No One Loves a Girl Like a Horse

I know, you might be thinking, "No one loves a horse like a girl." And that would also be true. This horse is my gelding, Dusty. The girl's name is Ruby, at the wondrous and amazing age of 13, with all of its tragedy and triumphs. The Memorial Day weekend was Ruby's second visit to Soggy Bottom.
I think Ruby is a natural equestrian. This weekend she was able to ride three times. She rode Emily's horse, "Bama." Ruby pays close attention, follows instructions, and is fearless. She is not afraid of the horses nor the hard work that horsemanship requires. She groomed with meticulous care. She shoveled horse manure from the barn without complaint.
Sunday evening a storm came up and she ran out to our western pasture to bring the horses into the main corral. She was disappointed they did not follow. She was worried that they might be struck by lightening. I was worried that Ruby might be struck by lightening.
Before we went out this morning I said to Ruby that you cannot be a real cowgirl without a pocket knife. I then gave one to her. She took it, clutched it to her chest and beamed. She said "thank you," of course, but the smile said gratitude like I have seldom seen.
We then talked about how the young gelding would respond with both Bama and our mare, "Red," out of the corral and away from him. We talked about the security that horses get from being in the herd and that we were basically cutting Dusty out of "safe company." He acted as I said by running wildly around the corral and whinnying with abandon.
This morning she and her mom rode about a mile east of our house. On the way back Bama decided it was giddy-up time and took off at a full gallop. Ruby had not given this command. She brought Bama back to a trot and then a walk. I asked if she was OK and she said, "It was awesome. I loved it." With a broad grin she asked if she could ride some more. Was there any other answer than "yes?"
This is the second time I have had the privilege of introducing someone outside of my immediate family to horseback riding. I am only teaching them the most basic stuff. They won't learn barrel racing from me. But I enjoy it immensely. I love to watch the confidence that shines out as apprehension dissolves. It is a pleasure to see whatever tensions and pain the rest of life gives them become unimportant, if only for a few hours. The care and riding of horses puts everything else into perspectives. It is one of the most therapeutic things I do in my life. I become more whole helping someone else discover a new skill, a new joy, and new friends.

Drill-Baby-Drill?

My heart is breaking today.
Greasy black fingers creep
Up the throat of the Mississippi Delta,
Strangling the life out of marshes and wetlands,
Choking grebes and otters,
Smothering shrimp and sea turtles,
oyster bars and pelicans.

In the geopolitical war of oil and profit
Delta is collateral damage.
Leaning against mangrove roots,
Disemboweled,
Holding her organs in her hands
Her life forces leaching away,
Fading from blue and green to brown,
Vitality dying on the Mother's lap.

Something of me is dying today.
May 1, 2010

Earth Day 2010

If you were to Google "Earth Day" you would discover 74,300,000 links. On YouTube there are 20,200,000. You could spend all of Earth Day reading or watching videos but you could never view all of these items. I don't recommend it.
I have a better idea. Go outside! Walk in the splendor of Spring, even if you have to wear your rubber boots and a poncho. Indeed, jump in a puddle and splash yourslef and anyone around you. Turn your face skyward and feel the rain trickle down your cheeks. Stick out your tongue and drink the sky's cordials.
From my front porch this morning a grand chorus had gathered in the prairie to sing the wonder of creation. The conductor was Maestro Great Horned Owl who sat atop a telephone pole. His direction is most subtle. The leading vocalist was the Mocking Bird whose repertoire was expansive. The depth of her range and complicated syntax was complemented by satirical and comical stanzas. The Ring-necked Pheasant offered a few brief solos, as did the Red-bellied Woodpecker. Other choral members included the Blue Jay, Meadowlark, Mourning Dove, Eastern Kingbird, a variety of Sparrows and Finches, Red-winged Blackbirds, Cardinals, Robins, Plovers, and Starlings. I think someone should have auditioned the Starlings. As usual they were off key and out of tune.
Earth Day must surely be more than articles, speeches, resolutions, videos, and the usual litany of all the things we should do to save the earth. We cannot save the earth unless we are prfoundly in tune with her harmonies. Remember this stanza from St. Francis of Assisi's "All Creatures of Our God and King:"
Dear Mother Earth, who day by day
unfoldest blessings on our way,
O praise him, Alleluia!
The flowers and fruits that in thee grow,
let them his glory also show:
O praise him, O praise him. Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.

Forsythian Times

The forsythia are leaking yellow drops of spring. The sun-faced daffodils dance in prairie winds while the willow weeps slender streams of golden green. The air is twittering with song birds. This morning eight American goldfinch crowded our feeder. The plovers scuttle across the fields. I saw a hawk on the side of the highway gathering nesting straw. I am still waiting for the scissor-tailed flycatcher to return. Let me know if you see them.
This is also Holy Week, the season of betrayal and hope, death and new life. The Roman Catholic Church reels in the scandal of new allegations of child sexual abuse in Europe. Worse still is the revelation that bishops, cardinals, and popes have betrayed children - dare I say raped them again - and their families with denial obfuscation, and concealment of the truth.
As the acorn must go down into the earth in order to resurrect as a great tree; as Jesus died in the face of imperial power in order to offer the hope of life beyond Caesar; so must the Pope resign his seat of power if ever the Roman Catholic Church is to be purged of this scandal. The salvation of the church calls for such an offering and full disclosure of every file and fact. Benedict XVI can only resurrect the meaning and vitality of the church by offering this sacrifce as deep penance for the sins of the fathers.

Waste Management

The other day I spent three hours shoveling out the horse barn. I then spent another three hours making repairs on it. The barn is an old wooden structure that looks something like a boxcar. The walls are tongue-in-groove and it was well constructed. But it is very old and there is quite a bit of rot in the walls and some sections of the floor.
After our run-in shelter blew down last year the horses had no refuge against rain storms, ice, or snow. I cut a doorway in the eastern wall of the barn, giving them access to a harbor in inclement weather. But that means another building to muck out and the eternal question of what to do with all that waste. Whoever imagined that waste would be an eternal question?
Life is consumed with waste management - the physical, mental, and spiritual. I cannot tell you the amount of manure that I have had to shovel out of congregations, families, marriages, social service agencies, careers, and so on. The hard truth is that wherever there is organic life there will be litter. Human beings, other animals, and every manner of human organization create dregs and dross.
I always have to figure out what to do with all that horse, chicken, and goat poop. Of course we can think up all of the composting metaphors. And, indeed, some of it goes into the garden. Neighbors are welcome to take some for their flower or vegetable plats. Some can be spread across the pasture. But there always remains a pile that just seems to sit there forever. Metaphors have their limits.
Our personal lives, our churches, our corporations, and all of our civic organizations face the same challenge. We have no choice but to do the shoveling. We have to make choices about where to shovel it. If you do not muck out a horse barn with some regularity it not only piles up, its gets stomped down and is ever harder to excavate. It will deteriorate the floor. Hoof diseases can become your next problem. Think what it does to the soul or the mind.
We can expend a lot of emotional energy being angry about the reality of waste management. Or we can pick up the shovel and start to work. It is, after all, an honest days work.

Valentines in Winter

The temperature, with wind chill, was zero. The northern wind was buffeting the house. I sat in the living room looking out onto the frozen snowpack. Prairie grass and evergreens were creaking in sharp temperatures and frigid blast. My feet were cold already. I was trying to think of some other thing I needed to do before I went out and fed the horses, goats, and chickens. Excuses flaked away to nothing.
Layered and bundled, I went outside. I looked something like the Michelin tire man. The snow crunched beneath my boots. The goats yammered, the rooster crowed. As soon as I opened the door to the hen house, all the chickens and Rosie the duck ran outside, the rooster in hot pursuit of a hen. BAM! This is his daily routine. Chicken sex has absolutely no romance associated with it.
The mud and horse manure were frozen clods, like walking on a street of rocks. I worried that I would topple over and break something. The young gelding was frisky and wanted to play "Who's the Boss?" That is his favorite game which he plays hourly. The barn cat curled around my feet, just one more thing to trip over. I managed to get the grain in the horse tubs and everybody lined up in their proper pecking order.
I hobbled back to the house, took off my barn boots, coat, sweatshirt, sweater, scarf, gloves, and hat. Back in the bedroom I quietly prepared to take a shower. Mimi's head rose above the quilt. "Did you feed already?" she asked. "I would have helped you."
And she would have. "It was nothing," I said. "Go back to sleep."

In a Fog

During the past week we have been blanketed with deep fog. Some days the visibility on our country road was only fifty feet. Approaching the blacktop I stopped the car and rolled down the windows so I could hear approaching vehicles. I certainly would not have been able to see them.
Fog has an interesting impact on our lives. Because of the fact that you cannot see very far you are more cautious and anxious. Any reasonable person knows that another vehicle or animal could explode from the deep mist and cause a potentially deadly accident. There were scenes this week when the gray haze rendered a quiet and mysterious presence. One morning we had freezing fog like the one pictured on our fence post. There were times when the dankness cast a mood of despair and people openly wondered if we would ever see the sun again. Someone at the doctor's office today said that with this many days of running fog we would have severe storms in ninety days. I will let you know if that happens.
Fog is a powerful metaphor for fear, terror, ignorance, and superstition. It works the same way in nearly every case. In fear our horizons are so narrowed we cannot discern reality, like the fact that the sun will return. In terror we may experience the brilliance of heroism or the darkness of unending hopelessness. ignorance shields our eyes from possibility. Superstition veils real options for change and maturation. We only fantasy the malevolent and grotesque.
Well guess what? The sun came out this afternoon and the wind is picking up. Nature displays a new set of images to reflect on.
Today the church celebrates Vincent of Saragossa, deacon and martyr from Spain. The church's prayer reads (from Robert Benson's, Venite): "Your deacon Vincent of Saragossa was upheld by your grace and was not terrified by threats nor overcome by torments; Strengthen us that we too may endure all adversity with invincible and steadfast love." Something to keep in mind when the fog rolls in.