Reverse Epiphany

First Horse on a good day.
Photo by Kathie Mautner

An epiphany is a moment of cosmic harmony. The sudden realization that you are at one with the universe. A reverse epiphany is when you finally admit that the elephant is not only in the room but that tapping sound is the trunk whacking you repeatedly and vigorously. It is the death of denial.

I had one on my last cross-country trip with my first horse. First Horse had looks, movement, jump (see photo), and absolutely no desire to press the envelope. Although he could jump 3’6″ courses, his comfort zone stopped around 3 feet. If Adult Hunters had existed, he would have been fabulous.

We were riding at Training level in Eventing and Schooling in Jumpers. I was still under the delusion that horses could be taught to event. HA! We would have just enough success to entice me to continue the head to wall festivities.

If I had to do it over again, well, I would have bought a different horse. Short of that, I would have dropped us back to Baby Novice until he was more comfortable. But a) BN had just started up. It was very much a division for kids & ponies. Adults didn’t do it. Even more so, b) I was caught up in the Eventers Never Quit mentality. To go back was to admit defeat. In hindsight, I see the silliness. At the time, I was thinking kick on, kick on.

Among the many things FH didn’t like was jumping into water. Because of this, he was actually quite good in the jumper ring about going *over* water. If it meant getting his feet wet, No thank you.

The centerpiece at our final event was a large lake. The start box pointed straight at it. We weren’t jumping into it. Our course skirted the edge. FH did not know this. He saw a body of water in front of him and pitched a freaking fit. I had punched my wrist timer, so I know for a fact that he spent 20 seconds on his hind legs after the word Go. You can imagine how the rest of the course went.

We were finally eliminated. (Which reminds me of a story, more tomorrow.) I walked off the course, tears pouring down my face. I was heartbroken. This was my first horse. It was time to admit that it was not working out. I was boarding, therefore unable to accumulate pasture ornaments. I sold him shortly thereafter.

I can still feel the moment of realizing that my world sucked. That it had sucked for a while. That it was time to recognize the elephant.

Ideally, I’d ask for your reverse epiphanies, but I have enough hopeless moments of my own. Instead, what is the most colorful horse you have ridden?

More Memory Lane



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So it begins.
Mid ’70s, Camp Longacres, Randy.
Photographer unknown.

Where did you learn to ride?
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Gratuitous Kitten Pic

This is not a 7th cat.
My rules say 7 cats = Crazy Cat Lady.
I am not a Crazy Cat Lady.
Therefore, this is not a 7th cat.

Blogging Interjection

We interrupt the Saga to bring you an out-of-schedule, mid-month, blogging commentary.

I hate John Scalzi.

Scalzi not only writes Hugo-nominated sf novels but has a kick-ass blog, Whatever. For 14 years, he’s been writing almost daily “about whatever John Scalzi feels like writing on”. The blog has spawned a Hugo-winning book of its own, Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded: A Decade of Whatever, 1998–2008 (Subterranean 2008), Hugo Award for Best Related Book in 2009.

This isn’t my usual measuring myself against the success of others, although there is an element of that. This arose specifically from his writing advice. I was having a Sorrows of Young Werther moment – the details of which I will spare you. Part of the wallowing was to splurge on a Kindle edition of Scalzi’s Redshirts (Tor 2012) instead of waiting for the paperback. I read it overnight, including during the thunderstorm while an 80-pound German Shepherd [Critters] tried to sit in my lap. What is it with dogs & storms? I’ve never had a cat freak out at thunder. But I digress.

As part of my blogging education, I keep lists of blogs & sites to follow, thus the Fellow Travelers page. [Feature discontinued. Too much updating. KTW] Reading Redshirts reminded me of the blog book, which lead me to check out Whatever, which lead me to one of his writing advice posts. He’s yaps on about the difference between writing for yourself/the Great American Novel/pursuit of art and writing professionally. He assumes a base level of competence,

“This is not the document in which I bolster your fragile ego and affirm your status as a real live writer. Go deal with that yourself. Somewhere else. Preferably away from me.”

Ability to string sentences together – have that. He emphasizes that writing is relatively low-paying – knew that – and a lot of work.

“I work, damn it. I work hard, I work a lot, and I do a lot of writing that’s not typically what you’d call ‘fun.’ ”

As I’m reading along, nodding my head, a suspicion begins to creep up on me. Am I working hard? Have I done everything I could for riding, writing, housekeeping, {insert project here}? For writing, I can’t control whether the The New Yorker ever employs me. I can’t control the amount of talent I have. The one thing – the only thing – I can control is how much effort I put in. Repeat for the other areas of my life. Am I working hard? Pretty sure I know the answer to that one.

From now on, before I start whining, I will engage in the following conversation:

Have I given this project as much effort as I am capable of?
No?
Then shut up.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to get some work done.

Thpppft to you, Mr. Scalzi.

(Personal sanity note: I do not reject the need for downtime. Sitting on my tuchus all day yesterday indubitably helped me feel better today. It’s a little about changing the amount of work I do and a lot about restricting my whining license. Work? Not work? Cool. However, no work = no whinging allowed.)
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Gratuitous Kitten Pics

I think I see it …

… were you looking for this?

Dog Walks

Exercise sucks. Four years at a jock school did not change my opinion. Under protest, I bike, I swim, I stretch. I have yet to come in contact with an endorphin. I know I must persevere if I do not wish to be stove up.

Exercise is easier under the influence of an external agency, hence the popularity of personal trainers. In the past, I motivated myself to walk around the pasture with the excuse that Mathilda needed exercise [My Two Horses]. Since spring, she hasn’t been walking, so neither have I.

Another activity that fell off the schedule was barn time for the dog [Barn Dogs]. The only time our uber-beta dog doesn’t mind me is when there are horses to chase. Therefore, she is not allowed near the barn if Mathilda is out or being walked. The dog annoys the horses so much that Mathilda will try to kick or lunge even on a rope. So the dog has been in the custom-fenced dog pen that is our front yard. Despite the space, her summer hasn’t been any more fun than the rest of ours.

Combining the above, I have recently started taking the dog for walks around the pasture after the horses are done and Mathilda is put up for the might. She runs. I get weight-bearing exercise. My slothful side gets distracted.

If you will excuse me, I have to go walk the dog.
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Gratuitous Kitten Pic

The first of the junior cats gets big enough to invade a senior cat spot. Arthur will not be pleased.