Monthly Archives: August 2011

Join Up

Swimming this morning, the clouds were soft, fine,diaphanous.  My body in the water felt soft, fine, diaphanous – boneless, like the water, like the clouds and the sky.  No separation.  Monty Roberts calls the moment of connection between horse and human “join up.”  I am looking for join up all the time, with everything.  It’s like a sensual prayer, a bodily  invocation.  Like making an effortless wireless connection with the universe.

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The Skin Horse

I love the way that this Buddha is becoming a part of everything.  Lichens nesting on his shoulders, in his hair, grasses tickling his back, the weight of him settling into the bricks, little bits of detritus and moss and a heart stone from Lucy Vincent Beach in his lap.  It reminds me of the story of the Skin Horse from The Velveteen Rabbit.

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

I feel like becoming real requires Buddha sitting – becoming a part of everything.  Less doing, more being.  Letting the body listen through pores, cells, breath.

Stormy Weather

Into the Vortex by Pam White

The other day I took my horse Amadeo out on a lead line to do some ground work.  We got into the arena, and suddenly he was arching his neck, blowing like a stallion, tail flagging, spooking, little rears.  Sweat poured down my neck.  I wanted to run.  The last time this happened, five years ago, I was walking him at a new farm and he spooked, pivoted and kicked out, catching my thigh full force with his hoof.  I went down.  I had a shoe print, a big lump and a colorful leg for about a year.When that happened,I felt caught in a storm – fearful, helpless.  It felt personal.

Hurricane Irene, on the other hand, catapulted us into an odd kind of stillness.  After putting away and securing  all potential projectiles, including dogs, cats, plants, we fell into obsessive storm watching.  On the television and out the windows.  Trees waving, rain whipping in sheets, images of the sea wild, surging.  On the farm, the horses safe inside, chewing hay, breathing, shuffling in the straw. The Irene storm felt impersonal – something that happened with all of us – a kind of communal event – something to share.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Letting Go

From Tilt Photo by Pam White

Yesterday we took one daughter to college.  Tomorrow daughter #2 goes off to college.   Two weeks ago, I made the decision to sell my gelding Amadeo.  I have come to see, painfully and over a long period of time, that I am not the best dance partner for this horse.  Holding on to him is clinging to an old dream.  Like trying to hold onto my girls as they launch into their new lives. There is something about these kinds of emptying changes that is uncomfortable, violent.  Hurricane Irene steaming up the East coast feels like this – inevitable, unpredictable.  What I can do is bring in the plants and the lawn furniture, gather the cats, make sure that the girls’ laundry is done and that they have what they need. Love them.  Look for a loving home for Deo, with someone who can dance his beautiful dance.  And most of all, hold myself gently through all these passing storms of change.