experience.” And this is a
sentiment that resonates for me.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I recommend this tiny book of Buddhist insights—a lot. I don’t agree with everything in
it. Heck, I don’t really get a lot of it. But it helps me to open my mind. It
helps me move toward peace.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
third magical book was recommended by a friend and I ordered it. “The
Alchemist” by Paolo Coelho. This book really is about magic. A magical novel.
It’s also about animals and wisdom and following your dreams and God and love.
In short, all the real things. I liked it so much that I am now reading what is
described as the companion volume-- “The Pilgrimage” by the same author. This
book I think I like even better (so far). It is a memoir rather than a novel,
and tells the story of a pilgrimage that the author made—a trek that taught him
about the real magic in the world and was the foundation for his novel, “The
Alchemist.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
just finished “Hannah’s Gift” by Maria Housden—a book written by a woman whose
three year old daughter died of cancer. It is an astonishingly uplifting book
about magic and faith and joy—as well as great grief and sorrow. The two halves
of the whole…</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Besides
these books, which have truly moved me, I have read quite a collection of other
books given to me by friends or recommended by friends. Some of these spoke to
me more than others, but I will list a few here, in case they help someone
else. “Gift of the Red Bird” by Paula Darcy—story of a women who lost her
husband and infant daughter in a car wreck and her path to healing. “A Grace
Disguised” by Jerry Sittser—story of a man who lost his wife and daughter and
mother in a car wreck and his path to healing. “H is for Hawk” by Helen
McDonald—story of a woman who lost her beloved father to a sudden heart attack
and who embarks on a path of healing through a hawk. “The Art of Stillness” by
Pico Iyer—an international travel journalist’s exploration of going nowhere and
doing nothing—and the magic to be found in such stillness. All of these books
offered insights that I found helpful.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
re-read “A Grief Observed” by CS Lewis—a book I have read many times before.
His clear, direct expression of his terrible grief at the death of his wife
from cancer is deeply honest and moving. His faith is equally honest and
inspiring.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
I read, a little at a time, my husband’s blog ("Begonias in the Mist"--inspired by his job of raising the tuberous begonia crop for Golden State Bulb Growers--which he did for over thirty years)—to hear his steady, humorous voice,
and see the magic he always found in the world. Here is a link to one of my
favorite posts, <a href="http://begoniafields.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-names-for-fog.html">"Names for Fog"</a> The photo below shows a display of begonias at Andy's workplace that was created in his honor.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If
any of you have recommendations for books that illuminate the magic in this short
mortal life that we live, please add them in the comments. I would appreciate
it very much.</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-66608640072842081722015-06-27T00:00:00.000-07:002015-06-27T00:00:01.529-07:00I'm not really here<i>By Gayle Carline</i><br />
<i>Horse lover, author, and apologetic blogger</i><br />
<br />
I'm so sorry. Mea culpa. Let the flogging begin.<br />
<br />
I am normally on-track and on-schedule for my writing deadlines. Even "just a blog post" deserves my attention--I signed up to write a post, so I'm gonna write a post, dammit. I'm usually scheduled here the first Saturday of the month. Imagine my horror when I awoke to the email telling me to post on the last Saturday in June.<br />
<br />
You see, I'm not here. I'm in San Francisco at the American Library Association convention. It's a crazy weekend here, with the decision from SCOTUS that gay marriage is legal in all states AND Gay Pride weekend at the same time. I'm staying in a hotel that's pretty close to the parade. You have no idea how torn I am. Should I go to the convention and learn how to use crowdfunding to raise money for my library, or should I go to the parade (and possibly watch history being made)?<br />
<br />
Decisions, decisions.<br />
<br />
One thing I am signed up to do is hang out in the Sisters-in-Crime booth at ALA and hand out copies of my mystery, MURDER ON THE HOOF. Hopefully, these copies will go to libraries that will hopefully include the book in their inventory. Hopefully.<br />
<br />
I know it's not a mystery, but I'm also giving copies of Snoopy's book, FROM THE HORSE'S MOUTH: ONE LUCKY MEMOIR. It's a book for all ages, so libraries might be more likely to stock it.<br />
<br />
At any rate, I hope you are all doing something fun or relaxing or meaningful this weekend. Hanging out with your horses would be nice. If I wasn't here, that's where I'd be!<br />
<br />
Stop by and leave me a comment if you'd like, to tell me how you spent your Saturday and Sunday.Gayle Carlinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15783449240138097315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-33094138723790175292015-06-24T08:53:00.000-07:002015-06-24T08:53:03.959-07:00Magic...and Death, Dragonflies and chickens<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes,
more stories about magic. It seems that the more I open my eyes to it, the more
I see. Magic everywhere. Is it all in my mind? Perhaps. As Albus Dumbledore
said, “But why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” </div>
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So the other day I was floating in
our little pond. I have written about the pond before and some of you may
remember. Andy and I built it together—we chose every stone, we supervised
every moment of the construction. And we filled it with water together and
played in it together and planted the water plants together. We battled the
algae together. Since Andy died the pond has been a huge comfort to me. Along
with my son, our animals, the garden, and a few very good friends, the pond has
been one of the biggest comforts in my life.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sit by the pond and watch the light change in the reflections and ripples, I
pour a cocktail for myself and for Andy in the evening and sit by the water and
toast him and us—just as we used to do together. I talk to him and I feel that
he talks to me.</div>
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On warm days I take a dip and I
float in the pond for hours at a time—watching the clouds in the sky, watching
the water lilies open their blossoms—pink and creamy yellow and white—and
watching the dragonflies. Floating on the water always soothes me—no matter how
sad I am in that moment. And watching the dragonflies comforts me.</div>
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Our little pond attracts all kinds
of life. Frogs and lizards and birds and bats…and dragonflies. I have written
before of the amazing dragonfly life cycle, and we have observed this first
hand. From the creatures mating, and laying eggs on the water, to the
underwater nymphs, which look like beetles, to seeing these same nymphs crawl
out of the water and transform into dragonflies—within about an hour. It really
is amazing to watch the once-underwater-being fly away into the sky on wings of
coppery translucency—now a creature of the air. It has always seemed to me to
be a clear paradigm for our earthly lives. And the other day I got another lesson
from the dragonfly.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
understand this, you may need to understand that dragonflies have always been a
particular symbol here. Andy liked them—he drew them on his bike jacket, we
have images of them everywhere on the property. We were all delighted when
dragonflies came to our new pond last summer. One dragonfly—a bright red
one—was the most common here. Andy looked it up and said he thought it was
called a “flame skimmer.” (Dragonflies seem to have the most wonderful
names—flame skimmer, pond hawk, blue darter…etc)</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
male flame skimmer is a brilliant scarlet red; the female, as is so sadly
common in nature, is a duller orange-y brown. The males swoop above the pond
and perch on nearby branches overlooking the water—defending their territory
and mating with the females. They are lovely vivid creatures, easy to spot as
they skim through the air. But…</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
the dragonfly perches on a branch of the apple tree, as he often does, he is
very hard to spot. His slender three inch long body just looks like a reddish
twig. If, however, you, like me, have spent hours by this particular pond, you
know exactly where to look for him, and your eyes are accustomed to sorting him
out. And thus I can glance at the apple tree twenty feet away and see a red
dragonfly perched on the branch overlooking the water.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
didn’t realize how much familiarity aids me when it comes to doing this, until
the other day when a friend was here. I said something idly about the
dragonfly, and she said, “What dragonfly?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
did not matter how hard I tried to point him out, she could not see him. In the
end she laughed and said, “I don’t believe you. There’s no dragonfly there.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
I got up and walked over to the branch. The dragonfly flew away at my approach,
and then, of course, she could see him.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,”
she said. “He WAS there all along.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
in that moment I kind of got it.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If
you teach yourself to see magic—by looking for it and spending time in magical
places just being observant—you will learn to see it. And you will find that others
can’t see it. They haven’t taught themselves how. That doesn’t mean the magic
isn’t real. Just like the perching dragonfly, it’s real all right. But not
something you can see unless you learn how.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
thing is—anyone can learn how. Spotting a perching dragonfly is available to
all. You just have to spend the time, you have to pay attention, you can’t be
ceaselessly distracting yourself with phones and computers and TVs and social
events…etc. You have to be willing to sit quietly by the water watching
dragonflies. For a good long while. And you will learn to spot them when they
are sitting still. In time it comes to you quickly and easily to spot them; it
is as natural as breathing.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
will be able to see what others insist is not there. This, I think, is what
magic is really like.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
then again, maybe magic is like my chicks.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
see, if you know about chickens you know that there are things that they do and
don’t do. Sort of like horses or dogs or cats. But once in awhile they’ll do
something that you would say that they definitely DON’T do (again like horses
or dogs or cats—in fact like the cat who defended the little boy from an
attacking dog—in that video that I think everyone I know has seen). Is this
magic? </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>People
who know about chickens know that when a hen goes broody on a clutch of eggs,
it takes about three weeks for the eggs to hatch. Depending on how good of a
“sitter” the hen is, you will get a more (or less) complete hatching of the
eggs (if they are all fertile). The eggs normally hatch in a two day window,
even if they were (as they usually are) laid over a two week or more period.
The chicks actually talk to each other and the hen (by peeping in the egg) as
they are getting ready to hatch. And then, over 48 hours or so, all that can
manage to hatch do so. Not all chicks make it out. Some are too weak to hatch,
some aren’t made right. But after about two days the hen will normally take
what brood she has away from the nest and seek food and water for the chicks,
knowing that the remaining eggs won’t hatch. That’s what chickens do. Except
when they don’t.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
what happens when they don’t? Maybe magic?</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
had a hen who was sitting on a clutch of eggs that had been layed rather
piecemeal—by several hens. The sitting hen eventually hatched one chick. It was
bright and lively, but days passed and there were no other chicks. My friend
Wally—who knows a lot about chickens—told me to throw the rest of the eggs
out—they wouldn’t hatch. But the hen continued to sit on the eggs. She mothered
the one chick she had, but she also kept sitting. I put food and water near the
nest and left her alone.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
week after the first chick, a second chick hatched. And still the hen continued
to sit on the eggs. Wally and several other chicken owning friends were sure I
should throw the rest of the eggs out and let the hen get on with raising her
two chicks. But I kept food and water by the nest and left her alone.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
week later a third chick hatched—and still the hen sat. And sure enough, a week
later a fourth chick hatched. After that the hen abandoned the two remaining
eggs—so I threw them out. And this hen now has a healthy little family of four
chicks—all of whom were born a week apart—so that the oldest one is a month
older than his youngest sibling. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
those who know nothing about chickens, this might not seem much like magic or a
miracle. But Andy and I kept banties out here the whole seventeen years we were
together, and no hen has ever done anything like this. It is something I would
have adamantly assured you would NOT happen. But it did.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
so perhaps many other things that people will assure you “cannot” happen can
also possibly happen. When the time is right. Maybe magic is like this? You
just pay attention to the signs and keep an open mind and suddenly something
miraculous happens.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally,
maybe magic is sometimes very simple and ordinary. Like watching a water lily
open or close. The water lilies are very lovely—and they open and close their
pointed buds in a short period of time. One evening I was sitting by the pond
with a young friend. We were drinking whisky and soda and talking about life in
the agricultural world, but we were also sitting quietly watching the
water—watching the water lilies, watching the dragonflies. And after a particular
quiet moment this young man turned to me with a big smile on his face.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
pointed at the most spectacular of the water lilies, a biggish peach pink
blossom with a crown-like shape, and I saw that it was closed. “I watched it
close,” he said. “Watched it go from open to closed. I’ve never seen that
before.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
could tell that he felt that he’d seen something magical—and I agree with him.
But the thing is—such magic is readily available. Ordinary magic. Found simply
by sitting still and paying attention. Doing nothing. Going nowhere. Watching
the evening light on the pond. </div>
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Maybe magic is like that?</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-45300787327424404982015-06-17T12:40:00.000-07:002015-06-17T14:35:53.199-07:00Horses and Writing (Now)<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s
what this blog is supposed to be about. I have deviated—A LOT-- from the theme,
I’m afraid. My interest lately is all about what counts…what in my life is
worth focusing on in the light of mortality. Ever since my husband died, my
life has changed in many ways. And most of all in the sense that I only give my
time to what needs to be done to take care of our little life here, and to what
I do out of love. I still love my horses and I still write—I think these things
are part of what counts for me. So I can give an update on my horses and my
writing, I guess, if anyone is interested.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since
I’ve owned horses all my life and I don’t dump them when their using life is
over, I have (no surprise) a bunch of old horses. My horse property
accommodates four horses easily, five is OK, and I’ve squeezed six in at times
(not good). The way I feel these days, four horses is plenty. So I have my
retired horse, Plumber (26), my son’s horse
Henry, still a good walk/trot riding horse on level ground at 27, though no
longer comfortable climbing hills, and my Sunny, somewhere between sixteen and twenty and still
sound and a good trail horse.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtVouCjTUinIknhkBzp4kKeJ2FncGB-iLkHVSBmLVwvtpBuV4VN0Xeak3Wv1dP05FCsUMkvYMuSXx6pA0scXUxk1wbg26Hv_XJsz8VfmJcNBn4B8GJ5qvfIcxqw3q951WEhTyCAUfw1c/s1600/IMG_2612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtVouCjTUinIknhkBzp4kKeJ2FncGB-iLkHVSBmLVwvtpBuV4VN0Xeak3Wv1dP05FCsUMkvYMuSXx6pA0scXUxk1wbg26Hv_XJsz8VfmJcNBn4B8GJ5qvfIcxqw3q951WEhTyCAUfw1c/s320/IMG_2612.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I also keep
my friend Wally’s Twister—19 and still going strong as a team roping horse.
I’ve promised to take care of Twister just like he was my own if Wally dies. I
don’t plan to acquire any more horses. My Gunner lived to be 35, and at that
rate I have a lot of years of horse care ahead of me with these guys.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcRSNGV8IOePJ-JRmK021XTWNoIVmI5bJl9pjCpmmcm_DunxJYWSCz50wm5gpYjPgunG3sMiwLi2DaI8XkCL8JVjkrSOwxZ7rLDSnLrkEoTZUYzJAgo2V63yURZI78JDdCqWwMX52l6I/s1600/laura_gunner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcRSNGV8IOePJ-JRmK021XTWNoIVmI5bJl9pjCpmmcm_DunxJYWSCz50wm5gpYjPgunG3sMiwLi2DaI8XkCL8JVjkrSOwxZ7rLDSnLrkEoTZUYzJAgo2V63yURZI78JDdCqWwMX52l6I/s320/laura_gunner.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All
of the horses I have here have been with us many years. I broke Plumber as a
three year old, and trained him to be a rope horse. He carried my son and me
when my boy was little, and took good care of us.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzORNxviqxMRU28-P6kdamOWqd0A2aKcyD1bH1lQEdeaNDxO5wJ5n8lQ26tl6jMIhE7c8LfBmVdRxGeyhiSUdpxOGAgRHjaaWqbJ4qPWVYaffJjBXMiM5qgm0LrRErZePeATU-FkFtEpo/s1600/laurazandplumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzORNxviqxMRU28-P6kdamOWqd0A2aKcyD1bH1lQEdeaNDxO5wJ5n8lQ26tl6jMIhE7c8LfBmVdRxGeyhiSUdpxOGAgRHjaaWqbJ4qPWVYaffJjBXMiM5qgm0LrRErZePeATU-FkFtEpo/s320/laurazandplumb.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sunny and Henry
took us on hundreds and hundreds of trail rides and gathers for seven straight
years—on the beach, in the hills, and in the mountains—without one bad moment.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDh8gO5Ix3r8NuYYBaV5sycBedu2ypukQhUey102UyzDe3n8jYEak2WDM_wHWu_mcQwFuU8GWjj7Kiy4W2D_GmGUMw7qDVpmDZcjs29rccC9e9CTKTnc-9jSN75BSaO0pvj87PCfCd_eQ/s1600/work2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDh8gO5Ix3r8NuYYBaV5sycBedu2ypukQhUey102UyzDe3n8jYEak2WDM_wHWu_mcQwFuU8GWjj7Kiy4W2D_GmGUMw7qDVpmDZcjs29rccC9e9CTKTnc-9jSN75BSaO0pvj87PCfCd_eQ/s320/work2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We owe these horses and I am glad to
repay them by giving them the best life that I can. But my interest in riding
isn’t very high right now. I’ve ridden a couple of times this spring with my
son and we both enjoyed it. I’m still not drawn to make much effort in that
direction. Our horses seemed to enjoy being ridden after such a long break, and
I think they would be pleased if we rode a little more often, but I just don’t
have the emotional energy to devote to this pursuit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Don’t
get me wrong. I loved to ride and I’m so glad that I spent many years
horseback. I don’t regret it at all. But I see now that the space and freedom
that I had to give my energy to exploring horseback pastimes came a great deal
from the content and security I felt with my husband. Even though he was not a
horseman himself, he supported me (financially and emotionally), and his
support gave me the freedom to enjoy my life with my horses in the way that I
did. Thank you, Andy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
energy now goes into tending the garden (by which I mean not just the veggie
garden but the entire property), making sure all critters are well cared for,
and that my son’s life stays good. There just isn’t any energy left over for
other pursuits. So though I sometimes feel sorry for the horses, and think they
look a little bored, I have to tell myself (and them), life isn’t perfect for
any of us right now. And their life is pretty good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
have plenty of room to run and play, they get fed grass/alfalfa hay three times
a day, there are shade trees and sunny spots and soft ground for rolling,
shelter from the rain, and plenty of equine companionship. Their feet are
trimmed, they are wormed as needed, and we get them out to be groomed and to
graze as much as we can. All of them are at a good healthy weight, pasture
sound, and seem to feel fine. There are many worse lives that they could have
as older horses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
that’s my horse life. Not too exciting perhaps, but I do enjoy having the
horses here, I am grateful for the many years of reliable riding service each
horse has given us, and I plan to take good care of them all until they die.
This is what love means to me when it comes to horses. And they give me back love
in return—just by their presence in my life. The nickers when I come to feed,
meeting me at the gate to be caught, the soft sound of hay being chomped as I
sit in the barn, the look, smell and feel of these big, gentle creatures. The
willingness to carry me on their backs any time I choose to ride. Horses are
still magical to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t
imagine living here without horses. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
for writing, well, I still write. Like the horses, I can’t picture my life
without writing. I don’t write novels these days, but I write these blog posts
and I keep a journal, and I have written several memoir pieces. I posted one of
them (My Life With Horses) in installments on this blog, and I have finished
another one (Ordinary Magic). I’ve begun one about my husband’s life. Not sure
what the ultimate goal/fate of these pieces is. I wrote them to please myself,
but some of you said you enjoyed the Life With Horses story, so maybe I will
eventually put the others up on this blog. We’ll see. You can let me know what
you think—if you’re interested.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
often asked if I’ll write more novels. The short answer is that I don’t think
so. I wrote twelve novels in my mystery series featuring equine vet Gail
McCarthy, and a dozen novels was always my goal for that series. If you are interested
in my thoughts about horses and life in general, I wove many of my insights
into this mystery series, which covers twenty years in the life of one
woman—and took me twenty years to write. Serendipity. The series also covers
different aspects of the horse business that I’ve been involved with—from
cutting and reined cowhorse competitions through ranching, team roping,
horsepacking in the mountains, breaking and training young horses, and trail
riding here in the hills and on the beaches of the California coast. Not to
mention raising a child with horses. So if you’ve enjoyed my blog pieces I
think you’ll enjoy the novels, which are readily available on Amazon.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKH5JGPYmetbRd_waBspBRiIxdPB99s7a5qiEekWZPD6SFnhYfqphdxt7IyTLGXer-z6z4L3TspEgjauyOOcIf657GGjFqoqtm8MJetey3DiZruyt_c3pXxckoOxeEz-kreGTD_PQd-s/s1600/Roughstock_Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSKH5JGPYmetbRd_waBspBRiIxdPB99s7a5qiEekWZPD6SFnhYfqphdxt7IyTLGXer-z6z4L3TspEgjauyOOcIf657GGjFqoqtm8MJetey3DiZruyt_c3pXxckoOxeEz-kreGTD_PQd-s/s320/Roughstock_Cover.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
yes, that last bit was blatant self-promotion. I don’t bother with this sort of
thing much any more. I don’t really need the money and
I understand (from the little bit of local fame that I’ve experienced) that the
admiration of strangers isn’t something that I need or crave. But the truth is
that I DID put a huge amount of creative energy into my books—any little
insight I ever had about life and horses got added to one book or another. My
husband and son make appearances in the latter part of the series, and many
friends and acquaintances have turns as villains, victims, or suspects. (I
often cast people I really like in the roles of victims or villains because if
a victim or villain is not a truly interesting character, the story will fall
flat.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGT6kSmi06bj8RuQsvl2vQAfu6TAHF6AVXvCYCKW2Oi6ZUcziYHCU5C8AWxCjXUOPXbWQxyy0n_QIMabHYa6kY4dBBzMfzRWbSY8RVV9gjnXCjmTfV-qrc5mg-WVApFAJAXwsI12foNw/s1600/Hayburner_Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGT6kSmi06bj8RuQsvl2vQAfu6TAHF6AVXvCYCKW2Oi6ZUcziYHCU5C8AWxCjXUOPXbWQxyy0n_QIMabHYa6kY4dBBzMfzRWbSY8RVV9gjnXCjmTfV-qrc5mg-WVApFAJAXwsI12foNw/s320/Hayburner_Cover.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway,
for those who read my blog posts or have friended me on facebook—if you like my
writing here I’m pretty sure that you’ll enjoy my novels. If you read on Kindle
the books are very inexpensive. And if you don’t read on Kindle, I was able to
buy the first book in the series for a friend (used hardcover in perfect condition)
for less than four dollars on Amazon.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqcNcMQX9qrCcU7ddgojjNJewFcwx2LRf8SLFWC1tnsg3XLdmfHVN1R0j8w9_enNT20-WsFAEkgpdpUZQphQ2SAwsrvd0axWTLXsZXEI90Gs_2JQlyeRxXzzDIv-nGXncynJQbXkF3Jc/s1600/Forged_Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqcNcMQX9qrCcU7ddgojjNJewFcwx2LRf8SLFWC1tnsg3XLdmfHVN1R0j8w9_enNT20-WsFAEkgpdpUZQphQ2SAwsrvd0axWTLXsZXEI90Gs_2JQlyeRxXzzDIv-nGXncynJQbXkF3Jc/s320/Forged_Cover.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
series begins with thirty year old Gail McCarthy beginning to practice as a
horse vet in Santa Cruz, California, and ends with now fifty year old Gail
deciding whether its time to retire from practice. Every single book has lots
of horseback action and all the details were drawn from my life spent with
horses. The order—for those who haven’t read the books and want to read them in
order-- is:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cutter
(cutting horses)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hoofprints
(reined cowhorses)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Roughstock<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(roping and endurance)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Roped
(ranching and roping)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Slickrock
(horse packing in the Sierra Nevada Mountains—and overall reader favorite) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Breakaway
(trail riding and training a colt—also the darkest of my books)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hayburner
(breaking a colt and finding a partner)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Forged
(trail riding on the coast and marriage)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Moonblind
(TB layup farm and pregnancy—non-moms don’t usually like this one)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chasing
Cans (barrel racing and raising a baby—non-moms same as above)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Going,
Gone (an auctioneer and trail riding in the hills)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Barnstorming
(yet more trail riding and life choices)</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-70995345311485230272015-06-10T08:53:00.003-07:002015-06-10T08:53:43.847-07:00The Rug<!--StartFragment-->
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
talking about the “rug” that gets jerked out from under your feet. It can
happen to anyone. I just read a facebook post by Sheryl Sandberg. (Sent to me
by a facebook friend—thank you Maryben Stover.) Sheryl Sandberg is facebook’s
COO and was married to the CEO of Survey Monkey. They had children, they were
no doubt quite wealthy, they knew lots of famous people, they were apparently
well liked and a happy couple. They had, in short, all that the material world
could offer in terms of happiness and security. And yet, Sheryl Sandberg had
the rug jerked out from under her feet, just the same as if she had none of
these benefits. Her husband, who was only 47 years old, died suddenly in a
freak accident. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
post about her grief and her struggle to carry on touched my heart. So many of
the things she said resonated for me, and remind me of my own struggle since my
husband died. Many of her insights resemble my own. Her sense that she wanted
to share her thoughts in case they might help someone else is the exact reason
that I have also written about my grief and my journey. In short, I am not
alone. None of us who walk this path of deep loss are alone. We just feel
alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sheryl
Sandberg and her story remind me to be grateful for what I have been given. My
husband lived to be 64. We had seventeen years together as a happy couple. We
also had some warning that he would die and so were able to prepare a little.
He was with our son until our boy was fourteen. And he left us financially very
secure, which helps us to go on with our life now. Of course, none of this
takes away my grief, but for a fact, gratitude does help. The more I remember
to be grateful for the happy life I have had, and for the gifts that I still
have because of Andy, the sweeter and cleaner my grief becomes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
more and more I am aware that the rug gets jerked out from under everyone
eventually. It’s just a matter of when. Whether your spouse dies or your child
or your parent that means the world to you or your beloved dog—even if you live
to a good age and NONE of this happens to you—eventually you face the loss of
your happy life. And this is assuming that you (like me) are lucky enough to
consider your life happy. Because if you live to a ripe old age untouched by
tragic loss, you will face the loss of your health and independence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
certain wealthy old man that I know is just now (in his 80’s) dealing with
moving from his longtime home into assisted living, and his sadness is
palpable. The independent businessman, the world traveler, the happy
gardener…these are no more. Ill health, doctor visits, giving up his beloved
house—this is the stuff of his daily life. His wife is gone, his girlfriend is
gone. His grown children visit him—but he doesn’t smile to see them. He doesn’t
smile much at all. And this is a man nearing the end of a very long life in
which he had all the benefits that the world can offer. But the rug is still
being jerked from under his feet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Slowly
but surely my own woe-is-me-why-did-this-happen-to-me emotion is being
transformed into gratitude for what I have been given and love for what is here
now. Along with understanding that this is part of the basic human condition. I
am always reminded of the woman who went to the Buddha because her son had died
and she could not bear losing him. She begged the Buddha to bring him back to
life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Buddha said he would do this if she would bring him the ashes from a house fire
in a home that had not known death. The woman went to every house in her
village, but everywhere the answer was the same. “No, my mother died-- no, my
husband died-- no, my sister committed suicide…etc” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the end she understood. She went back to the Buddha accepting that her grief
was part of the human condition. I’m pretty sure that didn’t change how deeply
she missed her son. But it does change the bitterness of woe-is-me-why-me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
me the truth comes down to facing my loss and trying to walk the path I’m meant
to be on. I believe that my husband’s spirit transcends his death and that our love
for each other remains. I believe that our relationship continues—but in a
different form. That’s my belief, and it comforts me. But whether or not I’m
right about this, there is one thing I know for sure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
am not in control of much of anything. None of us are. As I started out to say,
the rug can be jerked out from under anyone at any time. You can lose your
spouse, your child, your health, your financial security, your home…etc. At any
moment. Without warning. There is NOTHING you can do or achieve that will
protect you from this basic truth of life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Equally
you can believe anything you want about God and spiritual reality…etc, but you
cannot make or prove these things true. You have to trust. You have to walk in
the dark.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
there is one thing you can be sure of. One thing you are in control of
absolutely. This is what I have discovered and I tell myself every day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
can choose to love. I can choose to love my husband and our son and this little
life we’ve made together. No matter what happens I can choose to love. As long
as this entity exists that I recognize as myself, I can love those that I love.
Not even God can do anything about this—except by causing “me” to cease to
exist. As long as I exist I can love what I choose to love. No one can stop me.
It is absolutely in my control. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
truth is a great comfort to me. When I feel most lost I repeat it to myself. I
can love my husband and son and this life we’ve made together. Even if I am
given not one more single message or sign that Andy is with me, I can still
choose to love him. I can still choose to trust that he is with me. Even if my
world collapses around me, even if the asteroid wipes out the planet, as long
as I exist in any way that I recognize I can choose to love. And so can we all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not
that making this choice transforms me—or anyone else—into some kind of saint. I
may choose to love, but like everyone else in the human condition, I have my
baggage. I am quick to anger; my chain is jerked by anxiety. I may be sorry,
every single day, for the ways I have failed to act loving. And circumstances
beyond my control may make it impossible for me to protect and care for those I
love the way I would wish. I can do nothing in the face of many disasters but
remain true to my choice to love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
is one rug that cannot be jerked away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0XFeGTLFPTgQ21eTY2d4rMd0cs5M55DCh6IN7jvOqfXoycU57cvmd53A8boOBL4tQASt9HqeWFHQbOhq_g94D5nHOmdtiua3h_N4IKYjtBhwrG6uUNhqp8kdSxHheijXrQKwAc_kzCwI/s1600/IMG_8071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0XFeGTLFPTgQ21eTY2d4rMd0cs5M55DCh6IN7jvOqfXoycU57cvmd53A8boOBL4tQASt9HqeWFHQbOhq_g94D5nHOmdtiua3h_N4IKYjtBhwrG6uUNhqp8kdSxHheijXrQKwAc_kzCwI/s320/IMG_8071.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
love you, Andy.</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-27898056710570014782015-06-03T09:55:00.000-07:002015-06-03T10:06:41.739-07:00The Story of the Statue --and the Bizarre Truck (Walking in Darkness)<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
sometimes I walk in darkness. I am endlessly sad and I miss the form of my
happy life that used to be. My husband has been dead for six months and in many
ways it is harder now. The friends who gathered round and made great efforts to
support me initially have less time for this (I know this is inevitable—I’m not
complaining or bitter—just saying what is happening), and are busy with their
own lives. My good friends try very hard to be there for me. But I feel so
deeply the loss of my companion and partner. It is hard to face each new day
without his physical presence here in our home.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have done my best to put our finances and the
garden/property/household in order, and have gotten this done. There is a
lull—in which I am so very weary of being sad. I had a very happy life for the
last seventeen years with Andy. I accept the sadness—I try to open my heart to
it. But I am unused to this form of life. It feels like walking in the dark.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
try to trust. Trust in love, trust that Andy is with me, trust that I am being
led down the path where I am meant to go. Trust that this is true, even when I
can’t see or feel it. It is sort of like riding a horse in the pitch black.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
remember doing this with Gunner. Riding him up a hill under some big trees on a
moonless night. I could not see a thing. I held up my hand—six inches from my
face—and I could not see it at all. It was the strangest feeling. I could not
see Gunner’s neck or head in front of me. But I could feel him underneath me,
carrying me through the utter dark. I had to trust that he could see, that we
would not run into a tree, or plunge off a bank. And sure enough, eventually we
came out from under the trees and I saw the lights of the barn up ahead (for
those who are interested, I worked that experience into my novel, ROPED).</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
now it is the same. I try to trust that Andy is with me, carrying me along,
even though I can’t feel or see his arms around me. I have to trust in signs and
messages. I have to trust in what is here now. It’s not an easy task. At least
not for me. I’m not good at trust.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
yes, this is another weird story of the insights that come to me about life and
death and magic. I’ve noticed that some friends seem to shy away from the
notion that Andy is still with me and that magical stuff happens to show me
this is true. There is a pronounced silence when I bring such things up, and I
can hear the inward rolling of the eyes. The friend tries to change the subject
and assures me things will get better in time. This does nothing but make me
aware that the person and I are not on the same page. You don’t have to believe
any of the things I believe—I don’t care in the least—so if you don’t care for
this stuff, please click on the “x.” </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
thing about magic, which I always understood, is that it is always present. We
just aren’t aware of it. My son said that he wanted magic like flying
broomsticks in the Harry Potter books, and the funny thing is, I think I’ve experienced
things just as magical. (The totem animal dream I had at Burgson Lake comes to
mind.)</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
magic doesn’t look like what you expect it to look like. That’s where my life
and Harry Potter’s life are different. His life is obviously magical. (He exists
in a magical novel, of course.) My life looks like anybody else’s life. Just
normal, my son would say. But I don’t think normal exists at all. Magic
happens—and its up to you to choose. Will you see this or not? Will you choose
to see the magic happening or will you dismiss it as coincidence…etc.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
story of the statue is a good example. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mHrZxuiAXV7dwSCZ5OyJIElhBJYEAVV9Jr9FNtaOEmJEqbJthTysyv-Oy0CKb8j95h0kT-qKm0O42TOMHJjonI4p8QxMuKgMw3KcEhzZJmeNSCMCKur0GekGQtadBikB0hxfZIhg7Es/s1600/IMG_7201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mHrZxuiAXV7dwSCZ5OyJIElhBJYEAVV9Jr9FNtaOEmJEqbJthTysyv-Oy0CKb8j95h0kT-qKm0O42TOMHJjonI4p8QxMuKgMw3KcEhzZJmeNSCMCKur0GekGQtadBikB0hxfZIhg7Es/s320/IMG_7201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
little statue by our pond—I call her the madonna—has been there many years.
Andy and I picked her out of a catalog not long after we got together. She is a
copy of a Frank Lloyd Wright statue and her actual name is “Garden Sprite.”
Andy and I liked her and we put her by the pond and there she has been for
almost twenty years—but not without changes.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
year the deer knocked her over and she broke in half. I put her head in a
flower bed for awhile—her bottom half lay toppled and concealed by a huge bush.
Things were like that for a few years. But the bush died and was cut down and
we found the statue and set her back up again, gluing her head back on. And
there she stood.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
head is downcast and she looks serene, but pensive. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vsbuxGKx_-J4i0PLAvilGN-h-8dVoFb7mBff3lf21DYCXyKntL1B26WyfY82DuvsRQxtk5TxySAhiGgm8DPaViIXu_ErS07E_ZhTTnXBAhhWROHPaocyXixwuUgQHzhaIqESlrOpb0c/s1600/IMG_0005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vsbuxGKx_-J4i0PLAvilGN-h-8dVoFb7mBff3lf21DYCXyKntL1B26WyfY82DuvsRQxtk5TxySAhiGgm8DPaViIXu_ErS07E_ZhTTnXBAhhWROHPaocyXixwuUgQHzhaIqESlrOpb0c/s320/IMG_0005.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
the other day I was walking up the driveway feeling very sad—and worn down with
feeling sad. Just so tired… What am I supposed to do, I asked Andy. I had
reached the little goldfish pond and I glanced over at the statue. Something
was different.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
stared, wondering if I was imagining things. Because the statue was looking
right at me, her head tilted slightly back; her expression—in this
pose—appeared calm and confident, rather than tranquilly sad. It was a very slight
change—no one who didn’t live with her would ever have noticed. But it jumped
out at me.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
stared and stared. And it dawned on me that she had been shifted
slightly—probably due to a deer bumping into her—and the broken top half was
tipped back a little. I could see the crack. But how odd, I thought. She hadn’t
been knocked over (which had happened several times) or had her head knocked
off. She had merely been posed differently. Serene and regal—looking out at the
world, rather than down.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
this moment I felt my question was being answered. Andy wants me to be OK, to
be serene and confident, to enjoy my life here in my garden. He wants me to
make the same shift as the statue has made. From downcast and sad to calm and
looking outward. She even seemed to be smiling—perhaps a trick of the angle and
the light. But the message came through to me.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Is
this magic? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglM-Ht9uF44wfpT9ofEgVJHc03LRD2CT4Y2_N4-QWK1yAqP0GuRs8yXOy7wzjW_zbQ11k44VXn6jEnRpZA1grIVZjEUTfhtWqAGadToJOqRL_wJhYnUQW9spEWsE9vvUBEDP9Q8faleg/s1600/IMG_8128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglM-Ht9uF44wfpT9ofEgVJHc03LRD2CT4Y2_N4-QWK1yAqP0GuRs8yXOy7wzjW_zbQ11k44VXn6jEnRpZA1grIVZjEUTfhtWqAGadToJOqRL_wJhYnUQW9spEWsE9vvUBEDP9Q8faleg/s320/IMG_8128.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I think it all depends on how you
choose to see it. For instance, like the truck…</div>
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The other day I pulled onto Highway
1 to take my kid to his nine o’clock class—and the stop-and-go traffic was in
full commute mode. I happened to end up behind a truck—a very odd truck. I had
been crying all morning and was just trying to drive through my tears, but this
truck was bizarre enough to cause me to stare. My son stared, too. “Look at
that,” he said.</div>
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The truck was some sort of tank
truck—perhaps used to pump out septics or porta potties. It was not new—it was
nothing regal or glamorous. But the back of it was painted with a very intricate
and elaborate design. There were no words and no obvious connection between the
design on the back and the purpose of the truck. The more we stared at it, the
more puzzling it was.</div>
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The background was golden yellow
and there was a round mandala shape with various symbols. They were nothing
that I understood—I had no idea what system of thinking they might belong to.
In the center was a painting of a god-like looking male figure with a golden
headdress carrying a female figure who appeared to be asleep or passed out. The
male figure looked powerful, his head was up and looking out, he was bathed in
light and wore some sort of ceremonial clothes. The female figure wore a long
white dress and lay in his arms, her eyes closed, her body limp. But she did not
look dead. </div>
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The more I stared at this—we were
behind the truck in stop-and-go traffic for at least twenty minutes—the more I
wondered what it was meant to represent. Nothing really made any sense to me.
And then (it was a cold gray day), the sun came briefly out of the clouds and
lit the male figure’s face with radiant white light. A thought came to me, and
stuck with me.</div>
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I had been battling so much sadness
that morning, feeling so alone. I could not feel Andy’s presence, though I
tried to trust it was there. I was so sad. Maybe this odd painting was here to
show me something. The woman doesn’t know she is being carried. She is asleep
or unconscious, moving through darkness, not knowing the male figure is there.
But he IS there—he is in fact carrying her towards the light, though she is
clearly unaware of him or of being carried. Maybe it is like that for me?</div>
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As I feel I’m moving through
darkness in a confused way, I am really being carried by my loved husband, who
is taking me towards the light. I may not be able to perceive him directly as I
live in my human body with its limitations, but he is there, carrying me in his
arms. For a moment it all seemed so clear.</div>
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I stared at the bizarre truck. Was
this what magic was like? Getting stuck behind odd trucks on the highway?</div>
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In the end, magic is about what you
choose to believe. My son complained that he thought our life was “normal,”
like other people—not magical. I said that many of the people that he regarded
as “normal” adamantly believe that a certain man died and that his body came
back to life three days later. How “normal” is that? Surely that’s as magical
as anything I can come up with?</div>
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So I persist in seeing the magic—or
magik—and I put my trust out there in love. Even though I am walking in the
dark.</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-2815319717460381772015-05-30T00:00:00.000-07:002015-05-30T00:00:03.086-07:00Who knows what the future holds?<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>By Gayle Carline</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Author and Owner of a Bionic Horse</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8biHWRN3KfTAQP-Aga8wV9G4E76tvKvvIg8vvAf3jC9B1VY_CN0C4toYr0P_iEzeqDE7cvfqYgOEen0xGxYDhIiU00kMX-p9osGMoAFtiPjrJB2O5FOHSDhiJSQ_d4ZxMQI92rY_RvcQ/s1600/2013-10-17+12.08.07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8biHWRN3KfTAQP-Aga8wV9G4E76tvKvvIg8vvAf3jC9B1VY_CN0C4toYr0P_iEzeqDE7cvfqYgOEen0xGxYDhIiU00kMX-p9osGMoAFtiPjrJB2O5FOHSDhiJSQ_d4ZxMQI92rY_RvcQ/s200/2013-10-17+12.08.07.jpg" width="150" /></a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We tease about Snoopy being "bionic" due to his left hind leg. For those of you who aren't regular readers, he broke the sesamoid bone seven years ago and it now looks like this:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8OgJpZ3ebi5R-g3PDJDAkrchxpui4wIgTncz-OnNIWIEXWh2Urv49s3QirfaAaXsV3IvdeghpNiVEHmAoinsjZ_aqEUrsfD3E4hvnnwD6i8CYQhQPi5rRujiig6yhz43qpo-R6-E-BZw/s1600/xray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8OgJpZ3ebi5R-g3PDJDAkrchxpui4wIgTncz-OnNIWIEXWh2Urv49s3QirfaAaXsV3IvdeghpNiVEHmAoinsjZ_aqEUrsfD3E4hvnnwD6i8CYQhQPi5rRujiig6yhz43qpo-R6-E-BZw/s320/xray.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As you can imagine, having one leg with a fused joint and accompanying hardware alters his movements. Specifically, incorporating more of his left hip affects the landing on his right front. Each month, he sees the chiropractor. Each month is the same: he requires adjustments on the left hip and right shoulder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This year, we've been experiencing problems on the right front foot. He wasn't truly lame, as in three-legged, he was just <i>off</i>. I'm sure you've all experienced a horse that was happy to tote you around, didn't complain, but looked ouchy when they turned one way or the other. The vet did a flexion test, prescribed an anti-inflammatory and we crossed our fingers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It helped, along with a monthly dose of Adequan, but I had concerns. We knew he was sore, but we didn't know why. It's natural to assume he won't get better, but how would I know when it's on the trajectory to unrecoverable?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had an old horse who was sound at the walk and limped at the trot. We took a series of x-rays over a series of weeks that showed his heel sinking further and further toward the ground. He was foundering and we couldn't stop it. Had I not had those pictures, I would not have known how bad it was, or when it was time to let him go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I ordered x-rays on Snoopy's front leg. We'd never taken them on that leg before. I wasn't sure whether the vet would find nothing unusual, or whether he'd point and say "aha"! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was an AHA moment, thank God. What did we see? Let me show you a diagram of how a horse's leg is supposed to look:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaG_MVAgygDkVNq_4qQbzwbISp7_NhxWpNhBl8NCDG7ixYdKVnq_MuTFIfiS_ntevD5VSLNS74LAFC82YvroLDwAKkvapBsuLxiIW-5BHY7NQs22F_Cl3adXkEwGk4v7ENnMxoTGS1O8/s1600/Horse_Leg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="391" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaG_MVAgygDkVNq_4qQbzwbISp7_NhxWpNhBl8NCDG7ixYdKVnq_MuTFIfiS_ntevD5VSLNS74LAFC82YvroLDwAKkvapBsuLxiIW-5BHY7NQs22F_Cl3adXkEwGk4v7ENnMxoTGS1O8/s400/Horse_Leg.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Snoopy's legs don't look anything like this. His cannon bones (the beige one) tilt slightly one way. The two pastern bones (the green and purple) are straight, then the hooves tilt the other way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As his farrier said, "He gets his legs from his mom. They grow in three different directions."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The x-ray on his right leg told the story of what was wrong. Along the outside of the hoof, next to the little point (see the red arrow, but on the opposite side) there was a weird arcing structure pointing up toward the purple bone. The vet said that was calcification, which wouldn't account for his soreness UNLESS it was combined with what he showed me on the outside of the top of the green bone - a tiny bone spur pointing toward the brown bone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The bone spur was miniscule, but the way his leg winds this-way-and-that, it's like having a teeny pebble in your shoe. It's not going to result in amputation, but it bugs the heck out of you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />He now has different front shoes, and a lower dose of anti-inflammatory. He's looking more comfortable and moving a lot easier. Now we know where to look when anything changes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And there will be changes, because that's life. I'm not sure how many more years I'll be able to ride him, but I promised to keep him sound and comfortable for as long as possible. When it's time to let go, I hope to feel confident that I've made the right decisions. It's the least I can do.</span><br />
<br />Gayle Carlinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15783449240138097315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-15092310727057909982015-05-27T14:52:00.000-07:002015-05-27T14:52:47.824-07:00The Piper in the Graveyard<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Every
Memorial Day my husband would play his bagpipes in the old cemetery in Soquel
to honor the veterans. We would show up there, Andy wearing his kilt and
“clobber” as he called it, and he would play for an hour or so, taking breaks
to rest his lungs. There were always a few people there, tending the graves of
their loved ones—often they would come over and thank him. My son and I
wandered around, listening to the piping and looking at the old graves.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was and is a peaceful, wild place, pleasantly overgrown, on the banks of Soquel
Creek, and it felt good to be there. One year the man who owned the cemetery
was there and thanked Andy. Later that day I told Andy, “I think I’d like to be
buried there. Next year, if the owner is there, I’d like to buy our gravesites.
Is that OK with you?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Andy
agreed this was OK with him, and the next year the owner was there and I bought
three gravesites—one for each of us.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the intervening years, Andy played his pipes there on Memorial Day and
sometimes Veteran’s Day—and I learned that my great grandmother had once tended
the graves in that cemetery. Every time I was there I had a peaceful feeling.
My son and I would talk about the fact that some day we would be buried there.
It all seemed very gentle and distant.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
last year my husband grew very ill with a rare and aggressive form of cancer.
No treatment was effective, and it became clear that he did not have long to
live. In the way of a brave soul, Andy kept on with his life, going to work up
until a month before he died—and his death was quick and at a moment of his
choosing. And no, I don’t mean suicide—assisted or not. I mean that he had the
will to let go of his life, just as he had the will to keep going,
undiminished, until he knew it was time to move on. He chose to die in my arms
when we were alone together—as a thunderstorm poured down overhead. Just took
one deep breath and did not take another.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
the man who was helping me take care of Andy arrived later, and I told him what
had happened, he just nodded. “The great souls always pass in a storm,” he
said.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next day I made arrangements for Andy to be buried in front of the biggest oak
tree in the old Soquel Cemetery—a place where he had often stood to play his
pipes. As we had agreed beforehand, it was a green burial. No chemicals, no
metal—just a simple coffin of woven bamboo. The hole was dug by hand, and his
friends lowered his coffin into it by hand. Andy’s friend and piping teacher,
Jay, played the pipes. We told stories of Andy’s life, toasted him with some of
his favorite single malt whisky, and decorated his grave with beautiful
begonias that he had grown. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since
then I go to the graveyard several times a week to put flowers from our garden
on Andy’s grave. His sister and brother came to visit, and we bought a bench
and placed it next to the gravesite. So I sit on the bench and talk to Andy. I
see lots of things. A hawk alighted in the top of the big oak tree one day. A
bobcat walked across the cemetery carrying something for her kits. Squirrels
chase each other through the gravestones and ducks fly up and down the creek.
As it always was, it is a peaceful place. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
Memorial Day Jay met my son and me at the cemetery. It was a gentle, sunny
afternoon and we sat on the bench and Jay played his pipes. I had brought
flowers for Andy’s grave, including begonias—and some unknown person had placed
an angel there. Various people were there tending graves and thanked Jay for
playing. Some recognized me and asked about Andy. It seemed hard to take in
that last year he had been here playing and this year he was buried in the
ground. But so it is. The human condition...</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
cried a lot. But we smiled a lot, too. And told stories. I brought a bottle of
Lagavulin and we toasted Andy. We poured a little whisky on the grave (my son
said, “Papa would say that was a waste of good whisky,” and Jay and I both
laughed). I gave Jay the bottle as a present, and my son and I drove Andy’s
little red Porsche home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
days go now, it was a good day. I think Andy was happy to see us all there and
hear the pipes played in his honor. I was very sad—but I am always sad. And I
could feel some sweet thing underlying the sadness. Love.</div>
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My love is still steady and strong,
as I believe Andy’s love for both me and our son remains steady and strong. I
will go and place flowers on his grave as long as I can walk. I will love him
as long as I exist. Some day, not long from now, there will be a gravestone
with a piper on it underneath the big oak tree. The words at the top, chosen by
our son, will say “He played his pipes for the good of all here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some day I will be buried next to
him.</div>
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And so it is for the piper in the
graveyard.</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-55772914638440984502015-05-20T10:57:00.003-07:002015-05-20T10:57:58.170-07:00What Counts<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Disclaimer--I
want to apologize for the repetitive nature of my recent posts. I know that I
talk almost exclusively of my current path of trying to understand what may
transcend death. Trying to understand what counts. I am guessing some of you
may be rolling your eyes and thinking, there she goes again. This is getting a
bit morbid. And I’m afraid that you may just have to write me off when it comes
to being entertaining. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because
no, I am not planning to post many fun, light-hearted thoughts about trail
riding or writing novels in the near future. This may happen eventually—who
knows? But I know where my interest lies now. And it is directed towards what
counts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
will immediately add that I am no expert on spiritual experiences. Nor, for
that matter, am I an expert on horses or writing. It is quite safe to say that
I am not an expert on anything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Also,
I’m not trying to convince anybody of anything. Partly because I don’t think
that ever works, and partly because I’m just not concerned with that. However
it has come to me that I do need to share these insights—in the possibility
that someone, somewhere, may find them helpful. So I’m trying to share.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the light of my husband’s death (and I mean that phrase literally) many things
have gotten a lot clearer for me. Yes, I am sad, but I don’t resent the
sadness. And more and more I find I’m being led to some understanding that I
didn’t have before. I get many messages from Andy and he comes to me in dreams.
At this point I have a lot of trust that we are going on together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
don’t need to prove this to anybody; I don’t even need to prove it to myself. I
just follow where I’m led, and it is helping me. I find that I see the world
very differently. The only things that seem to me worth doing are those things
that are motivated by love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of
course, almost any action can be motivated by love. I work in my garden out of
love, I go grocery shopping out of love, I do the dishes out of love, I feed
the horses out of love…you get the point. I am aware of the love behind the
smallest tasks that I do to take care of my son and our animals and the little
life we have here. Taking my kid to his lessons, sending him texts on his
phone-- all sorts of things that look very mundane are, in fact, motivated by
love. And this is true not just of me, obviously, but of others.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the same time, I am mystified by the way so many people
appear to lead their lives. Reading the paper, watching TV, dinking around on
the computer playing games, concerned about who won the latest sporting event,
ranting about politics…etc. It is very hard for me to perceive how these
actions could be motivated by love, though it is impossible to judge others,
and I am not trying to do so. I’m just puzzled. To me, it looks like killing time,
striving to be entertained, seeking that frothy phenomena we call “fun,” or
just plain operating by rote, doing the things one has always done for no other
reason than habit.</div>
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Of course, I am not always able to
act loving. I may intend to act out of love, but when I feel distressed or
anxious or as if someone is stepping on my toes, my default reaction is to get
openly upset. And I don’t mean weepy. I do not necessarily feel angry, but I
often seem angry—even if I am scared. I am confrontational and blunt. I flip
off the driver who has aggressively cut in front of me, I directly confront the
“friend” who aims snarky little put-downs at me, I tell my son in a no-nonsense
way that I won’t put up with him being rude to me or to others. I am no patient
saint. I truly am not sure how my blunt manner and tendency to be forthright
about my feelings can assort with my desire to act out of love. I do not
necessarily think that love is an always patient doormat-like quality. I think
love can be as clear and direct as a bright sword. Love has to be truthful—it
cannot be false or it is not love. I do not know if love can be expressed in
anger—but I think this could sometimes be true. Jesus driving the moneylenders
out of the temple with a whip comes to mind as an image. The truth is that I
just don’t know. I do know that I too often act angry and it makes me sad that
I do this. But I also know that I intend to act out of love and I’m trying to
be aware of my habits. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
simple thing has become clear to me—for my own life, anyway. If I am not
motivated by love, the thing is not worth doing. This would include things I do
out of a desire to be loving to myself—buying a mocha at the coffee shop, the
occasional embroidered blouse, having some blond streaks put in my hair—all
little unimportant nothings. If I do them out of love for myself, its very
different than doing them because I want to fit in, or I want to impress
others.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anything
can be motivated by love. I learned this lesson very deeply when my husband got
sick and I began doing many things for him that he would normally have done for
himself. Andy has always been a strong and independent being, and he would take
care of his own business—and wanted to do this. But as he felt more ill, I
scheduled his appointments and picked up his prescriptions and did anything I
could to make his life easier. Now those who know me know I hate this sort of
thing—doctor’s waiting rooms, traffic, lines…etc. And I well remember one
particular day. I had been trying to get a pain med prescription renewed for
Andy and he needed it that day. First the pharmacy refused to fill it saying it
had recently become “controlled.” I went back and got a handwritten script from
the doctor (took an hour to get this done). Then the pharmacy said that they
didn’t have it—they would have to order it. I called around until I found a
pharmacy that did have it, and I drove through traffic (took another half an
hour) and found a parking place for my large pickup in their very crowded
parking lot, and waited in line at the counter, and then sat for half an hour
in the parking lot while they filled that prescription. Normally this would
have made me gnash my teeth with rage and frustration and feel that I was
wasting a perfectly good day on a hideous errand. But this day was different.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
knew, every moment of the time, every step of the way, that I WANTED to be
here. I had no resistance to this tedious experience. I wanted to help
Andy—anything I could do to help him I wanted to do—out of love. It showed me
that someone sitting in traffic, or waiting in line, or just going about the
business of life, can be in one of two very different places—though you might
never tell by observing him/her. Such a person can be simply killing time,
acting out of habit and rote, perhaps resentful, perhaps just bored. Or that
person may be doing whatever it is that they are doing out of love. And though
they may be sad or frustrated by what they have to go through, the love is
always there, underlying the actions, making them all worthwhile. It makes all
the difference.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
husband once told me (he was kind of a laconic guy) that love wasn’t about
whispering sweet nothings in the beloved’s ear. It was about what you did. “I
make your tea in the morning, and your cocktail in the evening, and cook you
dinner. That’s love,” he said. And I did finally realize that he was right—and
told him so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now
the importance of acting out of love becomes clearer and clearer to me. I think
each of us is perhaps meant to do different things and express different truths
to the world—so acting out of love may appear quite dissimilar from one person
to another. Again, there is no point in judging others. But there is, in my
view, a great deal of point in looking at ourselves and evaluating what we do.
Are we just killing time in various ways, or are we acting out of love? Every
step of the way, every moment of the day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Thoreau
(one of my heroes) said (in Walden) that one cannot kill time without injuring
eternity. I have always taken that statement very seriously. And now I believe
I understand those words just a little bit better. Thank you, Andy.</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-84672330840550995272015-05-16T17:33:00.001-07:002015-05-16T17:33:27.047-07:00Horse Statistics by Alison HartI am grabbing at topics to write about these days -- my time is consumed with antiques and gardening plus working at two shops, none of which has anything to do with horses. My writing is between approval of an outline for <i>Sea Dog </i>and waiting for the final, final draft of <i>Finder Coal Mine Dog</i> to so I can review it for the last time. I am giving myself a break before I plunge headlong into writing a first draft for <i>Sea Dog </i>and resuming my copious research on Magellan's journey (which included sodomy, orgies, be-headings . . . you get the picture).<br />
<br />
So I am writing about statistics, horse statistics, that, of course, are not carved in stone, but are still interesting. A study in 2005 by the <i>American Horse Council </i> reveals that there are 9.2 million horses in the United States. Texas has by far the greatest population beating Kentucky and Virginia, two horsey states. The interesting fact is that 2 million people own horses. That means a hell of a lot of us own more than two, three even four horses.<br />
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<br />
Not surprising since horses are herd animals and at least need one companion, a buddy to bond with. My two, Belle and Relish, have settled into middle age happiness. There is little fretting or biting though Belle still rules the pasture despite her matronly age and physique, and even though I am not riding these days, I still want horses around. The other reason so many of use have more than one horse -- we are slightly obsessed and simply love them.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to the other statistics: 3,906,923 horses (over a third) are used for recreation. This doesn't include showing, rodeo, farm, racing and ranch work. It means that we are just having fun with our horses or staring at them in their pastures. The United States has the land and the luxury for back yard horses, another reason there are so many hanging around doing little at home. And this is great unless they are hanging around doing little and no one is caring for them. Too often I pass pastures that are over-grazed by horses with chipped feet and tangled manes. I've called animal control on one neighbor. For awhile the threat of a fine got him feeding 'his daughter's' horse, but this week I noticed the horse looks poorly again.<br />
<br />
So the United States does love its horses, but that doesn't always mean they are all well-cared for. I could not find a good source of abuse statistics, probably due to many factors, and the horse rescue websites have such horrible photos, I confess I can not look at them. But abuse is there, we see it all the time, and that is a sad fact indeed.<br />
<br />
<br />Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00895574291466327332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-5562815830680281762015-05-12T06:21:00.000-07:002015-05-12T06:21:09.678-07:00Outlines: A Writer's Training Calendar<div style="text-align: justify;">
by <a href="http://www.nataliekreinert.com/" target="_blank">Natalie Keller Reinert</a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Setting up a training calendar is easy, right? You pick a horse show date and you move backwards, working out a nice hypothesis of where you'll be in training each week running up to the show. Nothing to it, because predicting how quickly and how competently your horse will pick up your training (to say nothing of staying sound and keeping on his shoes) is just easy-peasy. Right?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Of course we know that's nonsense. Horses look at calendars and laugh. They observe our ambitious plans and then they go out and look for a nice, innocent stick that they can use to injure themselves in astonishing and previously unbelievable ways.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1BJFZNcW8hvsR6E3Ba2EFUk1lcRxw6jvQqShksRztLEiVtia57veybkKQR4Eg54rKYoixcGQYtsFyveG_DlU71jpyhGF1RWVvCqg7oFAC0-lmP-vJUq3ShQTliEFeh_ayPSWuM1SZ2T6/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-05-12+at+9.17.00+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1BJFZNcW8hvsR6E3Ba2EFUk1lcRxw6jvQqShksRztLEiVtia57veybkKQR4Eg54rKYoixcGQYtsFyveG_DlU71jpyhGF1RWVvCqg7oFAC0-lmP-vJUq3ShQTliEFeh_ayPSWuM1SZ2T6/s400/Screen+Shot+2015-05-12+at+9.17.00+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting to a horse show takes planning. Writing a book is much the same!<br />Photo: flickr/dj-dwayne</td></tr>
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In the game of planning for horse shows, the beginning is easy to see, and the end is fun to predict. It's the middle part that's hard.</div>
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Writing a book can be an awful lot like setting up that oh-so-charming training calendar. I like to outline, because I know my book's beginning, and I know my book's intended ending, but the middle part always bogs me down. You know, all that stuff that makes up the story? Moves the plot along? Gets the horse from green-broke to jumping courses? Yeah. That can be challenging.</div>
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Every book I've written since <i>Other People's Horses </i>has had an outline, and every subsequent time I write an outline, I find myself a little more dependent on it. That's because my desire to wander from the set course never, <i>ever </i>wanes. Like a horse bound and determined to lose his shoe before the schooling show on Saturday, I am absolutely hell-bent on diverting from my intended story with wandering trail rides, unplanned-for barn drama, and completely unpredictable bucking incidents.</div>
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And while this sort of convoluted wandering story process seems to work for some writers (George R.R. Martin of <i>Game of Thrones </i>fame comes to mind), I really don't want to write 500 page door-stops that are meant to be set during one fateful summer in Saratoga, or wherever. That's why I have to force myself back to the outline. Because every wandering trail ride has to expose a new question in the plot, every unplanned-for barn drama has to be resolved, and every unpredictable bucking incident has to involve sorting out what set off the horse, and how to fix the horse's problem.</div>
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That's a lot of extra writing for me, and a lot of meandering "what happened to the plot?" for you, the readers.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhch_uFMvcqKBu6R00zPKbFQDwJtpgwcXhhtXRUu85kvvx9o7fCC6OJmtRlfYP0UXHaBJuNGRRxyL-36aMlNp9cpi3KXZtTDai-uswYIOYML7EPq5ykyBzon9HoS74wvdbfIS66L1yd5T9V/s1600/Ambition+eBook+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhch_uFMvcqKBu6R00zPKbFQDwJtpgwcXhhtXRUu85kvvx9o7fCC6OJmtRlfYP0UXHaBJuNGRRxyL-36aMlNp9cpi3KXZtTDai-uswYIOYML7EPq5ykyBzon9HoS74wvdbfIS66L1yd5T9V/s200/Ambition+eBook+cover.jpg" width="132" /></a></div>
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So funny story, haha, you guys are going to love this, I wrote a masterful outline for <i>Pride, </i>which is the sequel to <i>Ambition.</i></div>
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<i><b>Sidebar: Originally Ambition was supposed to be a stand-alone novel, but I've gotten so many requests for a series that I had to cave to pressure. Readers have power! When you like something, say something! </b></i></div>
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Anyway, I wrote this wonderful outline for a book which can stand up as the second novel in a trilogy about Jules, Pete, Lacey, Becky, and of course Dynamo and Mickey, plus a host of new riders and horses. It was here to make my life easier, this outline. To keep me on track and stop me from taking three years and half-a-dozen drafts to write, the way that <i>Ambition </i>did.</div>
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And I got midway through <i>Pride, </i>to about 45,000 words, which when you consider <i>Ambition </i>is about 111,000 words, you can see is that all-troublesome Middle Part that confounds both trainers and writers when we are making our plots and plans... and I started to wander. I quickly realized I was inventing some barn drama which was good, but which would need to be resolved or things were going to get way off track. I decided it was time to consult my written outline, since at this point I'd just been writing off memory of what I'd planned.</div>
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<i>This </i>was when I realized that I had lost the outline.</div>
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Oh jeez. </div>
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Well, I stumbled about for a little bit, figuring I could find my way through without the outline, but the thing just started keeping me awake at night. What if I had lost my way? How was I going to fix this? What was the best use of my time? I'm on a tight deadline to get <i>Pride </i>finished and my work schedule outside of house is about to ramp up considerably. If I let this plot wander too much, I was going to be months behind.</div>
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Something had to be done.</div>
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I knew the ending still (that horse show date that I had selected months before, right?) and although my middle part had changed a little bit, that's just what horses do. It was time to be agile. I sat down, opened my writing program, and started creating chapters.</div>
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In Scrivener, which is the program I use, each folder becomes a chapter. And there's a little box where you can type out a synopsis. I'd never used it before, but there's a first time for everything. I typed a synopsis for each chapter I had yet to write, creating a little guide-map to every single folder, so that no matter when I opened up the manuscript to write, there would be no excuse -- the next step in the story was right there, ready to be fleshed out.</div>
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I created fourteen chapters in all, assuming that each one would balance out at about 2,000 words, and then on the edit/rewrite I would elaborate on them until they had more substance. Then, I started work on the first one.</div>
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That chapter stretched out to 5,000 words.</div>
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Outlines. The more detailed they are, it would seem, the easier my job gets.</div>
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It reminds me again of that training calendar -- on a good day, I can look at the calendar, assess where my horse is vs where I <i>thought </i>my horse could be, and then reassess. Once that's done, I can see what I want to do for the day, then get out there and make it happen... much more successfully than if I'd just mounted up without a plan, wandered out to the arena, and started trotting around waiting to see what would happen next.</div>
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That's good news for me as a writer. It's good news for everyone waiting for the sequel to <i>Ambition, </i>too. Hold on kids, Jules and Company are coming back for more!</div>
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Natalie Keller Reinerthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12171624494588937877noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037107797013641705.post-7979683671475199232015-05-06T07:40:00.001-07:002015-05-06T07:40:48.023-07:00The Ear Ring...and Other Stuff About Life and Death<!--StartFragment-->
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> by Laura Crum</span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes
my life seems filled with magic. Sometimes, however, it seems endlessly sad. I
am not sure that these two aspects will ever be reconciled. A paradox. And if
there is one thing I know, it’s that truth resides in paradox. Every truth I
ever came face to face with was/is essentially a contradiction.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
good god allows innocents to suffer in this world. Free choice exists, but
outside of time everything is happening now—in an eternal present-- so your
choice is already made. Our spirits may transcend death and go on to a better
existence, but we all struggle to avoid this ending of our earthly lives and
consider it a tragedy when we lose a loved other to death. (No matter what we
profess to believe about God and heaven and the afterlife…etc.) So yeah, it
doesn’t surprise me that magic and sorrow seem to go hand in hand.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
still struggle with this. Our human minds don’t deal with paradox very well. We
want a logical solution—a truth we can understand. I’m afraid that I think that
it doesn’t work that way. But whatever insights I have don’t help me very much
at times. When I am faced with what seems like pointless suffering, I more or
less despair.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
in the fact that last week my little dog, Star, had some sort of aberrant
reaction that caused her to go into shock. I came home to find her like this—I
have no idea what happened. She was safely in the dog run with her companion,
Cleo, she had no marks of injury, no signs of stings or signs that she had
fought with the other dog. She was just dazed and staggering and out of it,
with pale gums. I thought she was dying. My heart just about broke.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
rushed her to the vet, and after an eight hour ordeal of treating her for shock
and doing diagnostic blood work, she seemed OK. But there was no consensus on
what caused the problem and if it would happen again. I am grateful for her
apparent recovery and taking the best care of her that I can, but my heart is
still very heavy. On top of everything else I have to bear, it seems like a
gratuitous insult. Why? </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
is no answer to this. “Why” is something others are asking with far greater
cause. I think of Nepal and I am aware that this “why” is universal. Why must
we suffer because of these unexpected, unexplained events? Why? What possible
good does our suffering do? I do not know, I do not know.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
quote from Rumi:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
said: What about my heart?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>God
said: Tell me what you hold inside it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
said: Pain and sorrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>God
said: …Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
sounds very pretty written down, but I am here to tell you that it is a hard
truth to live. Pain and sorrow…</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
hand in hand with this sadness is the magic. Yes, magic—or magik, as Andy might
say. All the signs I have been given that he is still with me past death. I
will tell one story here—one of many that I have experienced.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have a pair of ear rings that belonged to my grandmother. Ever since she died
and left them to me they are the only ear rings I have worn. They are small,
plain gold hoops, they look like a pair of wedding rings.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shortly
after Andy died I lost one of these ear rings. I searched and searched for it
but could not find it. Eventually I gave up. I stood in front of the bathroom
mirror and said to Andy (I talk to Andy all the time). “Its OK. It doesn’t
matter. I will wear one ear ring for the rest of my life as a sign that I’m
half of a pair.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
in that instant I looked down and there, on the floor, under the counter, was
the ear ring. This seemed pretty magical to me. I felt that Andy was returning
it to me and telling me that we are still together, that I am whole, part of a
pair. We are still a couple. That what appears to be lost is not lost.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>OK—a
couple of weeks ago I went to the acupuncturist. She manipulated my ears as
part of the treatment, and I remember thinking that I ought to check and make
sure my ear rings are there before I leave. But I didn’t.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
ran a couple of errands afterward, went home and got my son, got in a different
vehicle and took my boy to the golf course. We went in the snack shack and the
pro shop. And finally, getting ready to go home, I looked in the rear view
mirror and saw I was missing an ear ring.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
called the acupuncturist’s office—they couldn’t find it. I searched both my
vehicles, looked all through my clothes, looked everywhere at home—under the
bed, on all the floors. No ear ring. I had to think it had fallen off in one of
several parking lots…etc. I felt sure it was lost for good this time.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
again I stood in the bathroom, where Andy had returned it to me before. I said,
“If you want to give it back again that’s great. But if not it’s OK—I’ll wear
just one.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
second after I said that, I heard a “tink.” I KNEW what that tink was. It was
the ear ring hitting the tile floor of the bathroom. And I have to admit a sort
of thrill went through me.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
said, “I heard that.” </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
got down on my hands and knees and looked (again) around the floor. And there
was the ear ring, under the counter, where it had not been a minute ago.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now
the obvious explanation is that it was caught on my clothing and fell off in
that particular moment. But still…I had searched my clothes several times, not
to mention I had walked all over many different places for a couple of hours,
gotten in and out of vehicles, and had just been on my hands and knees
searching under the bed and on the floors. And it falls off while I’m standing
perfectly still? In the second after I said those words?</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
again I felt I was being told that I was still part of a pair. That what
appeared to be lost was not lost. And that Andy could both hear and respond to
me.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
yeah. That’s what I choose to believe. Doesn’t matter to me if it’s all in my
mind. We all choose our beliefs. I think I’ve got better evidence for mine than
many do for much more conventional beliefs. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
thus I live my life in sadness and also in a magical world. Truth in paradox.</div>
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Laura Crumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15200878892304748308noreply@blogger.com6