I woke to the smell of spring drifting through an open window. Just that. The crushing nausea and the pain I that I had known for days was an arms reach away, but it wasn't sitting heavy on my stomach. I smiled. Tonia was still sleeping beside me. It was an easy glance from her face to the window past and the sliver of sky framed there.
Here's the thing about illness or injury. It can rob us of moments like this. Moments when what is right before our eyes is invisible somehow to our minds. This is why I fought so hard for all the second chances that I'd aided and witnessed. Gored by bulls in Texas, Rammed by buses in Boston. Shootings, stabbings, poisonings. Cancer. If a second chance could be won, that person could find their moments again.
My moment right now asked this question: If this was your last spring, would you celebrate it differently? Would the knowledge that it was the last rob any of it's beauty and joy? In the brief respite of my symptoms I looked tenderly at her face, and at the sliver of sky beyond. Each and every moment that I have cherished blooms anew this spring, and for the times when I can't see them I have transplanted the gratitudes of every other spring right into this one now overflowing moment.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Friday, April 12, 2013
No shortage of friends
When I began this blog, I intended it to be a celebration of all that family and friends have brought to my life. I hoped it would become clear over time that I made no distinction between the sacred friendship I have found in loved ones, and the loved ones I have cherished in other species. I never intended to use this blog as a place to inform about, of all things, my health.Still, it seems a logical place to continue; so with some hesitation I will attempt to do both. The gifts I have been given by those I have loved I carry with me everyday and everywhere; even to radiation.
Shadrack was not the first horse that I loved. He was the first horse who owned me,or more traditionally stated, he was the first horse I owned. I loved every horse or pony for miles around from my earliest memory. A story circulated for years in my family that I could have died from that love one holiday when I was a toddler. Apparently someone finally missed me in the crowd of visiting family members and discovered the door unlocked. I was found by the top of my blonde head contrasting with snow in a deep drift. When they asked me I am told I answered, "Horses." One was known to be pastured a half a mile away. I had been struggling that direction long enough to need treatment for frostbite.
Shad was singularly unimpressed with such devotion. At least at first. By the time we met, I was twelve and indeed knew every horse for miles, their preferences in treats, and in most cases, whether their owners were annoyed by my providing them. When Shad showed up in a nearby pasture, I could never catch the owner there to speak with them. The man who leased the pasture, yes, but he was no help at all. I could not even learn the new horses name. I sat just outside the fence line, day after day tossing apple bits, and carrots and sometimes oatmeal cookies in his direction. He eyed me cautiously and slowly grazed closer but at first never took a treat while I was present. How my mother and grandmother laughed later about my reported efforts to make friends with him! While I fretted that his person never visited, I was spending all my free time with my future best friend.
That Christmas morning changed my life. I opened a package containing sugar cubes and a brush, and everyone cried with joy. Until the day my mother died she retold the story of that Christmas. How a factory co-worker complained that his daughter never cared about the horse he bought her; now she wanted a piano. How my mother often commented that she suspected I was revising old pieces, and not practicing new while I sat at the piano and stared outside. How after the trade was made, great pains were taken to keep the surprise.
Christmas eve after I slept my mother and grandmother braved over a foot of snow to somehow lead a neighing frightened horse away from his pasture.Tied to our clothesline pole over half a mile from his pasture buddy, the neighborhood resounded with near and distant sympathetic neighing. Ever after that night mom's clothesline listed to the left. They had to don boots again and take him back. How their total inexperience managed it all without injury is a miracle to me to this day.
Another foot of snow fell that night. It was a good thing as it turned out. By the end Christmas day, Shadrack had had enough of all the excitement and attention. In our back yard, with me on his back, he reared three times in rapid succession and became my first runaway ride, all the way back to the pasture.The two foot of snow probably slowed that run a bit. It certainly kept him from falling over backward with me. Never again would he rear without doing just that, no matter how perfect my position bareback or saddled.
That was our illustrious beginning.The best of times and the worst of times so to speak. The dream come true, and the stark realities of it. I wept a tear or two alone in bed that night. I knew that this horse could kill me.I knew that for me, it was worth it. Ultimately Shad taught me so much about life, love and joy; and the responsibility to nurture it. He gave me freedom that tested me in every way: physically, intellectually, emotionally and spiritually. There were those who called him a killer horse, and urged my mother to replace him. It was true enough that you needed to be real with Shad. Don't pretend to know if you don't know. Ever.
He was often with me when I slept under the willow tree. I drifted off to the sound of tall grass tearing, and shorter grass inhaled and nibbled. I knew the texture of a particular mouthful by the sound it made in the dark. We were friends. In my heart we always will be.
Shadrack was not the first horse that I loved. He was the first horse who owned me,or more traditionally stated, he was the first horse I owned. I loved every horse or pony for miles around from my earliest memory. A story circulated for years in my family that I could have died from that love one holiday when I was a toddler. Apparently someone finally missed me in the crowd of visiting family members and discovered the door unlocked. I was found by the top of my blonde head contrasting with snow in a deep drift. When they asked me I am told I answered, "Horses." One was known to be pastured a half a mile away. I had been struggling that direction long enough to need treatment for frostbite.
Shad was singularly unimpressed with such devotion. At least at first. By the time we met, I was twelve and indeed knew every horse for miles, their preferences in treats, and in most cases, whether their owners were annoyed by my providing them. When Shad showed up in a nearby pasture, I could never catch the owner there to speak with them. The man who leased the pasture, yes, but he was no help at all. I could not even learn the new horses name. I sat just outside the fence line, day after day tossing apple bits, and carrots and sometimes oatmeal cookies in his direction. He eyed me cautiously and slowly grazed closer but at first never took a treat while I was present. How my mother and grandmother laughed later about my reported efforts to make friends with him! While I fretted that his person never visited, I was spending all my free time with my future best friend.
That Christmas morning changed my life. I opened a package containing sugar cubes and a brush, and everyone cried with joy. Until the day my mother died she retold the story of that Christmas. How a factory co-worker complained that his daughter never cared about the horse he bought her; now she wanted a piano. How my mother often commented that she suspected I was revising old pieces, and not practicing new while I sat at the piano and stared outside. How after the trade was made, great pains were taken to keep the surprise.
Christmas eve after I slept my mother and grandmother braved over a foot of snow to somehow lead a neighing frightened horse away from his pasture.Tied to our clothesline pole over half a mile from his pasture buddy, the neighborhood resounded with near and distant sympathetic neighing. Ever after that night mom's clothesline listed to the left. They had to don boots again and take him back. How their total inexperience managed it all without injury is a miracle to me to this day.
Another foot of snow fell that night. It was a good thing as it turned out. By the end Christmas day, Shadrack had had enough of all the excitement and attention. In our back yard, with me on his back, he reared three times in rapid succession and became my first runaway ride, all the way back to the pasture.The two foot of snow probably slowed that run a bit. It certainly kept him from falling over backward with me. Never again would he rear without doing just that, no matter how perfect my position bareback or saddled.
That was our illustrious beginning.The best of times and the worst of times so to speak. The dream come true, and the stark realities of it. I wept a tear or two alone in bed that night. I knew that this horse could kill me.I knew that for me, it was worth it. Ultimately Shad taught me so much about life, love and joy; and the responsibility to nurture it. He gave me freedom that tested me in every way: physically, intellectually, emotionally and spiritually. There were those who called him a killer horse, and urged my mother to replace him. It was true enough that you needed to be real with Shad. Don't pretend to know if you don't know. Ever.
He was often with me when I slept under the willow tree. I drifted off to the sound of tall grass tearing, and shorter grass inhaled and nibbled. I knew the texture of a particular mouthful by the sound it made in the dark. We were friends. In my heart we always will be.
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