Beginning at the beginning

Just because I've been absent from the horse world for large chunks of time doesn't mean that I have forgotten all I once learned.
I recognize that a good stable is not going to take a rider's word for the fact that they have previous experience. They'd be crazy if they did. I didn't even approach that route; I signed myself up to tag along in a pure beginners' class. I need the physical conditioning and can work as hard at the walk as in other paces.
The school horses are quite decent. They work in both English and Western mode; in the indoor arena and on trail rides. I've twice ridden a big flea-bitten grey who has some ability to bend; go on the bit and even lengthen and shorten his walk and trot. As the other "beginners" clump up with one another and cut corners, I use the extra few feet of track to get in some lateral work or I circle away to create a space; dying to serpentine and change direction but complying with the group.
Our instructor is a sweet young thing who seems to have some correct knowledge of riding but gives way too few nuggets of information to her class.
In my past English life our riding instructors rarely stopped talking; critiqueing a position of leg or hand and asking questions to make sure we had learned why we were doing certain things in certain ways. "How do you go about preparing to ride a circle?" "What's a diagonal?" or even "What are the aids to increase or decrease speed?"
I went on to take my British Horse Society Assistant Instructor's Certificate at 17 and well remember learning to teach. We had a lesson plan; we researched it; we had all kinds of explanations and demonstrations to support what we were to impart to our class. Teaching a beginner was like painting on a blank canvas, adding layer upon layer of different colors.
Another frustration is that we are not allowed to groom or saddle our own horses. I understand the theory; This is California, liability insurance is sky high so only trained employees are permitted.
In practice, today, my horse was being readied and the young woman who was to bridle him had a problem. Someone had undone the cheek straps to bit and noseband, as well as the throat-latch. She recognized the head-piece and brow-band that she held in her hand but could obviously not understand why the bit dangled vertically instead of horizontally. I couldn't prevent myself from sorting it out.
The big impact on me was the sure knowledge that these people have never dismantled every buckle when cleaning tack. It was drummed into our heads that it was necessary for both suppleness of leather and a review of wear for safety reasons. So much for liability issues.

January Oak

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road.

_____________

This Oak tree is a part of my daily life. I have observed this tree through all four seasons now. As I walk my familiar loop the road dips down to a row of houses encroaching on the canyon below. Trees and houses co-habit.

My Oak is naked now; the last leaves relinquished their hold weeks ago and the teasing wind twirled them diagonally to the ground. The acorns plunged en masse on to the roof of the house; celebrating their freedom with a startling rat-tat-tat.

I pass beneath the branches and find myself looking up and marveling at the sculptural silouhette against the sky.

Color-by-Name!

My current favorite color is "Venetian Shade". I almost couldn't resist "Raindrops on Roses" for my bedroom walls but I did.
When I lie half awake and look at the walls I hear "Venetian Shade" in my mind and imagine a late afternoon Plaza with a bistro-table and chairs. The shadows are cast long and people are beginning to gather with friends. Day will soon pass into dusk and who knows what the evening might bring?
If I ever got to choose a dream career it would be naming paint colors.

Muddy Boots

I may not read tea-leaves-but I can see hope in muddy boots.

- My every-day, dog-walking, puddle-proof wellies. (Wellington Boots)

Their pinkness and happy floral make me smile for that alone, but they also have such potential for new friendships; for who can resist commenting on bright pink boots in the company of a big (wet!) furry dog?

This week we had rain. Not enough to end fears of drought, but more than expected. I have twice heard solo-frogs trying to start a chorus.

- Rainy Day Fashion Boots.

I needed them as I escorted clients around our outdoor display area at work and I wore them to several construction-site meetings. Getting these boots muddy is a small sign of momentum returning to my industry; Somewhat like my one daffodil, now in flower, which last week was only a pushy stalk and now is a full-bloom yellow promise of things to come.

- Riding Boots.

The muddy christening of my new riding boots. The act of buying them was a statement to self that I am worth it and a commitment to stop letting days and weeks and years go by denying myself my true passion. There will always be obstacles; money and time being the short-story version. 

Whenever I return to my Equine Element I recognize that I am at the center of that which makes me happiest; nurtures my confidence; and is the lexicon by which I translate the rest of life around me.

Yesterday I rode a horse; The aroma of warm wet horse enveloping me as I concentrated on improving my position, the better to communicate with this large, gentle, trusting animal. He didn't know me and I had just met him but we strove for an hour to be the best that we could be together.

One down - a million more hours in the saddle to go.

Dusk in Winter

The sun sets in the cold without friends

Without reproaches after all it has done for us

It goes down believing in nothing

When it is gone I hear the stream running after it

It has brought its' flute- It is a long way

by W.S. Merwin

The Dentist - Part I, (circa 1966)

Our Mother was conscientious about taking my sister and I to have our bi-yearly dental check-ups. We felt comfortable with our dentist; he was a neighbor whose family were members of the same local Country Club.
It turns out that he was also a Lush! As children we were oblivious to his drinking; what did we know? I found out years later at a gathering of friends when my Mother told an amusing anecdote of us sitting mouth-open in the big leather chair whilst our dentist occasionally popped over to his instrument cabinet to take a swig out of his flask before continuing to inspect our teeth.
The story was told more than once over the years; it was part of our family-lore. It made us laugh. It didn't occur to me until years later to question: "What The Hell Was She Thinking?"

Different Perspectives: The Apartment.

My daughter and her husband are seriously working towards finding a way to buy their first home; Something that would have been unattainable a year ago. They are at the end of their lease on the rental they currently inhabit and were interested in moving to a less expensive place to save additional monnies to put towards their dream.

I found an apartment on-line; very reasonable; in a great neighborhood. I e-mailed my son-in-law because he is online more than my daughter. "Poss. Apartment" I wrote in the subject line. They didn't respond.

I met up with them this evening and heard the punch-line... I wrote Poss..ible Apartment, He saw Piece of Sh... Apartment! 

One more example of "Same Planet-Different Worlds".

The Butterfly of Freedom

From: The Interesting Thoughts of Edward Monkton

www.edwardmonkton.com

Questions to ask Yourself - BEFORE You Pick a Fight.

Is this the hill you want to die on?

Is this issue Life-Threatening?

Will it change anything?

If you weren't PMS-ing, would you care?

Are you more tolerant of your dog than of your family?

Nonchalance or Negligence? Cherry pits in the waste disposal. Grounds for War?

Sharing My Sunshine

I live in California for a reason; I have paid my dues in colder climes and choose now to live in a place where it doesn't hurt to breathe outdoors in Winter. For those of you who are somewhere chilly, let me share a little of my sunshine with you today.

My morning started with a slow stroll around the block with my trusty canine. Diva has reached a mature age where slow and stop are her two speeds. She was never an athlete; although, in the past, a skate-board or UPS truck could provoke a moment or two when she more resembled a guided missile than a dog.

Where yesterday I noticed one small dark-pink blossom on a young tree there are now a flurry of them. White almond-blossoms and the fat, waxy buds of tulip trees are shouting "Look at me, I was first!" I have a couple of yellow crocus in the pots around my patio and the stiffly erect promise of daffodils protruding the soil.

I spent a hour with my book out on our deck; exposing pale, hairy legs, which luckily no one can see as our garden is not overlooked.

My French Artist and I decided that it would be a good day to eat lunch outside in the sun. I cooked artichokes that we ate with a home-made mayonnaise; the yellow color like sunshine in a bowl. The ingredients include lemon-juice from lemons I picked this morning in my garden and olive-oil which we import for ourselves from a family-member's olive orchard in the South of France. Egg-yolk, mustard, salt and pepper and voila!

We had fresh bread and cold roast lamb with some Provençale rosé wine, in moderation. The shiny fat blue of blueberries kept us smiling all the way to the end.

Gibbous Moon.

The Gibbous Moon - Gibbous is a round word, it is perfect to describe a moon that is almost full; either waxing or waning. Gibbous is a word that I have rarely said out loud but it rolls around pleasantly in my thoughts; which is why I am inserting it as often as possible in this text.

I like the image, thought and sound of the Gibbous Moon.

Big-Toe Soup

I don't think that I have mentioned so far that I am able to make a fool of myself in more than one language. Most of my schooling was in England where one is obliged to study French in Middle School, if not before. Anyone showing any propensity for languages is then further weighed down by German lessons. Those who struggle are allowed Spanish, which is not only considered an easier class, it is accomplished in half the time and, in addition, there were stories from school field trips to Madrid and Barcelona which included escapades with cute Spaniards. It seemed as though the "Popular Girls" went to Spain.
My parents moved around for work and I found myself changing schools every so often. Being the new girl in an all girls school during early teens is no fun. Couple that with leaving a French class that had not yet covered the Future tense and arriving in a class that was so over all that sounded the death-knell for my enthusiasm for all things francais.
When it was finally time to pick electives I dropped French like a "pomme de terre tres chaud" (hot potato). Reasoning: stupid language full of coughing and spitting and why would I want to visit a country with nothing to offer but some funny tower? And what was that guy Eiffel thinking anyway?
Fast forward a few years and, after freezing my butt off in Northern Germany for a couple of years, I headed for a job in the sunshine of Southern France. I had only been there three weeks when I met the man of my dreams. Of course our relationship was harmonious, we couldn't speak each other's languages!
Looking back I am still unclear on how we got together but I recall copious amounts of rose wine and the chemistry of youth. He was an honest to goodness French Artist. How romantic was that?
It turns out that I am a language sponge. I can't apply myself to book-learning but put me in a country with interesting people whom I wish to get to know and I absorb the language du jour; although without some of the gramatical niceties.
Back to the Future...tense..."Speaking French like a Spanish Cow" (that is what the French call pidgin). If I wanted to make a date or ask about the future in any way I would speak in the past participle, wave my arms around and repeat demain, demain (tomorrow, tomorrow).
On another couple of years, still living in France with my Artist, although we had a few serious arguements once we realized we disagreed on just about everything. His kids over for dinner; Suprise! He has four off-spring almost my age so dinner for them and boy-friend/girlfriends meant a crowd of ten to cook for a couple of times a week and great difficulty getting the chatter to slow down enough to wait for me to get a word in edgewise.
The conversation turns to food. Food, sex and politics are the standard French subjects of discussion. They all agree that they are the Worlds best at the first two and have a million opinions about the third.
Back to food. We are discussing the herbs and such that grow wild and are worthy of inclusion in many dishes. Thyme, rosemary, mushrooms, dandelions, sorrel etc. No-one buys them, they are waiting in the countryside to be collected. Stinging Nettles are mentioned as a homeopathic cure for something and I venture to join in. "In England", I say. "In olden times, people made soup from Nettles." Which would have been a reasonable conversational gambit if Nettles (orties) and Toes (orteils) didn't transpose themselves in my addled brain and give my French family such hilarity to remember again and again and again over the subsequent years.

Diva: doggie embassador for friendship

There is a page in my address book under "D" for dog-owners, as well as "N" for neighbors, "F" for family and "J" for my daughter's friends. This helps me find the person I want to contact without remembering everyone's last name.

The "D" for dog page is arranged with dog-names first (somewhat alphabetically) and then their people. This has turned into multiple pages glued in as I ran out of room.

Somehow, over the years, as Diva has gone from bouncy pup to overtaking my husband in age (counting in dog years), we have accumulated a lot of friends. Not unlike the connections made when dropping kids at school etc. we have developed relationships based on daily proximity.

What I have truly valued about the dog-crowd has been the diversity of age, nationality, socio-ecconomic whateverism. Anyone can join in, they don't even need a dog. The secret password is "Hi, can I pet your dog? What's his name?"

The conversations come from so many points of view. No-one has to impress or falsely agree. If you don't like the way the conversation is going you can always stroll off to see what your dog is up to. You are also free to disagree. If you stick around long enough you will laugh, cry and be made to think. Movie and book reviews, kid and spouse reviews, political opinions, moral questions, dog-training tips and myths, medical advice, annecdotes from yesterday or yesteryear.

Unfortunately our furry family members don't live as long as we would wish. There are a few names in my book that I cannot bring myself to erase; mostly canines but some humans.

There is a continuous "Changing of the Guard"; a renewal of puppies and adoptees refreshing the mix of personalities; stealing toys; running into knees; working themselves into the pack. There are also longstanding friendships that continue even without Max & Buddy & Wookie & Crosby & Syntah.......

Raised by Wolves

One of my earliest memories is of standing outside the house of a school friend with my Mother holding my hand. I am a chubby tom-boy in a stiff ice-blue party dress which makes crinkly, crunchy noises when I move. There is a birthday party starting behind that front door. There are sure to be triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off, toxic-orange "squash" to drink and the ubiquitous jello (jelly in English). Before I can join in games of pass the parcel and musical chairs my Mother completes the ritual; bending down and asking " What are you going to say?"
"Please and thank you" I reply. "And at the end?" "Thank you for having me".
Only now, assured I will remember my manners, Mum knocks on the door.

Another flashback; handwriting class at school; we are toiling away trying to copy exactly the beautiful script of our teacher chalked on the blackboard. I am quite good at this, although in concentration I hold my pencil so tightly that my fingers hurt. A distraction; a gentleman has entered our classroom and asks where he might find the office. The teacher selects me to accompany him and show him the way.

A mixture of pride and self-conciousness flood my face in a rosy blush. I head to the door and wait as we always let our elders go first. "Ladies first" he insists and I lead the way. My task accomplished I return to class. The teacher immediately questions why I preceded our guest through the door. The explanation satisfies her. Whew!

I will be 50 years old in a few months. I still remember feeling mortified that someone might think I was rude.

Fast forward to more recent times. Unfortunately chubby was my destiny, not a childhood phase, but that is neither here nor there. Late summer in Silicon Valley a client is holding a fundraiser at his home for Governor Schwarzenneger. My husband and I are invited as guests (no payment required, in gratitude for other things). One of the hottest days of the year moves towards a sultry dusk as black tie, formal dress guests gather for cocktails and hors d'oevres by the pool.

My little (big) black dress is made of a soft, swishy fabric which probably started life as a petroleum by-product. No natural fibers that's for sure. As the ruched top with velvet accents clings to my torso, I can feel rivulets of sweat down my back, not to mention my make-up sliding off my fevered face. Thank God the sun has gone down at last.

We are all there to network with and impress each other as much as to support our host and his cause. Some of us are doing mental arithmetic: $500 per person for cocktails, $10,000 per couple for dinner, deduct expenses... approx. $250,000 gathered this evening.

I have chatted with a Mayor and ex-Mayor. I have exchanged pleasantries with an Assemblyman and introduced around a friend who happens to specialize in connecting buisness venture capital with new ideas. I met the Austrian chef and his family who had been flown up from Los Angeles just to make Arnold's favorite Austrian dessert.

Because of the heat and the desire to be on my best behavior, I have accepted very few of the proffered drinks. Two hours in to the evening I am thirsty and approach the bar table for a glass of wine. The barman is temporarily absent so I linger patiently. A well-groomed 30-something man is on the same path and we chat for a moment that the barman will be back soon.

After a moment or two the young man says, "Oh, I can be barman" and steps behind the table to pour some wine. He fills one glass, his own, and then leaves. I am left wondering if I have accidentally donned my invisible cloak or if he was maybe raised by wolves.