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 Ear Ring...and Other Stuff About Life and Death

                                    by Laura Crum

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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?

            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.

            A quote from Rumi:

            I said: What about my heart?

            God said: Tell me what you hold inside it.

            I said: Pain and sorrow.

            God said: …Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

            This sounds very pretty written down, but I am here to tell you that it is a hard truth to live. Pain and sorrow…

            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.

            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.

            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.”

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.”

            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.

            I said, “I heard that.”

            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.

            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?

            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.

            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.

            And thus I live my life in sadness and also in a magical world. Truth in paradox.

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.

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.

Flowers and Love

                                                by Laura Crum

            Many people have written lately on this blog of loss and change. It seems to be our current theme. Since I am in the middle of a great loss and period of change, I have little else on my mind. So you must forgive the sad nature of my posts (or just don’t bother to read them). And I must warn you that nothing in this post today relates to horses or writing about horses. It does, however, relate to loss and change.

            There are always some flowers in our garden. This is what it is to live on the California coast. Ever since my husband died in November I have brought flowers from our garden to his grave—a couple of times a week.

            Andy’s grave is in the old cemetery where he used to play his pipes to honor the veterans on Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day. He is buried right in front of the biggest oak tree, where he often stood and piped.

            I have placed a bench by his grave and there will some day be a gravestone with a bagpiper engraved on it. The quote my son came up with was “He played his pipes for the good of all here.” And that seems to fit Andy.

            But anyway, in the meantime I bring flowers from our garden and place them on the grave. I stand barefoot on his grave—because he once asked me to—actually he asked me to dance barefoot, but I haven’t quite got there yet. But I stand barefoot, whether in the mud or the dust, and I put flowers from our garden there, and I sit on the bench and contemplate the huge old oak tree and I talk to Andy.

            It sometimes strikes me that this bringing of fresh flowers from our garden to his grave is a good metaphor for how I see life right now. I tend our garden for no other reason than love. There is no practical need to do it. I choose the flowers for Andy’s grave with care, aware of their beauty, and arrange them in simple jars. I place them on his grave with love, glad to see that there are always fresh flowers there.

I know that there is no real importance to this. Andy’s spirit is with me and at our home as much as it is anywhere. His bones lie in that peaceful graveyard, that is all. Andy would not mind or feel less loved if I did not bring flowers to his grave. Like most things we do in life, it is a relatively meaningless gesture. This would include most of what I do, or most of what you do. If it does not sustain life or grow awareness, it’s relatively meaningless. You know, like when you go to hairdresser to get blond streaks put in your hair. There’s nothing wrong with this. But it’s meaningless. So is my putting flowers on Andy’s grave meaningless.

            But it is the love behind it that counts. The love I feel for him that makes me want to do it—the love I still believe he feels for us that makes the whole thing worth doing. The flowers, frail and fleeting, from our much-loved garden, are a symbol of that love. Yes, they die, as we die. And yet they are beautiful and life brings more flowers constantly. And love endures as the flowers endure. Constantly changing, constantly there.

            I look at old gravestones in the cemetery. A baby that died in 1800. No one alive remembers that baby. And yet she was loved. The love endures. Or so I believe.

            I remember my dogs and horses that have died many years ago. I still love them. I believe I will see them again.

            A hundred years from now we will all be dead. Perhaps no one will remember me or Andy. But flowers will still bloom. And our love will still be alive and present.

            

Comfort and Horses

                                    by Laura Crum

Be warned--not a cheerful post. 

            Since my husband died I have had several well meaning people tell me to take comfort in my horses. These comments range from the woman who never owned a horse in her life telling me that horses were powerful spiritual beings and I needed to go to them and rub their velvety muzzles and …etc, to kind fellow horse owners mentioning that a ride through the trees on a good horse can be soothing. I have no doubt that all these things might be true. But I cannot muster much interest in them.

            My life right now is an endless round of getting things done that must be done while I am so sad. I feed the horses three times a day, I cast an experienced eye on them, noting that they are sound and bright eyed and seem normal. I have their feet trimmed, and I run my fingers over them to be sure they feel right. I would know if anything was wrong. I have owned horses non-stop for over forty years. The horses are fine.

            They may be a bit bored, but the youngest of them is nineteen, and they all run and buck and play when they feel like it. So I think their life suits them well enough. They are certainly doing better than I am when it comes to having a happy life.

            Do I get comfort out of them? All I can say is I don’t wish them gone. I smile sometimes when they gallop up to greet me. I don’t want to betray their trust. I told them I would keep them and take care of them and I plan to do that. Sometimes I sit in the barn and watch them eat. Maybe I take a little comfort from them.

            The truth is that there isn’t much comfort for me in the world right now, and that’s just the way it is. I look at other people discussing the normal matters of a “normal” life and I feel that we don’t live in the same world. Quite frankly, I feel their world does not exist-- that it's an illusion. That world where hair color and sporting events and social engagements have some meaning—that world just isn’t real. In my world I stare straight on at mortality. Anyone can die at any time. The only constant is change and impermanence. This is the real world. Those other people live in it, too, but they don’t want to see it. I don’t blame them. I wish I could be like them again. But I don’t have a choice.

            I can still feel love for my son and our animals; I can smile when the corgi puppy is cute, and see the beauty in the wild birds that come to our pond. I can tend our garden and think it is the right thing to do. I can be glad the horses are healthy. But the kind of comfort that comes from feeling content and secure in the world, happy with the illusion of stability—no I don’t get that kind of comfort from anything. And I have to say that I’m pretty damn sure I’m looking at reality.

            My hope is to become peaceful with that reality. Not to close my eyes again and suppose that things of no meaning are important. But to see the world in all its constant change and mortal loss and be aware that I’m part of it, I’m connected to it. And that love is real.

Imagine It

                                                            by Laura Crum

            This is going to be a short, sad, somewhat bitter, and unsettling random post. Don’t read it if you don’t like the sound of that.

            Since my husband died I have had so many people talk/write to me about how they can’t imagine what I’m going through, and referring to my “unimaginable” loss. I know they mean well. But lately a certain bitter truth keeps trying to jump out of my mouth. So here goes.

            Imagine it, people. Because you will be faced with it. If you love someone, either you or that someone will inevitably be facing what I am facing now—some day or other. The pain of loss is part of this mortal life. Most of us have lost loved dogs and horses and understand that grief. But some day you will lose your husband or wife or child or much-loved person of some sort, and/or they will lose you, and this pain will be your/their lot, as it is now my lot.

            I’m not sure why I want to say this. I only know that it keeps coming up for me, so I decided to put it out there. I loved and still love my husband very much. I always understood that death is part of life. I’m coping with the pain as well as I can, doing the things that need to be done so my son’s life and our critter’s lives can go on. I think it would be even worse for me if I had somehow been blind to this inevitable ending of the mortal life and felt unjustly cheated. As if my husband wasn’t supposed to die.

            But I know that we all die. And none of us know when we will die. We, or our loved others, could die tomorrow. Including our much-loved horses and dogs and cats. This is the way it is. Best to be clear. Possibly best if you imagine it ahead of time. Because Andy and I did some practical things based on our clarity that we might die that are definitely a help to me now. And, as I said, despite how desperately I miss him, I am spared that angry, I’ve-been-cheated feeling. Because I did and do understand that we are not in any way guaranteed any special length of life. I am grateful for the years we had together. I am grateful for the happiness we shared and the family we became. I will allways love him. I will always miss him. I truly believe his spirit watches over me and our son. And death is part of life. So imagine it.

            

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.

Saying Goodbye

                                                            by Laura Crum

            We said goodbye to our old dog, Jojo last week. I can’t really find words for how sad we all were, but those of you who have lost a loved animal already know without my telling you. I can find some comfort in the fact that Jojo was 16 years old, a good long life for a dog. Jojo’s 16^th birthday was Superbowl Sunday. She was born on Superbowl Sunday sixteen years ago—the Broncos were in it that year, too. And this year, on her 16^th birthday, Jojo began to fail.

            She had been living with a host of old animal problems—congestive heart failure, kidney issues, vertigo, poor hearing and sight, a mild dementia. But overall, she seemed happy, her appetite was good, she would play a bit with our young dog and hopped on the bed every night to sleep. She did the chores with me and could still go on short beach walks. All this was true right up until a week ago Saturday.

            That night Jojo was very uncomfortable and got us up many times. And on Sunday she would not eat and was clearly very down. We gave it a couple of days, because Jojo had come through several setbacks and been OK a few days later. I did not take her to the vet. I will not ever again put a very old animal through diagnostic work in an attempt to prolong its life. In my experience (and I have gone this route when I was younger), the animal merely goes through some unnecessary grief before it is euthanised. And so we kept Jojo as comfortable as we could and waited to see if she would improve.

            By Tuesday I knew that she was failing. Her eyes and gums had a yellowish cast, which indicates liver failure. She would drink water, she could totter around—barely. She would not eat. She lay on the couch all day and I petted her and told her what a good dog she was. She seemed weak, but peaceful. She took a couple of short strolls and lay in the sun while we did chores. But her breathing was a little labored. I made the appointment for my vet to come out the next day.

            I have to admit, I really hoped that Jojo would pass on her own that night. I have friends whose dogs died quietly in their sleep. I always think this would be such a blessing. But it never happens for me. And so again, I held my loved animal while the vet administered the kill shot.

            Jojo died very peacefully, here at home, on the couch. The vet has known her since she was a puppy. I stroked her and told her I loved her. And her spirit went free.

            I am so sad. But I am also accepting. This is what it is to love an animal. This is life. Jojo was sixteen years old. If I had a wish, when she was a sweet little blue-eyed puppy, it might have been that she would live to be sixteen and have a happy life. That wish has come true.

            Jojo was our dog before we had a child. My little boy has never known one moment of life when she was not his companion. She crossed the country with us on our camper trips to Michigan seven different times. She camped with us in the Sierras and hiked with us through the coastal hills and on the beach so many, many times. She raised our little dog, Star, with good grace, just as she raised my little boy. Jojo has always been a very sweet dog. Those of you who have read my mystery novels will realize that she is the model for “Freckles.”

            We buried Jojo under the apple tree and we cried for her. One more sad thing. But not an entirely sad thing. Jojo, our sweet dog, had a good long life and we loved her and did our best for her right up until the end. She had a peaceful passing after one not-good morning. This is pretty much the best outcome life has to offer.

            Good-bye Jojo. We love you.

            

Changes and Sadness

                                                by Laura Crum

            We went for a ride in the woods the other day. It is mid-January and much that we saw was dry and dusty. This is unheard of for this time of year. The central coast of California is in the grip of a huge drought. In 56 years of living here, I have never seen a January quite like this. So this is one big change.

            Looking on the bright side of this change, the footing is perfect. No mud. Nothing is slippery. We can do any ride we care to do.

            We decided to ride our usual two hour through-the-forest loop backward. Trails look so different when you ride them in the opposite direction. It would be like a whole new ride. This would be a change, too. Off we went, down the steep hill that we usually ride up, and across the creek.

Henry is such a good horse—the very best.

            Henry will be 26 years old this spring. He’s still going well, but I have cut back on the work he is asked to do. On this ride I noticed for the first time that Henry was a little reluctant to climb the steeper hills. (There are no big hills on this ride, just some short bits of up and down.) I paid attention and on the climbs Henry is stepping short on the right hind. He’s fine on level ground. I’m pretty sure his hock is bothering him. To be frank, it’s a miracle his hocks haven’t bothered him before this. Older QH rope horses almost always have a touch of bone spavin. I will keep a good eye on Henry and we may avoid steep climbs from here on. Another change.

            Though I am accepting that Henry can’t go on forever as a riding horse, it makes me sad to acknowledge that this part of our lives is coming slowly but steadily to an end. My son and I are still riding together on Henry and Sunny, and both horses have been a total blessing. But Henry IS 26. The change is coming.

            We rode through the forest. I snapped a few photos as we moved along. All of them turned out blurry, but you can see how pretty the forest is. It was 70 degrees—just like a summer ride. Lovely under the trees.

            Here we go through what feels like a doorway between two big redwood trees. It’s neat.

            And then I got lost. I know, sounds idiotic. Lost on a two hour ride I’ve done dozens of times before. Sort of like Gilligan’s Island (this really dates me). And I wasn’t truly, exactly lost. I just took a wrong turn and we didn’t end up riding our usual loop backward after all. It’s surprising how different a trail looks when you ride it in the opposite direction. But we found our way back to the truck and trailer eventually and saw some pretty things along the way. Reflections of redwoods seen through Sunny’s ears…

            Everything is changing, all the time. “Change is the very most natural thing,” in the words of Jerry Jeff Walker. A lot of the time things seem stable and we don’t notice the changing. But sometimes things seem to change suddenly, all around us. Like my 13 year old son, who, in one year, is no longer a little boy. And there have been several other changes in our life as a family, all in the past six months. On the surface, some of these changes are not so positive. And yet, maybe it just depends on how you look at it.

            This drought we are currently going through here in coastal California looks like a pretty darn negative thing. But we sure have had some lovely days…and some lovely rides. Can’t help but enjoy this 70 degree weather.

            Henry may be getting near to the end of his time as a riding horse. But he has given us SO much. From when my kid was just turned 7 until now at 13 and 1/2 years old, my son has ridden this good red horse everywhere, and never had one bad experience. How wonderful is that? Wonderful enough to balance some inevitable sadness of loss, I believe. Those good rides will forever be a part of us.

These last few months we have had our fair share of change and sadness. Some people we care about have had some very difficult and unavoidable problems, and some other people we know and thought were our friends have turned out not to be our friends. These things are true and they do make me sad when I think about them.

But my son gave me a hummingbird feeder for Xmas that is made out of an antique ruby red glass bottle. It is beautiful and the hummers love it. The feeder glows like a jewel in the sunlight and the birds whiz up to it in delight. I can think about the sad things, or I can watch the hummingbirds.

I think I will just keep my eye on the hummingbirds.

           

Sadness, Old Horses, and a Free Book

                                    by Laura Crum

            My good friend lost her 33 year old horse last week. He had been having problems getting up and finally one day, he was just unable to get up, and she knew it was time. This doesn’t make it easy. Even when we know it is the right time, it is so hard to lose a horse that has been part of your life for many years.

            I, too, have a 33 year old horse. I bought him when he was three years old and had thirty days riding. I trained him myself and competed on him at several different events. The bridle my son uses on his horse, Henry, features a headstall that Gunner won in a cutting contest many years ago. The trophy buckles Gunner and I won together are in the drawer next to my bed.

            Gunner and I covered a lot of miles. Thirty years of him being my horse. Today he is a bit peggy, but pretty sound. Will trot and lope and even buck and spin a little. Here he is in a picture taken just a few days ago –33 years old. He is growing his winter coat, so looks fuzzy, but I think you can see that his weight is still pretty good.

            I know that Gunner probably doesn’t have many years left.      I bought him when I was 25. He’s been with me the whole time since then. He really is part of my family. I treasure every day with him. But there is an underlying sadness. I know our time is limited.

            My other retired horse, Plumber, has had an off again on again slight lameness in his right front for awhile. Every time I get ready to have the vet out, he seems fine. His feet were trimmed recently and we could find no sign of a bruise or any tenderness using the hoof testers. There is no swelling or heat. No sign of an injury. So I’m just keeping an eye on him.

            Here you see my son giving Plumber (a very friendly horse) a little love.

            Winter is coming. Much as I like fall, I can’t help thinking about the rain (and mud) to come. Horse keeping is so much harder in the winter, especially with old horses. I’m kind of dreading it. So I’m a little sad right now. And then again, its Sept 11^th, a day which seems plenty sad enough.

            But, there is much that is good. Sunny enjoys mowing the grass outside the veggie garden…and his bright gold self always makes me smile.

            We go swimming in the ocean on pretty days.

            And we visit the fields where my husband grows begonias—which are in full bloom right now. How pretty is that?

            And there is always riding in the woods.

            Ok, last cheerful thought. My second novel, Hoofprints, will be free as a Kindle edition for the next three days. Starting today, Weds the 11^th, and going through Friday the 13^th (how fortuitous, right?). Hoofprints has always been one of the most popular books in the series, so if you’d like to check out my mystery novels featuring an equine veterinarian as a protagonist, here’s your chance. Click on the title to find the free Kindle edition. Cutter, the first book in the series, is only 99 cents. Again, click on the title to find the Kindle edition.