On Not Wanting Things

                                                by Laura Crum

            I’ve discovered something. Most of you may already know it. The greatest luxury in the world is wanting what you’ve got.

            I spent a lot of my life wanting things—like most people, I guess. I wanted a certain man, or a certain horse, or to compete at a certain event and do well, or to own a horse property, or to be a published author, or have a certain rose in my garden, or to be thinner, or to have a child. Things like that. Big things and little things—I wanted things. Some of these things that I wanted, I got. Most of them, actually.

            There came a point where I was married to a man I loved and we had a child and a horse property and a lovely garden full of roses. I was a published author—I had a few horses that I was very fond of. And I was happy.

            Now I could have found more things to want. A newer truck, a better horse, a bigger house, to be a famous author and make more money—once again, to be thinner. But somehow I knew that those things were pointless. And I was happy. I truly was. For many, many years.

            When my much-loved husband died I was very sad. I still am very sad a lot of the time. And I accept this sadness; I don’t fight it. But Andy has given me so many signs that he is still with me that I am starting to trust in that. He also arranged that I would have plenty of money (by my standards, anyway—it wouldn’t be much money by a wealthy person’s standards). And at one point, I wondered—what did I want to do with that money?

            Many of my friends thought I should buy a new car. I had to think about it. We have a thirteen year old Ford diesel truck (the old Power Stroke engine) with one hundred thousand miles on it and a thirty year old Porsche. Neither qualified as a “reliable” vehicle according to some of the friends. Also, they knew I could afford a new car. Why not? And this was the beginning of my recent pondering along the lines of what do I want.

            Because after a bit of thought I realized that I did not want a new car or truck. There are practical reasons for this. The particular sort of diesel truck that I have has gone over three hundred thousand miles reliably for other friends who owned the same model. The Porsche can probably run for the rest of my life if I take care of it. Repairing and caring for these two solid, made-to-last vehicles makes much financial sense, compared to dumping a bunch of money on a not-made-to-last new car or truck. Not to mention the registration and insurance on these two older vehicles is minuscule compared to what it would be for a new car. But there’s more to it than that.

            I spent several months looking at cars and trucks going down the road, trying to decide what ones I might like to have. I gave myself mental permission to choose any car or truck. I looked at the practical vehicles that friends had recommended and at the cute ones (like brand new Mini-Coopers). I looked at new pickups. After awhile I began to notice something. The cars and trucks I was drawn to were, guess what? Older Porsche Carreras and biggish Ford diesel pickups—exactly the vehicles I already owned. I liked them better than anything else that I saw. And it dawned on me that maybe I wanted the thing that I had.

            Then there was the “sentimental” factor. Our truck and the little red car had carried my family on many, many adventures. Andy drove them both many hundreds of times. They had been reliable; they were part of our lives. Andy and I had meant to keep these vehicles and repair them as needed. We hadn’t meant to replace them. And it came to me that I wanted to stay on our path.

            So I had both the car and the truck cleaned up and sorted out, and I firmly resisted encouragement from friends to buy a newer “more reliable” vehicle. Having discovered how I felt about this, I began to apply the same sort of thinking to the rest of my life, and the results were interesting.

            Of course, the main thing that I wanted—to have Andy back in his physical form—no money could buy. But I began to become open to the possibility that we could go on together, just in a new way. And as I opened up to this the signs and messages and dreams came more often and more clearly. My life, though still filled with sadness, has become more magical in ways I never could have imagined. I am beginning to grow in trust—slowly. Part of this has been based on realizing that I want exactly the life I have—the same life I have had here for many years with my family. The life that we still have together.

            Some people suggested I take my son on a trip. Neither my son nor I seemed too motivated to do this, but I gave it some thought. I remembered all the lovely places in the world I had been and the places where I thought I might like to go. And then I looked at my two cozy little houses covered with rambling roses, and the small pond and the veggie garden and greenhouse, with the barn and horse corrals down the hill. All surrounded by the wild California woods without a house visible from my porches—only that big blue California coastal sky and the distant ridgeline. The Monterey Bay is ten minutes from my front door and I know a beach that is almost always empty of people. I tried to think of somewhere that I would like to go visit, but the thought of motels with not-linen sheets washed by indifferent maids (let alone bedspreads that they might not have washed at all) rather paled in comparison to my own very comfortable bed in my bedroom filled with beautiful things that I love. Views of pretty beaches were accompanied by thoughts of the people that would be thronging them. Any sort of travel would involve busy highways, possibly hectic airports and crowded planes, almost certainly cities…ack! I don’t like busy highways or cities at all. And I hate airports. I realized that once again I wanted the thing that I had. There was nowhere that I wanted to be more than this place where I live.

            The same thinking has helped me to see that there really isn’t anything I want other than to tend my little life here with love—and I have enough means to do this tending. I can repair and maintain our home here, and replace what wears out. I can buy an occasional embroidered blouse if I want, or a mocha at the coffee shop, or golf lessons for my son. I can afford the vet bills that come along…etc. This makes me happy—as happy as I can be right now. I am so grateful to Andy for doing this for us. Also grateful that I have come to this particular realization, which gives me some peace. And thus not wanting things has come to seem the greatest gift I could have been given at this point in my life.

My Career?

                                                by Laura Crum

            Someone asked me the other day if I was happy with my writing career. I have to admit that I was so taken aback that I didn’t know what to say. I ended up babbling something inane, like, “Well, sure. Sort of. There are worse things.” And then I spent some time thinking about it. So now I am going to answer the question.

            It’s true that I have had a good long run as a published author. My first novel, Cutter, was released by St Martin’s Press in 1994. Since then, I’ve had eleven other books published. I was paid (perhaps not a vast amount of money, but I got a check) for all of them. In these past twenty yeas, writing novels has been my “job.” So I guess you could call it a career. The thing is, I never really thought about it that way.

            I certainly have not become a “best-selling” author. My books have brought in the grocery money, maybe. I am very lucky that my husband has a job that keeps us solvent. My career as a mid-list author would certainly not have supported me. Does this make me a failure?

            I think it depends on how you look at it. Best-selling authors who make good money would probably say I was a failure. People who have always wanted to have a book published by a “real” publisher, but failed to attain that goal would probably say I was a success (twelve published novels and a good many readers over the years looks like success to the unpublished or self-published, I find). From my own point of view, I am content with the way the author gig worked out for me. I wouldn’t mind a few more readers and a few more book sales. I do believe there are horse people out there who haven’t yet read my books who would enjoy my novels, and I’d like to reach those people. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if my books paid for the groceries AND the whisky.

            The main thing in my mind is that I enjoyed writing those novels. I wove a lot of my own life into them and I was really happy to have a career that allowed me to stay home with my beloved animals and garden, and later, with my son. I was fortunate in that I didn’t need to make a lot of money, so the fact that I never did make a lot of money didn’t trouble me. I was just tickled to be paid for doing something that I genuinely enjoyed doing.

            And yes, there is the ego gratification factor. When I first started writing mystery novels (before I was published) I used to think that my life would be complete if I walked into a book store and saw my name on the spine of a book for sale on the shelves (this was before Amazon, too). And you know, it happened. Twenty years ago I walked into my local bookstore and there was a book with my name on it. Yes, it was very gratifying. But in the end, I realized that nothing had really changed. I was still the same person, with the same problems and the same strengths.

            Before I was published I would go to talks given by authors and think that if I were the one giving the talk, if the people were there to see me, my life would somehow be a different life. And now that I have many times been the one giving the talk, I can tell you that my life is not vastly different. Yes, I can say that I am a published author and that does impress people (at least a little), but nothing of real importance in my life has changed. I have good days and bad days, happy times and sad times, just as I did before I was published.
            The lesson here for me is that “fame” (and in my case it was a VERY small amount of fame) doesn’t do the things for you that you might imagine that it will. The admiration of strangers just isn’t as fulfilling as you somehow believe that it will be. That’s been my experience, anyway.

            In the end, writing the novels and having people read them and (sometimes) enjoy them and tell me so has been a very happy experience for me. Being paid (even a small amount) for doing this has been rewarding. It has been satisfying to express my insights about the world and describe the things that I’ve loved in words—words that are read by others. Being able to stay home with my family and critters and garden has been vastly rewarding. So I would have to say that I am happy with my “career.”

            I probably could have made almost as much money working an eight hour day five days a week for minimum wage for the last twenty years, just to be realistic. But you know, I do believe I’ll take being an author. Even a lowly, mid-list author. It suits me.

Lots To Be Grateful For...Always

                                               by Laura Crum

            Some tough things have happened lately. Both to me and to others I know. I’m not going to pretend. As my friend Funder put it recently (I’m paraphrasing here—hope that’s OK, Funder), I never wanted to be a “sunshine and roses” blogger. Though I do post quite a few photos of sunshine and roses, actually. But sad things do happen, people do behave unkindly when they could just as easily be kind, people respond to honesty with fear…etc. This is part of life, and I don’t choose to live in denial, either in my own mind or in my writing. I try to be honest. With myself and with others. So this includes writing about the negative stuff here on the blog. And have you ever noticed, those negative or controversial posts draw a LOT more response than my happy posts about all that is good in my life?

            But…the truth is that I spend most of my time contemplating the good things. It’s a considered choice. I do have a really good life—by my own standards, anyway. I drive an old, beat up pickup that most folks would be ashamed of, I live in a 750 sq foot off-the-grid house that doesn’t include a TV or a dishwasher or many other things that people seem to regard as essential, and I have an ancient flip phone that won’t hold a charge that I use only for emergencies. (It doesn’t even text or take photos—imagine that.) I don’t go on elegant vacations to fancy resorts, or out to see famous musicians perform, or wear expensive clothes on trips to the city, or compete on my horses any more. I tend to avoid parties and big social events of any kind, and after years of avoiding such things, I don’t get invited to them much. It’s true that I have had some sad things happen recently and I am still processing them.

It doesn’t sound like a very glamorous life, does it? Certainly no life for an extrovert. But I still wouldn’t swap places with anyone I know.

            Because I have the things I really want, the things I’ve wanted all my life…every single one of them has come true. And this gives me pleasure every day.

            I have a husband and son that I love with my whole heart, and four beloved horses who have carried me for many, many miles that live with me. I have some good friends who have been my friends for years and who are like family to me. I can see no other houses from my front porch (very important to me); I live on a small “mini-ranch” that I designed and built (along with my husband) from the ground up. We own it free and clear. I love my barn and corrals and riding ring, my garden, my home, the little guest house, the wild land that surrounds us…everything about our property delights me.

            I watch the wild animals that wander through every day, I admire the spring daffodils, and in their time, the big rambling roses (that I planted myself twenty years ago), and gaze at the goldfish in the pond. I turn the horses loose to graze and putter around the property, and take great pleasure in the sun glinting on their coats. We eat food that we have raised ourselves-- every single day. Salad from my husband’s little greenhouse, vegetables from the veggie garden, eggs from our chickens, grass-fed beef from our own pasture. All these things are such a gift—and also the result of carefully considered choices.

            Almost every evening I sit on the front porch (or the back porch) with a cocktail in my hand and watch the light die out of the evening sky while my husband plays his wild and wailing highland pipes and the old Scottish music drifts over the ridge. (All you fans of “Outlander,” eat your hearts out—I have the real thing.) Every morning I watch the sun rise, with a cup of hot tea in my hand and a little dog curled up beside me (also two cats and a boy, usually). It’s a good life. And it’s the life I want.

            Yes, I am lucky--though very many people wouldn’t want my life. For those who say that they do, well, other than luck, it’s been about choices. Choosing to buy a piece of raw land and live here in an old travel trailer for seven years…because that was the ONLY way I could afford a horse property in this part of the world, and I knew (all my life) that I wanted a horse property. So while my 30ish friends bought houses, I bought a piece of empty land—and developed it as I could afford it (didn’t have a house for seven years, but had a barn the second year I lived here—priorities, you know).

            It’s still about choices today. I choose to stay home and live my quiet, private life, with time to watch sunsets and sunrises and have dinner every night with my family and such as that. And what this really amounts to is saying no. No to all the “fun” social things and opportunities and distractions that would have me out and about and doing, rather than home looking at the sky and the wild critters and the blooming plum tree. Saying no isn’t fashionable. We are urged to say “yes” to life. But guess what?  It’s saying no that brings time and space to my days. And I am so grateful for that time and space.

            So here are some recent glimpses of my life…perhaps you can see why I am filled with gratitude, even when I am sad.

Our house with plum blossoms.

My husband building a trellis for his greenhouse plants.

First tulips of spring on Valentine’s Day 2014—with Tigger.

A cozy place to nap—Shadow and Star.

Henry is about to knock on the back door.

Daffodils on the back porch.

My boy and his little dog.

Sunrise from my front porch.

Early blossom on Westerland rose…. maybe I am a sunshine and roses blogger.

The view from my little yellow horse.

It’s a good life.

Love...and an Ordinary Horse

                                    by Laura Crum

            So lately I have had one minor negative thing after another. Nothing big, nothing important, but still, upsetting and annoying. I started a very whiney blog post about this stuff, and in the middle of it, I looked out my window and saw my bright gold palomino horse, Sunny, standing in his corral, looking up at my window with his ears pricked—like a little “spot of sunshine,” as my son says. And I smiled. How could I not? Sunny makes me smile every time I look at him. Wouldn’t you? Is he not a Barbie/princess/unicorn pony come to life?

            Bird, of Redheaded Endurance, listed on the sidebar, once said that being able to see and call to her horses from her window was one of her greatest joys (I apologize, Bird, if I’m not quoting you accurately). And that is so true for me, too. I am looking out my window at my own HORSE (let alone he’s so cute). He lives here with me on my small horse property (which I developed over a twenty year period from bare land—as I could afford it.) This is my childhood dream come true. So I got up from my whiny blog post and went down to the corrals.

            I walked past the veggie garden and gazed with my usual interest at the brushy hills that protect my little hidden hollow from view. I watched the chickens clucking and pecking in the barnyard, and I rubbed the big tiger cat’s head when he greeted me. My cute yellow horse looked at me hopefully, and met me at the gate when I got his halter. I caught him and climbed aboard, with the help of the fence. I know its not PC—no helmet, no saddle, no bridle, no boots…etc. But I just felt like doing it.

            So I rode Sunny for twenty minutes on my riding track and then turned him loose to graze. He seemed quite happy with that. I was happy just watching him from the porch.

My once ornery little yellow horse—the one I had to uhmm, “correct” quite a bit for the first couple of years I owned him-- is my buddy now. We get along so well—we are really a good team. I am so grateful for him and for my happy life. And I went back in the house and deleted that whiny blog post.

Because I love my life. And I love my ordinary little horse. He’s nothing special. Most folks wouldn’t want him. My last blog post was about training my horse, Gunner, an immensely athletic horse (still with me) who can probably move better at 32 years of age than Sunny ever moved in his life. Sunny is a clunky-moving, cold-blooded critter who flunked out as a team roping heel horse for being too slow and clumsy—and it does not take a terribly athletic horse to make a heel horse. For reference, my horse with two left feet (Plumber) made a good heel horse (see my post on Plumber here). Sunny is a good, tough, solid-minded trail horse—that about covers it. Some of my friends refer to him as my “plug.” And it’s pretty much true. But he works for me.

He, among many other things, helps me to realize that I have no real problems. Yes, there are negative people in the world, and its no fun when we end up dealing with them, and sometimes people let us down, even if they mean well—and that’s no fun either. Stuff happens and stuff breaks—and it’s a bummer and a nuisance. But my main emotion after riding Sunny was “thank you.” I am so glad that my problems are my problems—they are GREAT problems to have. My family and critters are healthy and happy, we are secure in our home, which we love. I have many good friends (lots of whom have been my friends since I was young, also some new friends that I very much enjoy, and some good internet friends) and I’ve had a wonderful career writing horse-themed mystery novels, achieving my initial goal of writing twelve books in my series featuring equine veterinarian Gail McCarthy (and a huge thank you to all of you who have read these books—especially those who have written me to let me know and/or reviewed my books—I appreciate you, too). I’ve had so much fun with my horses over the years, and I continue to have fun with them today. What more could I ask?

So a big thank you to Sunny, for reminding me of what counts. I love my ordinary horse.

And for those who are interested, Sunny features largely in my last two novels—Going, Gone and Barnstorming---which both center on trail riding adventures.

And finally, today is the last day to get the first novel in my mystery series, Cutter, for free. I’m tickled that so many people have taken me up on this offer, and I hope a few more will grab this free book today. Here is the link to get Cutter for free.