Hanging Up My Spurs

My current horse associates will laugh at me because of this blog post.  They see me tromping around in my boots wearing what is probably a relatively blank expression when little do they know in my head I’m really waxing eloquent.

  I’m going to miss everything about horses.  Its all in the moments, you know?  Its in the moments of great accomplishment, when I nail the sitting trot after pouring sweat blood and tears into the effort (sometimes all in the most literal sense I can assure you).  Its in the moments of tender amusement, when I stand filling the water tubs and one of the mares wanders up to drink and I laugh outloud because of the way her ears bob to the rhythm of her swallows.  Its in the moments of wonder when a herd of mares and foals gallops right past me with the sun setting behind the mountains behind them and the horses are all breathing in and out in perfect synchronization. 

    There’s just something about horses to a girl, whether she’s a dressage trainer with notoriety and a professional reputation…or just a scrawny kid in hand-me-down overalls who’s happy on the days her neighbor’s bratty pony lets her get close enough to get a halter over his nose.  People say about dressage, “Isn’t that the fancy proper kind of riding?”  Well yes, good posture is helpful when influencing the horse’s movement.  Wonderful sort of leverage, really.  Throw in strong core balance, a flowing seat, quick and generous rein aids, and accurate timing among other things and you’re ready to make a half-ton beast your dance partner and that, ladies and gentlemen, is nothing short of empowering.  As I’ve said before, there are few things as magical as having personally convinced a horse that he’s capable of floating happily in a delicately-balanced whirlwind of his own power. 

    And since I’m feeling sentimental, I’ll go so far as to say that even the unpleasant moments that are caused by just being around horses will be missed.  Well, maybe I’ll say that the potential unpleasant moments will be missed.  Ah, the element of danger.  On a windy day when the horses are frisky and you put your foot in the stirrup, hoist yourself into the saddle, and wonder fleetingly if you’ll make your exit in the same orderly manner or if one of those unpleasant moments will occur.  And, for that matter, if it will be in regular time or slow-motion.  That notorious slow-motion fall from the saddle, where I once had and took the time to literally say “Oh bother” as I left the saddle and made my way unintentionally toward the earth.  Time slowed enough during my descent for me to notice the aphid’s eyes widen below me before my face ploughed unceremoniously into the grass. 

   But horses make up for the unpleasant moments.  They offer comfort in ways that nothing and no one else can.  Some horses snuffle you with their lips.  Others walk up to you and set their heads against your chest and wait for you to lay your head on their head,  put your hands on their cheeks, and tell them they’re wonderful.  One fragile old thoroughbred I knew would  waggle his head and then gaze into the distance with eyes so bright with wonder that you just knew he saw angels.  My own dear gelding stood still as a horse statue the day years ago when I walked out to him in the field, clambered up and sprawled across his back and let the warm summer rain wash away my tears and worries about starting college.  Horses are poetry and possibility and freedom and adventure and the best dang method of occupation there is.  I’m off on a new adventure at this point in my life.  But I’ll look back fondly on the time I’ve spent with horses and horsefolk, and I’ll eagerly await the day I find myself back in the saddle again.  That day will come back around.  It always does. 

Mortitial Confusement

    It is my recent suspicion that I spend more time than the average person on the thought: The morticians would be so confused by this.  Twice today it occurred to me that if I dropped dead and they wheeled my body into the morgue the mortician would lift the sheet, summon the other attending morticians to come look, and they would all stand pondering for a while. 
    This morning I was wearing my favorite pair of riding breeches, which happen to be purple plaid.  Because of the fact that I had to drive around in the gator this morning and feed horses in the cold weather I was also wearing a pair of camouflage pants for added warmth that I would take off later when I was ready to ride.  It was the classic ensemble that any normal person would rightfully insist that they “wouldn’t be caught dead in.” 
   A short while ago I thought to myself, I really hope someone doesn’t choose this moment to burst in the door with murderous intent.  Not for normal reasons like how inconvenient it would be for life as I know it to end just now, but for the mortician’s state of mind.  As I write this I have mayonnaise in my hair and yogurt and sprinkles on my face (I’m also still wearing purple plaid pants).  I just couldn’t help but think about the confusion that would ensue down at the morgue.  And you may think me odd, but the condiments on my head are acctually a sign of thriftiness on my part.  Women spend lots of money on hair masks and deep conditioning and facials and spa treatments and such.  Mayonnaise and yogurt do wonders for the skin and hair.  The sprinkles do nothing.  They just happened to be in the yogurt that I was eating and then decided to spread on my face.  I like to put sprinkles in my yogurt, it keeps life just that much more exciting.  But maybe that’s the point.  Maybe morticians enjoy the oddities that they come across.  Maybe things like mismatched clothes or condiments turning up in strange places keep their lives interesting.  I need to befriend a mortician.  In the meantime I shall embrace the strange, and not concern myself with who may or may not be confused by my habits.

Reflexions

     There are two different kinds of reflexes:  1.) Horse Handler Reflexes, and 2.) Regular People Reflexes.  There are also Ninja Reflexes, but we won’t talk about that today.  No need to depress those without.  Examples of regular people reflex scenarios include 1.) The way my brother jerks his elbow back and whips around and snarls and acctually does sort of an involuntary Wolverine impression whenever I poke him in the ribs 2.) The time I scared my cousin Sam in the dark and both of her fists and one leg shot out at me in a frantic (and hilarious) defensive maneuver (I was out of range, thank goodness)  3.) Sam, again.  Don’t ever get into a game of slap-jacks with her, she’s really fast.  

  Horse handler refelxes are a mite different.  Our speed is in our feet and our core.  I am unconciously in tune with every shift of every horse muscle that has the potential to move every hoof within leaping distance of my feet at all times.  My feet can move faster than the human eyeball when necessary, and that’s because I’ve had my toes smooshed, broken, and blackened by many an accursed hoof in my day.  It’s something to be avoided, believe you me.  At the beginning of a young horse’s training especially, core strength and quick micro-adjustablility is key to staying balanced in the saddle (see blog entitled Riding Small Crazies).  So a rider’s core reflexes have got to be fine-tuned and quick. 

   Included in the Horse Handler’s Handbook For Handling Horses (when I get around to writing it, that is), is a section on the relaxation that is required for being around horses.  You’ll notice regular people reflexes involve a lot of flailing and jerking.  No horse appreciates sudden movements. It scares them.  And a scared horse can do a lot of damage, so at the tender age of twelve I trained myself out of sudden movements, to spare my horsey associates from unecessary fright.  If anything bad happens I’ll automatically hold very still and prepare my vocal chords for low, soothing tones.  If a loud noise goes off right next to me I usually won’t jump (although the resulting dose of adrenaline can leave my fingers tingling), and it takes an awful lot to make me scream or yell out of fear or startlement.  These calm habits and stoic reactions build trust and are useful and reassuring when I’m handling horses. 

   In contrast, the habits that I’ve built and mentioned are usually not the least bit helpful in the real world.  Included in the regular people reflexes that I have forgone are catching things that I’ve dropped, and moving quickly out of the way of things.  For example, last weekend my usually tactical and dexterous boyfriend managed to knock  his coffee cup over, and the contents of the cup ran across the table and into my lap (it wasn’t very hot).  A girl with regular person reflexes would have leaped away from the table, knocking over her chair, hollering obscenities, thereby avoiding the impending coffee river, and rightfully so.  I sat perfectly still except for a half-hearted grab in the direction of the cup, and then sighed as my jeans soaked up the last few drops.  The hilarity of the situation sank in as Frank ran for napkins and I spent the rest of the day alternating between chortles and fits of giggling as I replayed the scene in my head.  I’m sure there were people on scene who assumed I had peed my pants if they watched me walk out the door that day, but had there been a horse sitting at that table, he wouldn’t have been startled in the least.  Thanks to my horse handler reflexes I ended up with a soggy lap and one  heck of a dating story.  

   I can’t speak for all horse handlers when I discuss these habits, however.  Kathrin (see blog entitled Ode To A German) is as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.  I scare her all the time, without intent and much to my amusement.  Apparently I have a habit of “appearing suddenly out of nowhere” and every time she jumps and jerks and occasionally screams in reaction. 

   Sadly (in regards to life in the unhorserelated world), I think my habits are pretty well ingrained by now, although I have a theory that if I were to spend less time with horses and more time with young children my reflexes would get quicker.  My niece requires some fast action sometimes.  And Frank has my back (the occasional misplaced cup of coffee notwithstanding) so in the grand scheme of things there’s no cause for concern regarding my goofy reflexes…or lack thereof. 

Ode To A German

     Kathrin comes from Germany originally, and that keeps the work day interesting.  For example, she has taught me some important German phrases.  I can tell someone to finish their schnitzel or they’re not getting any dessert.  I can wish someone a good morning and ask them if they’d like to milk the cow.  And, my absolute favorite declaration: “Die Hoffnung stirbt zuletzt” which means “Hope dies last”.  So if I’m ever in Germany I will be able to communicate the necessities. 

    Kathrin is a gifted horse trainer (sometimes she yells at the horses in German…it never ceases to amuse me…), a talented piano player, and an overnight sensation with her new sewing machine.  She also makes me laugh really hard sometimes.  …I’ll admit I’m laughing at her half the time...  Once we were standing out in the field when suddenly she gasped all of the surrounding air into her lungs, squeezed her eyes shut, and stood stock-still.  I regarded her for a moment, then began questioning her: “Did the fence shock you?”  Small head shake in response.  “Did you stub your toe?”  Head shake.  I stood looking at her in complete befuddlement for a minute or two until she released the air with the simple explanation: “Hiccups.”   

    We didn’t get off to a great start though, Kathrin and I.  See, we live in the same house for the sake of efficiency and simplicity, and home life was somewhat less than pleasant at first.  Not that we ever fought, but I would say there was a lack of harmony.  Then the day came when I realized that my slovenly ways were making her as miserable as her resentful vibes were making me.  Communication is a beautiful thing.  I kept our shared living space spotless at her request, and low and behold, a switch was flipped, and she became pleasant tenfold.  Sometimes she still drives me nuts, and of course, she’ll still have the ocassional bad weekend, the result being a weird sort of Monday where she seems genuinely confused by the fact that I can’t read her mind.  But I let those slide. 

    This isn’t to say that Kathrin doesn’t have to put up with my bothersome tendencies.  Having a terrific boyfriend causes a lack of focus on my part which results in a sort of exasperation on hers…unless I am daydreaming to the point of acctually falling off  a horse, in which case she gets the opportunity to laugh at me.  My cat gallops across the tin roof and sounds more like a herd of cats, and that probably wakes Kathrin up sometimes, although she never complains about it.  I never have been able to figure out the system for switching our herds of horses around in the different fields, and I have to have it re-explained to me every time we do it.  Kathrin takes the explanation upon herself with minimal sighing.  She puts up with my same critique of all of her culinary masterpieces: “Mmm…but it needs [more] chocolate.” 

    As I mentioned earlier, she makes me laugh, and usually its unintentional.  Whether it be an English phrase (“I didn’t know until I found out.”) or a seemingly-nonsensical German proverb (“The rabbit lies buried in the pepper”) I usually am amused by the things that she says.  And does, for that matter.  Why, just the other morning she had me in stitches.  She was driving the gator and I was in the passenger seat.  It was still pretty early in the morning, and I was burrowing into my poofy jacket, zoning out a bit, when Kathrin let off the gas suddenly and let out a blood-curdling shriek.  My head snapped up and I scanned the horizon for gunmen and dinosaurs; literally the first dangers that came to mind with a scream that awful.  Then a quiet whimper from the drivers seat: “…There was this spider…”  

    Kathrin has an opinion about absolutely everything.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  We seem to agree on things about one third of the time, and I’ve learned what subjects to avoid if I want to finish the work day before dark: politics, religion, raising children, zoos.  Sometimes when I’m bored I’ll get her started on something interesting.  Its like having a book on tape.  She would make a fabulous villain, purely for her tireless ability to monologue.  I remember one day I didn’t want to be left alone with my thoughts, so I asked her about the pilot episode of a new tv show and earned a lengthy description.  Another time I requested the storyline for a horror movie I knew I would never see.  It was like watching it, minus the scary images left to lurk in my head.  

    One day I asked her the all important question: had she and her boyfriend decided what they would do if the other one got infected by a zombie?  I know what I would do if Frank got bitten: distance myself and hold out for a cure.  Kathrin had a different view.  If Toby got infected she would have him infect her immediately, and “live happily ever after as a zombie”.  I was incredulous, and conveyed to her that if she came after me in zombie form I would have to put an end to her twisted happily-ever-after.  “What about holding out for a cure?!”  I wanted to know.  “Die Hoffnung stirbt zuletzt!”  Well, we had to add that topic to the list of things we would have to agree to disagree on.  We did agree, however, that her choice to be zombified along with her boyfriend would make an excellent storyline for a B movie…a cult classic, perhaps…one that would be remembered forever for her character’s passionate, over-the-top delivery of the line “INFECT ME NOW!”  

    I’ll wrap this up by adding that one of the best things about Kathrin is how much she’s improved my riding.  Not only has she drilled “outside rein” and “more forward” so far into my head there’s no chance it will ever come out (you dressage people know what I’m talking about), her religious dependence on the training scale has given my understanding of dressage a scope and perspective that I will always appreciate and put to good use. 

Basketball

     There’s an interesting balance between revelling in the victory of overcoming challenges…and thinking more highly of yourself than you ought.  Highschool basketball taught me that.  I pushed myself beyond my limits countless times, and my lack of athleticism kept me humble.  That’s not to say that horseback riding doesn’t require fitness and coordination; the kind of athleticism I’m referring to is the kind that requires hand-eye-coordination and competetive aggression.  The kind of athleticism contained in the genes that my mother’s brother’s children swiped for themselves and left me entirely without (not that I’m bitter).     

   When I was a mere homeschooled ninth-grader  made up entirely of knees and elbows I joined the girl’s basketball team at a small private school.  I did not volunteer my services willingly, however, as I was doubtful of my abilities to lace up my sneakers properly, let alone send a ball through a hoop under game time pressure.  They begged me to join, and hey, at 5’ 9” with a 6” vertical leap, I was a hot commodity.  I spent most of my time warming the bench and dreading the moment when the coach would lean forward with her clipboard and call, “Meg!  You’re in for so-and-so!”  I get nervous just remembering.  It’s a wonder I got any sleep during those years.  My hands were always cold (supposedly a survival thing…the blood leaves the hands and flows to the legs to assist in escape, if necessary).  There was always somebody in the huddle who would ask, “Hey, who’s hands are so cold?”   

   I played forward most of the time, and I had my little area that I was afraid to leave that first year.  It was a meter-wide triangle of sorts that I would scoot around in, looking like a cornered burglar or something in my nervous crouch.  Teammates told me, “You need to get aggressive!” I didn’t feel aggressive, and couldn’t psych myself up to get aggressive, no matter how many times I watched Space Jam and The Pistol.   The coach told me, “You’ve got to want the ball!”  I did not want that ball.  That ball was the last thing in the world I wanted.  Catching that ball not only meant that all eyes in a packed-out gym were on me, it also meant that I became the target for nine other girls who knew what it meant to be aggressive and had the physical means to enforce it.  But I did catch the ball when someone passed it to me, and I tried hard to send it through the hoop, or (better yet) pass it to someone else on my team who had a better chance of sending it through the hoop.   

  My sophmore year went somewhat better because I had gone to basketball camp that summer.  Thanks to basketball camp, my skills had improved, although my lack of coordination kept me from utilizing them properly.  Case in point: it was best if I didn’t try to dribble the basketball for more than two bounces…the odds of the ball bouncing off my foot and into the hands of an opponent increased significantly after that.  Camp also gave me a better grasp of aggressiveness.  I got more rebounds that year, and even had a few steals. 

  But the glorious discovery was boxing out.  Boxing out is the action of positioning yourself in front of an opponent and blocking her from getting the rebound, should her teammate miss the shot.  It is aggression without coordination, to shove one’s rear into someone else, and I utilized this particular maneuver with enthusiasm.  I remember one game in particular.  We were playing at the school that used to be a barn, in the gym with the carpeted floor (someone was thinking outside the box).  Naturally everyone played with extra care in that gym…there was no glory in carpet burn.  The girl’s team at this school had a signature move: they would flip their ponytails to fake one direction and go the other.  Naturally we mocked them for this.  They were using a man-to-man defense, and the blonde amazon assigned to cover me was being bothersome, always in the way.  Basketball isn’t like hockey; you can’t just go around shoving people out of your space, you’ve got to be more tactful in getting your point across.  So I waited until someone put up a shot and I could feel that girl behind me, elbow jabbing into my back, reaching for the rebound.  It was a beautiful opportunity.  I threw my weight backward and heard the breath go out of her.  She hit the floor with an incredulous squeak.  Eat rug, Barbie.  She gave me space after that.   

  I took a few spills myself throughout my basketball career, and it always made me feel useful.  I figured if I was putting enough effort into the game that I was getting knocked down (or tripping over my own feet, as it were), then I was coming through for my team, and they should be grateful.  I like to think that I improved as my career continued, although if I remember correctly, I only made a grand total of 23 points during those four years that I played.  I would have to say that my favorite moment was during the first scrimage of my first year.  The other girls on my team set it up so that I would have room to make a shot.  They planned it in the huddle and executed it on the floor.  They passed the ball to me, I caught it, put it up, and watched as it miraculously swished through the net.  They were all so busy cheering for me that we almost forgot to get back in the game, and had to rush to get back on defense.  Good times.   

  As I mentioned in the beginning, I had to be careful not to start thinking more highly of myself that I ought.  The videos mom took of me playing basketball helped with that (“Okay, I guess I look more like Olive Oyl in a jersey than a WNBA star…”).  But its still something I need to remind myself of to this day.  Yesterday for example, I had just finished watching one of my favorite spy tv shows, and I was feeling pretty awesome by association.  I got up to get some icecream to complete the awesomeness, and managed to miss the doorway by a tiny margin.  The wall reminded me that my coolness is limited and always in the balance.  It is better to not believe that you’re awesome, but to enjoy the moments where you get to feel awesome, and to recognize the difference. 

Life Lessons and Fun Times

Sometimes the things we are pretty sure will be unpleasant turn out to be really fun, and sometimes we find out we can handle way more than we thought we could.  These are the life lessons I re-learned yesterday.  I find that I re-learn life lessons all the time.  Such as: the thing you are dreading really won’t be as bad as you think it will be.  Or as James Herriot (one of my favorite authors) wrote, “The fear is always worse than the reality.”  Or, as the Germans say, “Nothing gets eaten as hot as it gets cooked.”  However you like to say it, the lesson applied to me yesterday when we had our big inspection at the barn. 
   I won’t bore you with the details of how much hard work and stress was involved in organizing, cleaning, and presenting a herd of  horses for a big important breed inspection, so use your imagination.  Not to toot my own  horn, but I will tell you that my crew and I handled the would-be chaos with a kind of ferocious proficiency.  And the part I was dreading the most turned out to be incredibly fun and really rewarding.  I rode two three-year-olds for their performance tests.  I followed my plan and had a great time.  My plan, by the way, was to avoid a panic freeze by conciously addressing different parts of my body and reminding them what their job was, and to really ride, not just sit there and hope for the best.  I was in my element, after all, and I knew exactly what needed to be done.  There was no part of it that I couldn’t handle (that’s one of my favorite encouraging phrases I tell myself: “Break it down, there is no part of this that you can’t handle"). 
   And voila!  All was well.  Being in the spotlight doesn’t necessarily equal embarassment and horror after all (a shocking revelation for me, sad but true).  I rode my horses and they were splendid, even though there was all manner of scariness to distract them in and around the arena: an audience, a dude on a ladder with a camera, loudspeakers, a tent, and a kindly Swedish judge, who, in my mind, may very well have been a heavily-armed, barely restrained, edge-of-insanity-taste-for-human-flesh sort of predator who wanted nothing more than to put a messy end to my existence.  But as I said, all went well, and people clapped at the end when that kindly judge declared the horses to be pleasant and acceptable for their age.  People clapped.  For me.  Do you know how often I put myself in a position to allow that sort of thing to happen?  Its been years, probably, and I’m not going to lie, I was grinning like an idiot. 

   But the fun didn’t end there, oh no.  Remember what I said earlier about how we can handle way more than we think we can?  I was thoroughly done in at the end of the day.  I had been at work for over twelve hours, it had been a long hard work week, and all I wanted to do was go home, fix myself a grilled-cheese sandwich, and fall into my comfy bed.  I had earned that.  But the majority of people, it seems, prefer to party as a means of post-stress relaxation.  This will never make sense to me.  But I agreed to attend the After-Inspection Party because my desire to collapse was overruled by my desire to not be perceived as rude.  All week I had been thinking, This is more than I can handle!  And obviously each time that just wasn’t true, so one more time I decided to push my limits and attend the gathering and hope against hope that I didn’t snap. 
    I went home, showered, and arrived in time for wonderful food and some lovely conversations.  Then the wine took effect.  Not on me, I wasn’t drinking wine on this particular evening, but at a certain point everyone else got realllly happy.  Riders and trainers and owners and auditors and those Swedish judges, the ones that had seemed stern and professional before, were suddenly my best friends.  At one point I kid you not we were all standing in our chairs with on foot up on the table, glasses raised, while a raucus Swedish song rang into the night. 
   Later on I was chatting with one of the judges, and the subject came up, unavoidably, that I’m from back east, originally.  He tried for five minutes to convey something to me about a nearby area before I finally realized he was talking about New Jersey.  He took my braid in his hand and laughingly said, “You are not blonde, why can’t you understand what I’m saying?”  My response was a light appology and a reference to the late hour.  I didn’t add that the combination of the general volume in the room, the drunken slur of his speech, and his Swedish inability to pronounce his ‘J’s made him thoroughly impossible to understand. 
    I had a grand time though.  People influenced by alcohol can become very generous.  It was implied throughout the evening by various folk that I was delightful, professional, efficient, quick, smart, and a very good rider.  Its fun to watch people tell stories in a language I don’t understand, and Swedes tell highly-amusing stories (apparently).  So a sucessful day and a fun evening drew to an end with hugs and well-wishes, and I learned not to underestimate my level of tolerance, or the ability of workmates to make my life just that much more enjoyable.  It felt great to be part of a team this week. 

The Beet Story

     Okay, this is an email I sent Ben wayyyyy back in the day.  It makes me laugh, and I hope it does the same for you:

   For supper this evening Mom served us beets.  I had finished my potatoes and chicken, and had been looking at my piece of beet for quite some time before I decided that yes, I had to eat it.  I placed the beet on the end of my fork and sniffed it.  My hypothesis proved correct…it still smelled like soil.  Sort of like the inside of my lizard aquarium.   Anyway, my plan was to zing my fork up to my mouth and stick the nasty thing into my mouth before I could think about it.  Sort of like when you’re poised at the top of a diving board and you can’t stand just standing up there and you know that as soon as you jump off  it will all be good, its just the launch that’s difficult.  So I gripped my fork, and launched. 

   Silly me.  Having little to no experience with beets (thankfully), I was unaware of the fact that beets are extremely slippery.  On the way to my mouth, that beet saw it’s opportunity for escape and by golly he took it.  Man, it’s a good thing I had the thing aimed away from the table and not toward it.  I heard a ‘whoosh’ and a ‘bump bump’ and a dull ‘thud’.  I looked down at my beetless fork.  It took me about half a second to figure out what had happened.  Ruthy saw too.  We both burst out laughing.  I had to put down my fork so I could snort properly into my hands as tears were streaming down my face.  Ruthy managed to get out a “Where’d the beet go?”  I sort of squealed, “I…don’t…know!”  Of course Mom and Dad are like, “Find it!  Meg if there’s a spot on my floor…you know you’re still eating that…I can’t believe…Meg!” 

   Oh man I couldn’t keep it together.  I finally gained some control over my laughter enough to go blow my nose and retrieve  a wet napkin to clean the floor (“Not the washcloth for goodness sake!”)  I was blowing my nose, finally calming down, when I heard from the table Ruthy’s voice sort of mumbling to herself, “I saw this flash of red go right past…”   Of course that made me lose it all over again, and I was in the middle of a blow, so it hurt my nose.  And my ears.  One more thing before I go, and I dearly hope Mom and Dad aren’t reading this, because I know they’ll make me a whole new batch of beets to eat because of it, but did you know that you shouldn’t try to hide a partially-chewed beet in a napkin?  …It will stain through…

Driver's Ed. and Amusement

     I was browsing through The Archives today and found a short, lighthearted email that I sent to my brother back in the day.  Before I started a blog or even sent people Meg Updates by email, I would send Ben an email, and if he considered it humorous he would forward it to his email list.  Hence “Archives”.  One of my biggest regrets in life was not saving the emails I sent Ben when I was taking Driver’s Ed.  Those were hilarious days, let me tell you.  Ben, Ruthy, and I all had Mr. M for a drivers’ ed teacher, and I think we all amused him in our own special way.  Mr. M was the spitting image of Bruce Willis, had a very dry humor, and, I suspect, had more patience for teenagers than he pretended to (otherwise he would have quit that job long before he acctually did).    

   When I got to his class I was amused to hear him regale the class with the tale of a  particular fellow that he had in his class a few years back who blazed through a parking lot with blatant disregard for those ever-sacred yellow lines (unnocupied by cars, I should mention).  That fellow was Ben, and I didn’t hesitate to inform Mr. M that the rogue he spoke of was, infact, my older brother.  From then on he had his eye on me.  I like to think that I was a source of amusement for my teacher, though.  We shared an amused glance between us at least once a day (can you tell I like the word ‘amuse’?  That’s what I want on my tombstone, by the way:  “She was amusing”.  But I digress). 
   Mr. M took us out daily by the carload, and I shared my vehicle with three other girls, who, I shall say in the gentlest way possible, took up more than their fair share of space.  Cue the amused looks.  It took those girls an extra two minutes to assemble themselves in the backseat when it was my turn to drive.  It was during those times that Mr. M was, naturally, in the passenger seat with his foot hovering habitually over his instructor’s brake.  We would exchange our customary glance and wait with the utmost patience.  As a probably-unecessary sidenote, I avoided the rear middle seat with as much earnestness and grace as possible.  There simply wasn’t enough room, and the car was one of those ridiculous compact things anyway. 
   Anyway, I think my turn to amuse Mr. M came on the day of the midterm driving exam. He hadn’t yet arrived in the parking lot.  The other girls and I had just reached the unanimous conclusion that it was best to test second.  No one wanted to go first, there was too much pressure there.  Third was less-than-desireable, and last was just unpleasant.  Well, we all wanted to go second, and it was I who suggested we settle the matter with an arm-wrestling tournament.  We sprawled out on the pavement and faced off.   Mr. M walked out just as I brought down my final opponent’s arm with a hearty “Yes!”  The look on that man’s face was indescribable, but I like to think that he was amused as well as  bewildered.  
   Ruthy’s tale of amusement is as follows:  Mr. M drove her carload out into the country and stopped next to a cornfield and then got out so they could switch drivers.  After regarding her suroundings suspiciously for a moment, Ruthy asked Mr. M, “Is this the part where you kill us?” 
   Well, I meant to write a brief introductory to a past email that I thought was amusing, but I ended up writing something else entirely that is probably long enough.  I’ll post this for now, and get to that other email some other time.  Ta ta. 

Advice From A Wannabe Hero

     Human endurance is a funny thing.  There is no one that doesn’t get knocked down in life, and there are as many ways to get back up as there are people in the world.  The question is not “Do people deal with suffering?” but rather “How do people deal with suffering?”  The way I see it there is a scale, a spectrum, if you will, that measures how people deal with the problems life throws at them.  On one end there is the victim, and on the other end, the hero, or warrior. 

   The victim always feels sorry for himself, and never really feels the need to try to get back up after being knocked down, because whats the point?  The world is a cruel place, and the odds are so stacked against the victim that he resigns himself to crawling and complaining.  The only thing he is determined to do is to never put energy into hope, whether for himself or mankind.  Every internal effort is futile, because every external energy is working against him.  Traffic lights turn red at his approach.  Colleagues purposefully turn a deaf ear to his ideas.  His dog digs a hole in the yard to spite him.  His children are always on the lookout for opportunities to question his authority.  Everyone on earth is an idiot, and who can compete with those odds? 

   The hero, or warrior, is a practiced glass-half-full sort of fellow.  Heck, the glass is full to the brim and overflowing most days!  And why not?  The God of the universe deeply cares about and actively guides the destiny of our hero.  The hero knows he is not alone, and when life bombards him with difficulty, all the while he is gaining strength from the experience because he knows that later on down the road he will have an opportunity to help another person through a difficult time because he has had the opprotunity to struggle as well.  He knows what its like to be broken, and he sees the beauty of hope, and how far grace will go.  Our hero and warrior doesn’t just exist.  He truly lives. 

   Which brings us to that guy in the middle.  You know, that guy who goes through life, and things are sort of fine, I mean, they could be worse.  Middle guy plays it safe, though.  Its not good to risk anything in life.  Not in relationships, or at work, or in planning the future.  This guy goes with the flow, and doesn’t really get upset by things, but he doesn’t really get excited, either.  Its best just to meander carefully, because running or stopping might mean falling or lying down, and its too hard to get back up from that, so the middle guy meanders, not bothering anyone.  Not rocking the boat.  Not doing much of anything, really. 

   So where are you on the spectrum?  I have to say I’ve been all over it.  And as much as I’d like to retain hero status, I sometimes view myself as a victim.  I’ve compiled a list of things that help me stay heroic, and you might find it helpful, so here ya go:

  BE HEALTHY.  I’ve been on a health kick recently, and two things caused that.  The first was when my boyfriend picked me up.  As in, lifted me off the floor and carried me around in his arms.  I got such a kick out of that.  The fact that I am pickupable just tickles me to death.  It occurred to me that I would like to stay pickupable, so I cut way back on snackfoods.  I let myself acctually get hungry between meals, and I bought salads and cucumbers instead of cheezits and cookies.  Oh, and I’ve been all about green tea lately, its awesome stuff.  Not tasty, but cleansing and energizing.  Drink it.  Anyway, yes, the second thing that caused my health kick was an article I read.  I don’t remember the exact information, but the gyst was that cancer thrives in unhealthy bodies.  Apparently everyone gets cancer cells, or is prone to cancer, or something like that, but cancer just loves a greasy lazy body.  I suddenly wanted very much to be healthy.  When you eat good foods, you feel ready to tackle the day.  Heros tackle their days.  It’s a thing of beauty.  

   WORK OUT.  I’ve never really worked out.  I’ve had jobs that kept me active (horses, anyone?), but I had never had an intense workout plan until recently.  A friend let me copy her Jillian Michaels workout videos (Thirty Day Shred, and something else, I forget) and I feel amazing, after only having done it for a couple of days.  To put yourself in a position where your body and brain are at war with each other is interesting and beneficial.  Your brain knows that you will look and feel great after the workout, and your body doesn’t believe in itself and wants very much to stop.  So you get conversations like this going on:    (Body) “I can’t finish!  I need to stop!  Let me be done!”   (Brain) “Keep going, you can do this, push yourself!”  (Body) “IT BURNS!”    (Brain) “Almost done!  Hang in there!  Finish strong!”   (Body) “AAAAAARRRRGGGHHH!  YES!  I DID IT!”   (Brain) “Good Job!”  The best part is, you walk around afterward in your muscular capable awesomeness thinking, “Bring it on, world!  I can take whatever you throw at me!”  Sounds like a hero to me. 

   DO THINGS THAT SCARE YOU.  I’m not saying you should go skydiving at the first available opportunity (I’m also not saying that you shouldn’t).  But don’t let life intimidate you, and don’t base your decisions on the avoidance of that awful gut-wrenching “what if I can’t do this?” feeling.  What if you can?  Continue riding that spastic beast that bucked you off and broke your body.  Prepare for, and rock that speech!  Dare to offer a comforting touch to that person who is crying their eyes out in your presence.  Tell someone that THEY’RE stepping on YOUR toes!  Stand in your own space and know you are there. 

   SPEND TIME WITH GOD.  (last, and infinitely  most important) Honestly, I don’t know how atheists cope with life.  How are they not dashing about in a constant frenzied panic?  I find that when I’ve been reading by Bible regularly and spending time in prayer and listening carefully for the guidance of the Holy Spirit and complimenting God on his mad skills with a paintbrush when I stop to admire a sunrise (why do I grumble about my job getting me out of bed so early?), then I am more relaxed and confident about life, because I am reminded of who God is.  He’s not who society tells me He is after I’ve been watching a bunch of cable tv and wasting time on youtube (who wants to spend time with that guy?).  He’s the God I come to trust after reading His Word and listening to His voice, and remembering that He wants whats best for me, even if His will for my life seems unfair or difficult at the time. 

   So there you have it my friends, the hero formula in four easy steps.  Wow, that sounds terrible.  I think I just wrote a mini-self help book.  NOT what I set out to do.  Its just that I’ve been feeling so great lately I wanted to share it with ya’ll.  It seems to be a pretty great way to get through the days.  Some days I feel great for absolutely no reason because life’s been rough and I haven’t been taking care of myself, and that’s when I know someone’s praying for me.  That’s pretty cool, and always appreciated.  Well, I’m not really sure how to wrap this up, so I’ll just say go be heroes! 

(see attached youtube video.  Never fails to give me goosebumps).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGcsIdGOuZY&ob=av2e

  

A Passage From The Book of Meg

    And there were in those days riders of the desert.  In the heat of the day the riders took counsel with each other, and said one to another, “Come, let us take our horses on a trail ride.”  And they went up from the barn and each took for herself a horse of her liking.  Among the riders was the one they call Meg.  And Meg, being of like mind and (recently) sound body, said to the desert riders, “I am of like mind and (recently) sound body.  I will accompany you on the trail ride.”  And she caused her horse to be saddled and bridled, and rode out with the other desert riders in the heat of the day.

   And it came to pass, as the horses walked along the sandy trail that Meg’s horse lagged behind the other two.  Suddenly a great serpent slithered across the path directly in front of Meg’s horse.  Meg saw the serpent and gasped, and cried out in a loud voice, “Holy Crap!”  And her mind was filled with the image of her horse, in fearful reaction of the snake, unseating her and causing her collarbone to unmend itself, and she was sore afraid.  But an angel of the Lord came, and caused the eyes of the horse to be closed.  And the horse, unseeing and unafraid, remained calm, and unreactive to the serpent that lay in his path.  And lo, the serpent continued on it’s steadfast way, and it was unaware of the rucus it had caused.  The riders of the desert took counsel once more, and determined together that the serpent had exceeded three cubits in length.  And they were amazed at what they had seen. 

      -from The Book of Meg, Chapter 24

(True story, and I’m pretty sure it was a bull snake, about four feet long.  Pretty cool!  No angels were seen during the event).

A Snowboarder's Tale[bone]

   The following is a true story I wrote three or four years ago.  After being unable to ride for seventeen days and also suddenly able to sense the slightest change in barometric pressure, thusly finding it possible to accurately predict impending bad weather for about nine months afterwards, I arrived at the conclusion that I had probably managed to break my tailbone.  I made reference to this story in a previous blog, so here ya go: 

     There was a time in my life when I thought I could snowboard.  I remember buying a cheap kid’s snowboard from Wal-Mart…the safe, single-strap, pop-off-incase-of-emergency kind of snowboard.  Then the siblings and I would tromp through the snow to the neighbor’s snow-covered dirt piles and the Big Hill across the road.  Those were intense times.  Some days, when the weather was perfect and the snow was fast, we could probably get up to five, maybe seven miles an hour down those hills.

 Eventually the day came when I graduated to Ben’s grown-up strap-in snowboard.  That baby could fly.  I built a jump for it half way down the hill on one inspired day.  I probably caught six inches of air off that thing.  Confident in my abilities was I. 

   So last week when the Baptists asked if I would like to join them on their ski/snowboard outing, I said, “Absolutely!  I used to snowboard back in the day.”  We met in the church parking lot on Saturday at 1300hrs.  Those darling people…not only were they packed to the gills with food for later, they had extra equipment for stragglers, so I didn’t need to rent anything; snowboard, snow pants, gloves…I was good to go. 

   We went to a public ski place called Bristol Mountain.  I would just like to take this moment to say that ruggedly-gorgeous men can be found in droves on ski hills.  But I digress.  My plan was to pick someone out of the group and tag along with them for the day.  Everybody scattered, and I followed a few of the less-confident individuals to the bunny hill to find my snow legs. 

   There is a device upon the bunny hill that is known as the “tow rope”.  Designed with humiliation in mind, the tow rope drags uncoordinated people up to the top of the bunny hill in whatever way possible.  I watched tiny athletic children grab onto the rope and zing to the top of the hill on their skis and snowboards.  They made it look so easy.  So I strapped one foot into my board and headed toward the rope.  Foreign men stood in line behind me with big grins on their faces.  It was like they could sense the fool I was going to make of myself.  One of them began to give me semi-comprehensible instructions.  I smiled, nodded, grabbed the rope, and promptly forgot everything he had just said.  One would, after having fallen on their face in the snow, not two feet from the base of the bunny hill.  I struggled to my foot, grabbed the rope, and promptly fell over again.  Needless to say, I left my pride at the base of that accursedly, notoriously easy hill and quickly adopted a rhythm for getting to the top.  Grip-fall-sprawl, grip-fall-sprawl, grip-fall-sprawl.   It worked eventually.  I got to the top of the hill and sat down.  The foreign men walked past chattering and motioning toward me and grinning widely.  If I understood Spanish I’m sure I would have heard, “Ha.  First-timer.  Too bad there’s no bunny bunny hill.” 

   I got both of my feet strapped into my board and stood up.  And fell down.  And stood up.  And fell down.  The bottom of my board was too slippery.  Some idiot hadn’t thought to put any traction on there.  Other people in my group shouted encouragement.  Perfect strangers shouted encouragement.  Weird.  I finally got my balance and started down the hill.  Half an hour later I was almost to the bottom.  I had made it twenty feet and was feeling pretty confident, although I hadn’t remembered snowboarding being this difficult back in the day.  I picked up some speed, caught an edge, and fell smack on my butt.  My group murmured encouragement and suggested that we all head over to a big hill.  Why not?  I had had enough practice already.  I couldn’t steer, stop, or stand up yet, but I didn’t want to hold up anyone else, so off we went. 

   The ride on the ski lift was relaxing…until the dismount.  I touched down, stood up, and fell on my face.  My group members were all very encouraging, but eventually I shooed them on ahead, insisting that I needed to duke it out alone.  It was a bit lonely, but I wanted to focus on my progress instead of how long I was making people wait for me.  Besides, I was beginning to get frustrated, and I didn’t want those kind church people to see me turn into a fuming mess.  Actually, I was quite proud because I could feel myself starting to take myself too seriously (and when that happens the fun goes out the window) and I was able to stop that in its tracks.  So I kept falling down and getting up, falling down and getting up, making my way down the mountain.  After one fall I think I was grinning - for whatever dumb reason - and a man skied past and commented, “You look like you’re having a good time.” 

   There came a moment about midway down the mountain (come to think of it…I had quite a few ‘moments’ that seemed to take place ‘midway down the mountain’) where I had to face the reality that one cannot deal with a snowboard the way one does a person, or a horse.  One cannot talk to or reason with a snowboard.  I know because I tried.  Skiers skied past with raised eyebrows as I talked down at my feet: “No, you don’t understand.  I don’t want to go toward the trees…or the ditch, for that matter.  I just want to stay in the middle of the slope, don’t you get it?  Who’s in charge here, you or me?  Stop skidding for a minute and listen to me, there’s a speed issue we need to discuss while we’re at it.” 

   Well I managed to reach the ski lodge without talking, crying, taking out – or getting taken out by – little kids, or breaking anything.  Fifteen people had the same reaction to me going on this trip:  “Don’t break anything”. 

   After resting up and eating chili with the group, I actually went back up a different big hill that was supposedly ‘flat’ and ‘easy’. 

   But people lie. 

   The hill was bumpy, fast, steep, and ridiculously long.  Night came, they turned the floodlights on, and I was still on that accursed mountain.  Thank goodness for cell phones.  My group had left me (upon my insistence), but they called me often to make sure I was still alive.  It was on that hill that I figured out that whilst standing up from a fall, I could sort of twist my body and drag my right hand on the ground until I was up and sliding, so that I could keep my balance and steer until I got going.  It was brilliant.  Unfortunately I never figured out how to turn.  I was afraid to try to shift my weight too much from heel to toe, so I ended up in another one of my rhythms: fly straight down the hill until panic set in, lie down, skid to a halt, stand up, and begin again.  It ended up sounding like this:

   “Okay, you’re okay.  Easy…eeeeeasy…EASY!  Ohcrap.”  (fwooooooooooosh). 

My lowest point came when I was midway down the mountain.

Fancy that.

   The rhythm got messed up and I took a particularly hard fall on my rear that left me gasping for air.  I lament that my hindquarters are not more generously padded.  Anyway, I was overcome with a sense of despair.  I was cold, tired, pained, snot-nosed, and alone.  I wanted to be back in my warm apartment sipping hot chocolate and watching a DVD.        

   But this way of thinking would not do.  I took my whininess by the scruff of the neck and shook it deftly.  I was on an adventure gosh darn it.  I had started it and by golly I was going to finish it.  I may have fallen, but I would get up again, if only to fall again.  I would make it to the bottom of that mountain in one piece, or how ever many pieces it would take to get the job done.

 Preferably one. 

   I have to admit I did walk part way down that hill.  A friendly ski-lift worker guy was on his way down and offered to escort me.  I must have looked like the winter sport version of a drowned rat.  I don’t know what that would be.  A scruffy jackrabbit?  I don’t know.  Anyway, we walked and talked for a bit.  He informed me that all of the emergency ski guys at Bristol Mountain were volunteers.  Oh, that was nice, I said.  Two of the guys in the red jackets with white crosses on the back stopped to ask me if I was alright.

…Scruffy jackrabbit walking down the edge of the hill with my board under my arm that I was. 

   I strapped my board back on my feet as I got toward the bottom of the hill, and I actually made a very cool entrance, stopping when I wanted to.  Too bad none of my group saw my new and improved skillful self. 

   As I write to you, bruised and grinning, I would just like to share this final thought:  When you fall, get back up.  Yes, I know it sounds easy, but try to embrace this thought when you are midway down the mountain, alone, holding your backside and fighting back tears.  When you fall, get back up.  I don’t think we have enough opportunities to do that, or when we do, we don’t appreciate the fact that we have been given the chance. 

Happy Trails.

‘Till Spring,

        MegJ