And Yet More Existential Blathering

As you might have suspected, I told the story of my first reverse epiphany for a reason. A week ago, I had another of my Rodney-inspired tailspins. Hubby was lunging & Rodney was being a dork. His behavior might even have been considered progress. The dorkiness was more from TB enthusiasm than tension. In spite of this rose-colored interpretation of events, I was overwhelmed with the idea that I would never be able to ride this horse. Too much had happened to ever allow me to get comfortable with him.

I’ve sung this song before [Explosion]. Probably more than once. Apparently I don’t believe myself. This one feels more permanent that the others. In response to my whining yet again on this subject, one of my ever-patient friends gently suggested:

“If you want to event, Rodney isn’t likely to get you there. For whatever reason, and I don’t really think it matters why, the two of you haven’t managed to have the sort of horse/human relationship you were expecting.”

After uncurling from the fetal position & crawling out from under the covers, I had to admit that she was right. No matter who did what to whom, the reality stands. Despite an awesome start, this was not where I had planned to be two years on. So what to do about it?

She went on:

“If it were my place to make suggestions, I’d suggest that you call a cease and desist with the boy and find him another home. Not sell him! Don’t be silly. I have been listening to you this past year. …. why not find Rodney a person who can deal with Rodney while Rodney is still young enough to have a career and free lease him, with a contract that you get him back when they are finished?”

Not gonna happen.

In addition to our inability to let go of anything, we are of the opinion that it would be too easy for Rodney to fall into the wrong hands. Yes, I can accept in theory that there are people who have exactly the right balance of understanding and pressure to bring out the best in Rodney. We have clearly swung too far in the understanding direction. However, such stellar horsefolk are outnumbered by the large mass of us who stagger along doing the best we can, often to the detriment of our horses. We’ve all seen the pictures on the Internet of horses – usually jumpers – whose bridles look like moving tack shops. I’m not judging (much). I’ve know horses who give as good as they get. I had to get in Previous Horse’s face on more than one occasion. More tack isn’t going to help these situations but such is the ego on this sort of horse that it’s not going to hurt them either. Rodney is not one of these.

Plus I know virtually no one actively competing. Maybe if I lived in Horse Central and had good friends &/or trainers I admired, and I had seen them interact well with Rodney, I might, possibly, maybe, consider a more functional home for him. As it is, I would have to rely on the opinions of others. That’s a sure way to horse/rider mismatch.

BTW, I blame the mare. If she hadn’t scared us spitless & then sucked up all our energy, I would have had more time to work Rodney this year. Well, if I’d *really* wanted to I could have found the time. She didn’t make easier.

Mathematically, we are not eliminated from the race. However, I can’t think that way. Tending such dreams for that last 2 years has resulted in the waves of frustration that kept crashing over my head. So, I have finally accepted that Rodney is a gorgeous, sound, happy pasture ornament.

Things that I have gained:

No time pressure. If I accept that Rodney will be in exactly the same place in a year, it no longer matters that he flings his head up in panic when I approach his head with a brush. If one is not going anywhere, there is no hurry. As far as the activity on a given day, I can chose grooming, a heating session, lunging, ground exercises, or nothing. Mox nix.

No performance pressure. In competition, progress can be measured. You have a good round, you win, or – in an ideal world – you do both. If the question is, what relationship will I have with this horse, the only answer is the one he & I come up with. Even my judgmental, hyperanalytic brain can’t find a way to give that a grade.

It sounds as if I have lost hope [Pandora’s Horse]. I like to think that I have lost false hope, delusional hope, hope that wasn’t really there. I’m feeling more peaceful. We’ll see how long it lasts.

Snaps to Hubby for taking care of the horses all day following my tailspin. He did all the chores & feeding while I sat in the house & wallowed. I didn’t go to the barn once that day. Neat trick when the barn is 100 feet away.

Whoa There Cowboy

I was having a seriously bad day on the cross-country phase of a Horse Trials [Reverse]. My horse had come out of the start box on his hind legs and had subsequently acquired a number of stops at a variety of fences. I was furious. I was fuming. I was determined that we were getting over the next fence. I came around the corner and some fool, some idiot, was between me and the jump. I put my leg on my horse, hunkered down, and thought,

“Lady, get the HELL out of my way.”

I galloped straight at her for 2-3 strides before it dawned on me that she was waving a set of red flags.

Another stride. Red flags = stop.

Another stride. They meant ME.

I was on a Training level course after three or five stops, whatever the rules were at that time. Imagine the focus of a rider at Rolex with a chance at winning. When I’m doing crowd control at an event and want to underline the need for pedestrians to stay out of the galloping lane, I tell them:

It’s not that they can’t stop.
It’s not that they won’t stop.
They don’t even see you.

What is the most focused you’ve ever been in competition?
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Gratuitous Cat Picture

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?