Is It Worth It?

                                                by Laura Crum

            (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.)

            “Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.” --Bob Marley

            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.

            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.)

            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.

            “If she’s amazing she won’t be easy; if she’s easy, she won’t be amazing.” Another quote from Bob Marley.

            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…)

            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.”

            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?

            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?

            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.  And then, suddenly, for a brief moment, I really got it.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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."

            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.

            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?

           

           

           

            

The Story of the Statue --and the Bizarre Truck (Walking in Darkness)

                        by Laura Crum

            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.

 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.

            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.

            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).

            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.

           

            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.”

            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.)

            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.

            The story of the statue is a good example.

            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.

            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.

            Her head is downcast and she looks serene, but pensive.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            Is this magic?

I think it all depends on how you choose to see it. For instance, like the truck…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

I stared at the bizarre truck. Was this what magic was like? Getting stuck behind odd trucks on the highway?

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?

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.

           

            

The Piper in the Graveyard

                                                by Laura Crum

            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.

            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?”

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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...

            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.

            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.

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.”

Some day I will be buried next to him.

And so it is for the piper in the graveyard.

           

What Counts

                                                            by Laura Crum

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

  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.

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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

           

            

Gratitude

                                                           by Laura Crum

            It’s hard for me to talk about gratitude right now. There are many days when I feel very, very sad. I miss my husband so much. When a friend said to me the other day that I was lucky, I almost choked.

            “Lucky?” I demanded. “How can you say that?”

            Now this is a good friend who knows me well. He knows the details of my life. He knows my home, he knows I don’t need to work, he knows my son, and he sees what our day to day life is like. He knew my husband very well. He said, “Most people would give a lot to have what you have.”

            I stopped and thought about this. “Most people would not want this at the price of the grief I must bear,” I said.

            “Most people would not see it that way,” he said. “They would say that you’ll get over the loss of your husband and move on with your life, and you still have a beautiful life. A lovely home that you own free and clear, a good son, some nice animals including three fine horses, a wonderful garden, financial freedom. Most people would assume that you could find another husband if you wanted.”

            “But I don’t want,” I said. “I cannot imagine wanting that. Andy was and is the only man I ever truly wanted. And I was happy with him. Even now, I feel his presence and that is more important to me than any other man’s company.”

            My friend shrugged. “I still say you’re lucky. Most people never feel that way about a husband or wife. They never have that experience of being with someone who truly makes them happy. Even though Andy died sooner than you might have hoped for, you had seventeen years together and you loved each other and enjoyed your life together. Andy was a happy man. And he left you the means to go on with your life without financial stress—because he cared about his family. You say you still feel him with you in dreams and signs. I don’t know anything about that, but if it’s true, it’s surely a sign of his continuing love—a love that has lasted past death. How many people have any experience of that? I still say you’re lucky.”

            I thought about that a long time. Long after my friend finished his whiskey and soda and left. The roses are blooming and I picked a bunch of them to put on Andy’s grave the next morning. I wandered around, looking at the horses and the pond and the many flowers. I knew my cozy little house waited to receive me, and my son was inside. Dinner, made by a friend, was warm in the oven. Last night I dreamed of Andy, wearing his kilt and getting ready to play his bagpipes for a group of people. He came to me and kissed me and he was happy. In that moment I was happy, too. He comes to me in dreams many nights—he sends me messages that seem very clear.

            We all die. It’s just a matter of when. If there is anything that counts, it’s whatever transcends death. This is true, was always true, whether Andy died when he did or he lived to be ninety. When I walk around the graveyard and look at all the gravestones I understand how brief our mortal life is—even if we do live to be 90. My grandmother lived to be 97 and she is just as dead as my mother, who lived to be 65. At this point it doesn’t seem to make much difference how long each of them spent in their body. What is present past death is the only reality. And so it is for both Andy and me. What counts is our love for each other, and whatever part of us can/may transcend our deaths.

 We all have grief to bear in our lives. There is not one person that I know who doesn’t struggle in some way. A lovely single woman that I know holds down a decent job—forty hours a week plus-- and takes all the part-time work she can find. She can barely afford rent on a studio apartment in someone’s backyard here in pricey Santa Cruz County, California. That and her car payment (for a nice reliable little Toyota) leave her without any extra money at all. She cannot imagine that a life such as I have could ever come to her. To own her own place, not to have to work, not to worry about money…this is unimaginable. She once admitted that she would take my grief and have my life. And she pointed out, as my other friend did, that at least I have had a true partner. She never has had this experience and now, at forty years old, she worries that she never will. It makes me think.

Everyone must struggle eventually. I know another beautiful woman who must bear being estranged from her young adult daughter—not by her choice, not for anything she did wrong, but simply because her daughter needs to do this right now. It is a constant grief. I know a man whose wife stepped off a curb on her way out of a restaurant the other day, and fell and hit her head and died of this injury. I knew a woman of thirty who died of a rare form of cancer—she had a two year old child. I know another woman whose only son died on his 11^th birthday in a freak accident. Yet another woman that I knew (ten years younger than me and in apparent good health) had a completely unexpected heart attack; over a year later and she cannot walk, speak clearly, eat, or sit up unassisted, and her family, including two young daughters, must both care for her and deal with the enormous financial burden her tragedy has placed on their family. Just a few weeks ago four teenagers died in a car wreck not a city block away from my driveway—I pass their roadside shrine every day. I have a friend who struggles with constant poor health and has no money to seek the treatments she feels might help her. I know so many people whose lives are so hectic in the endless need to make money to pay their bills that they never have a calm moment. In short, we all struggle. My life, taken all in all, has been a very good one.

            It is so easy to feel sorry for myself right now. But maybe I should feel grateful. I am working on this.

Butterfly

                                                            by Laura Crum

            My life is up and down right now. Ever since my husband died I have struggled so much. But I wouldn’t expect it to be different. I have moments where I feel him guiding and protecting and just being a companion to me, and I am comforted. I have moments where I realize that I am getting everything done and I feel stronger. Our son, our animals, our garden, and our little life here on our property are being taken care of just as Andy would want.  But sometimes I miss his physical presence so much that I can hardly bear the pain. I imagine it is the same for all those who have lost much-loved others to death.

            The other day I had one of those very sad moments. I literally cried out to Andy for help. And then, as I tend to do, I went outside and began doing something “useful.” I pulled some old, aphid-covered kale out of the veggie garden and fed it to the chickens, in preparation for planting new seedlings. While I worked there, a butterfly came and landed right next to me. It was a beautiful black and orange butterfly (I think a Red Admiral, but I am no expert on butterflies), and it was a foot from my hand. I stared at it, unable to resist a smile, feeling sure it had been sent as a messenger by Andy (and yes, this is the sort of fanciful thinking that is automatic to me now—seeing magic in the most every day things). I moved to another part of the garden, and again the butterfly lit on the ground very close to me. I watched it for a minute and then it flew up the hill toward Andy’s greenhouse.

            When I was done in the garden I went to the greenhouse to water the plants. Only to find what seemed to be the same butterfly trapped inside, fluttering against the glass, trying to escape. I can only assume my friend from the garden had flown in the open greenhouse door. I did my best to shoo him back out the door, but the butterfly resisted my efforts, determined to fly out through what appeared to him to be openings, which were in fact unyielding glass. I had to be very gentle in my efforts to coax him toward the doorway for fear of damaging his fragile self. Every time I had almost got him to freedom, by waving my hands…etc, he would fly back towards a pane of glass—away from the open doorway.

            I was almost crying with frustration, saying out loud, “Please let me help you. Please let me save you. Please.”

            And finally I was able to encourage the butterfly out the open door and it flew away into the spring afternoon, free at last.

            I felt so relieved, and I had the momentary thought that I had “saved” Andy. And then suddenly a very powerful thought came rushing in and I stopped dead in my tracks. What if it was the other way around?

            What if I am the butterfly and Andy is “me?” What if I am spending my life, like most humans, moving toward what appear to me to be logical ways to find happiness and freedom, but which are in fact completely unworkable dead ends—unyielding panes of glass. They look like you can go that way—but you actually can’t. It will never work. I am like the butterfly—I can’t see where the way to true freedom lies. Like all of us who are still in our human bodies.

            And perhaps Andy is now “me,” someone who can see the big picture and is trying as hard as he can to guide the butterfly (the still-human me) toward the only doorway to freedom. He can’t push me too hard or he will damage my fragile self—remove my ability to choose. He can only encourage me as much as he can in subtle ways. But he is trying so hard to help me. He is begging me to let him help me. He wants me to find happiness and freedom, and he knows the way.

            As a butterfly, I can’t perceive him as anything other than a big force, like an especially animated tree in the wind. He doesn’t seem like a visible “being” to me. I would only recognize another butterfly (read human being) as a proper being. But in fact he is very much a being, one who sees the big picture much more clearly than I do, and is trying to help me—and CAN help me, much more than another butterfly could. I just have to respond to his guidance.

            This concept hit me so hard I had to stop what I was doing and go lie for awhile in the hammock that hangs in a big oak tree at the top of our property, and think it over. The hammock is a place that is special to Andy—not only did he lie there in life, but he came to me in a dream and invited me to lie in the hammock with him. So now when I really need to feel our connection, I often go lie in the hammock.

            Lying there, looking up at the oak tree branches against the sky, I thought about the notion that I was the butterfly, and that Andy’s presence as he tries to guide me toward freedom and happiness might appear to me as some arbitrary happenings that push me one way or another, or a random force, like wind moving a tree. And as I had this thought, a wind sprang up and began to blow. It blew like crazy for about five minutes, rocking the branch that held the hammock, scattering leaves on me, ruffling my hair. I lay in the swaying hammock, as leaves fluttered down like kisses, somewhat amazed. And as quickly as it sprang up, the wind died away completely.

            When I finally got up and walked back down the hill, I had one simple thought. “Let me be open to this guidance.”

           

            So, anyway, I’m telling this story not to convince anyone of anything. My tendency to find magical guidance in everyday events may be nothing more than my imagination desperately trying to find a “story” to comfort my sense of pain and loss. But I really don’t care if this is so. I’m hoping that perhaps a few others out there (especially those who have lost someone they very much loved) may find that these thoughts resonate for them and perhaps will draw some inspiration for their own lives.  And I would love to hear your own magical stories.

            

The Gate

                                                            by Laura Crum

            Ever since my husband died I have been trying to come to terms to what we can be now. Yes, you read that right. I’m sure that some of you, like me, believe that death is not the end of the human soul/spirit. Some of you perhaps believe a person’s soul goes to heaven (or the other place), some of you believe in reincarnation, and I know lots of us who believe we can talk to the spirits of our loved ones who have “crossed”, including our animals, and also think that we will see them again.

            I have never felt that I “knew” any particular thing about life after death, only that I strongly felt that death wasn’t the end for a spirit. And now that my husband has died, I have begun to get a lot of messages that he is still with me. This doesn’t really surprise me, in one way. I asked him to stay with me and our son, if it was possible. And I know that he would do this if he could. Andy was and is the most honorable being I ever knew, and I trust in his love for us. So yes, I believe he is with me.

            On the other hand it is perfectly possible that these messages are all in my mind. I am accepting of this. I don’t really care. If our future life is just a figment of my imagination, so be it. I choose to trust and let that trust guide me.

            But anyway, I have dreams where I am given messages and I have experiences in day to day life where I am guided, and it does seem pretty amazing at times, the signs I get. But something funny happened the other day that I’m sure you livestock people would appreciate, so I thought I’d tell the story here.

            First of all, I’m not trying to convince anybody of anything. It is, as I said, fine with me if this is all in my mind. So no worries if this story just seems like delusional thinking to you.

            Anyway, a week or so ago my friend/boarder, Wally, came pulling his horse trailer up my driveway, with one tire fiercely hissing as it leaked air (and scaring all the horses). When he unloaded his own horse, Wally said that he had hit my gate post. The tire was obviously the worse for wear and a piece of the trailer’s fender had been torn off, but I wasn’t hugely worried about the gate post, which is a big, solid, metal post, set in concrete. However, after Wally left I got a phone call from him.

            “I broke the gatepost,” he said. “I looked at it on the way out and it’s busted. You’ll need to have it reset and rebuild that part of the fence.”

            I wasn’t very happy about this, as you can imagine. I’m pretty fragile right now, and any little bit of adversity seems like the end of the world. I hung up the phone and cursed and swore. Then I made myself a whisky and soda and went down to look at the gate (OK, it was my second whisky and soda of the evening—but they are 90% soda—honest.)

            It was dusk when I got down there and the gatepost was clearly crooked. I put a hand on it and I swear it moved—the whole piece of fence next to it moved. I shook it several times, cursing and muttering to myself. I walked back up the driveway, crying.

            “This is all too much,” I said. “I need help. I can’t cope with this.”

            So I drank another whisky and soda and went to bed, pretty pissed off with Wally for being so damn careless. He didn’t even say he was sorry.

            The next morning I got up and called a friend just to complain. He told me to go down and have a look in the daylight and let him know how much work needed to be done. So I walked back down to the gate.

            The gatepost was still crooked and the fence leaned at a slight angle, just as it had the night before. But when I put my hand on it, it was perfectly solid. It wouldn’t move at all. The gate post was bent, yes, but still firmly rooted in concrete. The gate was closed just the way it ought to be—a two inch gap at the top the only difference. The fence was absolutely solid.

            I stared at the post. I KNEW it had been loose. Wally had told me that he’d broken it. We’re both livestock people—we’ve dealt with fences our whole lives. We weren’t likely to make a mistake like that about a gatepost and think it was broken when it wasn’t. How could it be solid now? And I know you all are going to think I’m losing it, but the thought came to me that I did get help.

            Now I have no idea what happened. The likeliest thing is that in the dusk, with two whisky and sodas under my belt, I thought the post was broken when it was only bent. But it still strikes me that I thought I had a big problem and it turned out to be non-existent. The gate was fine. A little crooked but perfectly functional. It may not have been a miracle in a material sense, but it was a miracle for me. I got the help I needed. And I thanked Andy.

            Since then I have had a lot of help that seemed magical beyond my understanding. I would hesitate to describe some of these experiences to others, because, like my story about the gate, they don’t make much rational sense. At the same time, I’m not making any of this stuff up. And I do believe my husband is helping me.

            So today I’m putting my little gatepost story up just in case there are others out there who have had experiences like this and can relate. It is absolutely fine to think I’m living in an imaginary land of wishful thinking. If this is all in my mind, so be it. I’m putting my trust out there anyway. And I can’t see that my thinking is any odder than the beliefs of many well-accepted religious faiths, now that I come to think about it.

            Anybody else have a magical story?

233 Horses

                                                            by Laura Crum

            My husband named this photo “233 horses”—I believe because the Porsche has 230 horsepower (?) I am not by nature a car person. But we bought the little red convertible as a wedding present to each other. My husband wanted a sports car. I wanted a reliable car, not one that was always in the shop, and for me that eliminated the British and Italian cars. Andy wanted a car that handled well, and I wanted one that felt solid and strong. We settled on a Porsche as the logical choice. And Andy was sure that we’d have a child (despite the fact that we were pretty old when we got married), so he wanted a car with a back seat. And he wanted a convertible. So the Carrera Cabriolet (I hope I have the terms right—not a car person, remember) was pretty much the only option. It was also one of the few sports cars that actually fit my six foot seven husband.

            We shopped for awhile, but when we came across this 84 Cabriolet with low mileage, we bought it. The photo was taken shortly after we bought the car, up in our pasture in Mariposa County. The three horses in the photo—Gunner, Flanigan and Freddy—are all dead now. Andy is dead. But the car…the car looks pretty much the same as it does in the photo. It runs great. It is as alive and thriving as it ever was. Which is to say not. It’s not alive. Still, I found myself unable to sell it.

            While Andy was alive, I never once drove this car. It was tricky to shift and a race car by nature and Andy had it remodeled (seat moved back, steering wheel changed out) to suit his tall frame. He also remodeled the suspension and the clutch in order to do autocross with the car. Not only did I have no interest in driving it, I couldn’t have if I had wanted to. I rode in it a lot, as did our son (Andy was right about that part). But the car was Andy’s car—we all thought of it that way. Papa’s red car.

            When Andy got sick and we knew he did not have a lot longer to live, he told me I should sell the Porsche and get something more practical. I told him the truth. “I just can’t.” The car meant something to me. It represented Andy and our life as a family. I have so many memories that the car is a part of. So I asked Andy who could help me fix the car up so I could drive it. And he told me who to go to.

            After Andy died, one of the many, many things on my list of things to do was to get the car to the Porsche mechanic he had recommended (Tim Benson of Fast Lane Porsche, if anyone is interested). And eventually, the car came back to me, with the seat and steering wheel back to the original, the clutch redone so that I could deal with the shifting (I have not had a manual transmission to drive in many years), a new top (the old one leaked), and completely detailed. It looks, as I said, much as it does in the photo, which was taken about fifteen years ago. The little car is thirty years old now. But it looks and runs great. And I am learning to drive it.

            Why am I doing this? I am not a car person. But I “love” the little car. I love it because it was Andy’s, because of the memories it holds, because my son is fond of it-- just because I could not sell “Papa’s red car,” and if I wasn’t going to sell it I had to learn to drive it.

            And this has made me think a bit about the wisdom of being fond of material objects. I am not talking about the obsessive love of collecting more and more “stuff.” I am talking of the fondness one can have for a beautiful, well-made object like this car, or a lovely musical instrument, or a piece of fine art, or a good chair…etc. Such things can be cared for and they will not just last your lifetime—they can last for many human lifetimes. There is some peace in being fond of them.

            I’ve spent my life loving horses and other animals, as well as a few people, and the thing is, they die. I’ve written a lot lately about death and I haven’t any more thoughts to add to that subject right now. But there is no question that the death of a loved person or animal is very hard for us to bear—whatever it may mean in the grand scheme of things. Maybe I would have been better off to be a car person after all? Cars do not die (though I suppose they can be smashed).

            I drove the little red car yesterday. I’m getting used to it. It’s like a new horse—you have to get the feel of it. My husband told me that when I talked of driving it. “You have to get along with it.” And you know, I think I am going to be able to do that. I think I may become fond of driving it, actually. It is quirky and iconoclastic, a bit like an animal. As Andy once said of this car, after driving a generic rental car, "At least it has a little heart and soul."

            So yes, here I am, the person who has loved horses and ridden horses for her entire life—and my current project is this little red car. I have not ridden a horse in many months—though the horses are all healthy and doing fine, and I take good care of them. But I am driving the little red car. And yesterday, when I was done, I took a rag and polished the dust off the hood. This is not something I ever could have imagined myself doing in any moment of my past life. And I think I could feel Andy smiling.

            Maybe I am becoming a car person?

Sad

                                                            by Laura Crum

Once again--don't read this post if you want to read about horses and writing and cheerful things like that. This is yet another post about life and death and grief.

            We mostly spend our lives trying to avoid being sad. If we are sad we feel something is wrong and we strive to make adjustments so that we can be happy again. We leave a relationship and seek a new partner, or leave a place for another place, or sell a horse and buy a different one, or take anti-depressants…etc. Sometimes these changes/choices do make us feel happier. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.

            But I am seeing sadness a bit differently these days. Since my husband died I have been trying to come to terms with being sad. I don’t think I can run away from it. If I left my home and all that reminds me of my husband, I think I would be even sadder. I don’t have any interest in a new partner. I can hope that I will eventually feel calm, and as if I can deal with life on these terms, rather than desperate and afraid that I just can’t live this way, but I think I will always be sad. Maybe sad is not a bad thing?

            I struggle with this a lot. Despite all that I still have (and I have many good things—a lovely son, sweet dogs, good horses, a beautiful property, friends who care about me), my life can seem very empty and meaningless. I know that many people would love to have my life—they might even take it with a little grief thrown in. I spend my days taking care of the critters and the garden and my son. There are many, many worse ways to live. Still, at times I  am drowning in sorrow. Grief swallows up the beauty and all I can feel is the sadness of what I have lost. I have worse days and better days, but every day is sad. Sometimes sad but peaceful and I can smile a little, but sometimes despairing.

            Facing mortality head on, as I am being forced to do, tends to bring up the response of sadness—however it happens. Whether your horse or dog has just died, or you drive by a clearly fatal traffic accident, or you read about some sweet, innocent stranger who died young from disease, or you see a dead kitten on the shoulder of the road…well, you feel sad. Sadness is the appropriate response, it seems to me, to the constant loss of life that is our world. If we stop to think about it, it simply is sad. Every single one of you who has lost a loved animal need only dwell on that loss a bit, and then reflect on the fact that you will also (if you haven’t already) inevitably lose loved people or they will lose you, to see that yes, sadness is inherent in life.

            I’m not saying that joy isn’t present, too. But always entwined with sadness—two halves of a whole. Andy and I had a happy life together as a couple, and there was much joy. And now there is sadness in the loss of his human life. Both the joy and sadness are real. Just as the moments of joy you shared with your old dog are intertwined with your sadness at his death. It’s the nature of life. Maybe opening one’s heart to sadness, rather than seeing it as something wrong that needs to be fixed, is the answer?

            Maybe if I can embrace sadness as completely as I embrace joy, can see it as something to be felt with an open heart, rather than fought, can accept it as part of the nature of life—maybe then I will feel whole again? Joy and sorrow intertwined is the nature of life itself, and my own little life is part of this tapestry.  Love is what weaves it all together.

            If I believe one thing about this life, it is that death is not the bottom line. If it were so, all religions, all spiritual beliefs, are meaningless. But if death is not the bottom line, and our spirits go on, then it seems clear to me that the only possible bottom line is love—however you want to view this. And if this is so, then I can be sad over the death of Andy’s human body and the loss of his physical companionship here in our home, but believe that his spirit and our love for each other are still present. Joy and sorrow intertwined.

            So I am working on accepting my sadness and trusting that it can lead me somewhere. Somewhere I am meant to go. Somewhere that will bring me a gift that I am meant to have. I can trust that Andy is with me. It harms no one if this is all in my mind. Trusting in love is not a bad thing.

            But one thing I can say for sure. It’s not an easy thing to do. This is a very hard, sad journey so far.

Days of shadow and light

By Gayle Carline
Horse Lover and Human Being

This year has not gotten off to a completely grand start. People on this blog have suffered loss. Friends of mine have lost mothers, dads, siblings. I've attended a few memorial services, and no doubt, will attend more. Just a couple of days ago, my friend's mother passed away. This week, I had to euthanize our 18-year-old kitty. 

A cat is not to be equated with human life, but the cumulative effects of so much loss around me have me in quite a funk.

People try to be helpful. As in anything, some are awkward, and some are good at it. I think the ones who are good at it, who know how to listen and not place expectations on our grief, give us room to be patient with the awkward ones. 

By the way, I think I've been one of the awkward ones from time to time. My apologies.

I think losing a loved one is like being on a hike in the sunshine and suddenly entering a forest. It's dark and shadowy and cold, but you stay on the path. At some point, you start seeing patches of light. As the days go by, you might be more in the shadows or more in the light, and you keep walking the path, putting one foot in front of the other, until you get to the place where the sun shines most of the time, and there are a few trees to offer shade. And the shade starts to feel comforting, not cold.

The length of the path and the size of the forest is unique to everyone.

One ray of sunshine, for me, is to see life in all its glory. It reminds me that the world still turns and babies are born and flowers bloom. I'll leave you all today with a couple of videos that make me smile, even if it's only for a moment.

First, a Paso Fino baby, gaiting. 




Is there anything else that cute?

And, of course, this year's Super Bowl Budweiser commercial. Yes, it's designed to manipulate your feelings. 




It works.

Take care of yourselves, and don't worry about how long you need to walk in the forest. People who love you will always be waiting for you in the sunshine.

Magic

                                                by Laura Crum

            As 2012 draws to a close, I want to post some images I’ve taken in the past year that remind me of the magic in this world. Things can be very hard and very sad. Beauty and magic are present, too. Sometimes this is no comfort (I know), but it remains true. Today I am going to take a minute to show what magic looks like to me.

                                 Surreally beautiful moment at the beach in November.

                                           December sunrise from my porch.

                                         Wild cyclamen under my oak trees in November.

                                                                 Pure magic.

                                                Jellyfish at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.

                                                    Apples from my Fuji tree.

            

                                              Pricked ears at dawn in the Glass Mountains.

            

      We are tiny horsemen in a big landscape (thanks Bill Crum for this image, taken near your home in the Glass Mountains).

                                                     Young deer near our house.

                                                 Bobcat kitten outside my window.

           

                                                          Crossing Aptos Creek.

           

                                                  Dahlia and yarrow from my garden.

                                                    Riding through fields of color.

                                                Abundance of roses on the porch in May.

            

                                                                     Winter light.

                                               A magical view of this sweet old world.

            

My wish for the new year is that we all be granted many such magical moments. And may the magic bring love in its train. Love is the only answer. Happy New Year!—Laura

PS—To all those who sent good wishes to my 32 year old horse, Gunner, he is recovering well (and this in itself seems magical to me). Thank you so much for your thoughts and support.