a summer's worth

I'll begin with a glowing sigh as I reflect back upon this fanciful summer. Total satisfaction overcomes me when I think of the wind in my face on my adventures along the roads of these Green Mountains in the company of good guys on shinny motorcycles. I finally have a few pictures of the bikes, the roads and the expanse of space when we're out there; even one of my usual riding partner. Last weekend, we managed to ditch chores and abandon the firewood drill we are all obliged to perform every fall; instead we cruised one more, high mileage, ride through the North East Kingdom. Careful to stay out of the shady corners, veiled in perilous black ice on this mid-October weekend. In these pictures, the leaves are all down, so the views even more vast. A different experience from summer when all was green and the lanes enclosed in their emerald shag. In last Sunday's ride it felt other worldly, immense and powerful; a different planet in time and place. We went north and west, north and east and finally just plain north. We hit the Canadian border twice at remote, rural crossings with one patrolman (heavily armed), and the yellow road paint encircling the border post tarmac.
We often had the road and even the village centers to ourselves. Bakersfield, Enosburg, Richford, Birkshire, Jay, Montgomory, Troy, Lowell, North Hyde Park, and home. A scant few of any other bikers, die-hards for the last day of sunshine and dry pavement, rolling by with the trademark HD wave: a hip tilt of the left hand, palm down, low and cool, below a "cager's" sight line...It felt as if the blacktop was all ours and ours alone. Like a child on Christmas morning, I filled myself up with all of it. The rhythm of loud pipes, the scent of leathers, the warmth of my riding partner's heated jacket, the crisp of wind on my face, the brilliant sun on my back, enchanted by the view over his shoulder. I archived every detail in my mind and body. It will have to sustain me for the next 6 months and nourish my dream for more. The bikes are put away for winter and a future season in the next year. The summer of '08 was especially sweet, sensational in each outing with "the boys", as it was my first season and I had the pleasure to ride on Harley's, a Valkyrie, and a Kawasaki; all with good men who graciously shared their passion for riding and more than a few great stories. I wish I had taken more pictures to share, but its distracting for me and a little more effort for the driver when I'm twisting around on the back while he's threading the best piece of the road for a smooth ride.
Next year, I'm getting my endorsement to drive motorcycles in Vermont with some friends and someday my own bike; but I will always pine for the second seat, riding two-up with a savvy guy, savoring every mile, feasting on the bounty of the journey. If you haven't ever gone out; try it just once, with a seasoned rider on a cherry bike, over our rolling hills, on a glorious day... just once, so you can say you did it.
Enjoy the pics, there will be more next year, maybe even one of me all leathered up...
luv and peace ~ ell

this one is for the kindest men and their shinny bikes; thank you all for a summer's worth of joy...

"what a beautiful wreck I make...."

It's been a while since my last post so I guess I'm due. I titled this post after a song I heard by Shawn Mullens; it has the same rhythmic chorus: "what a beautiful wreck you are...what a beautiful, what a beautiful, what a beautiful wreck you are..." I relate all too well lately. People say I look great; but I feel like a wreck. Must be the rain, the humidity, the final days of summer slamming to their inevitable end. That means my buddies' will put their bikes away and autumn will trickle down around us and then the frosty winter. I love autumn and snow, no doubt. I feel much more functional and more alive. 0ddly enough, as my ability and mobility expand in the cooler air. I can hike, snowshoe, skid fire wood, do a little "groomed blue" skiing. But no velvety leathers, no chrome over the roads, no bearded gentleman cruiser up front to hold on to and revel in the scenery. My subtle grieving for the faded glory of a gentile adventure with fine friends who shared their summer with oddly-abled me. I've always been a thinker and doer in life; this was the first summer I was a spectator. A passenger enjoying a prime seat without worries or weighty thoughts. Now a taste of reality; more importantly, reality defined by a brain injury. I've got a full barn of horses, 6 too many really. I have to put 3 down. Euthanize and bury them here. One is too old for another winter in VT at 30 years. Another is 12 years old but in chronic pain from injuries induced by excessive racing. A third is too mean spirited to be rehabbed and placed with a family. It's time to let them go, bid them farewell and good wishes for the next life. Time to set them free of their earthly bonds. It's never easy to do. Even with a skilled veterinarian inducing their peaceful deaths; it's hard to take a life. With their passing, I will have assisted in 21 mercy killings; euthanasia ~ the "good death" here at this farm. Maybe that is why I have been in a blue funk these past weeks. So many difficult tasks to do. Fences to fix for winter, money to raise for overpriced hay, stalls to repair, and the usual winterizing list for this weary old farm. This year it feels like more than I can get done... at day's end. I am aware that in the mornings, I begin each day buoyant and ready to tackle the to-do list. By 2pm I am bone tired if I can't grab a rest, by 4 pm I am exhausted, tearful, aching for sleep. Waves of angst will roil around me and I have to stop and remember to sit down with a cup of tea and my homoeopathic (arsenicum 30x is awesome at diffusing the stress and restoring equilibrium) and my jazz legends on the player. A little peace, a little rest, and the the expectation that tomorrow will be better. I know I need fewer horses, a lot fewer, I know I need steady work, I know I need reliable help with my home and kids. But all are easier said than done... ask any single mom. Building capacity is something I should add to my resume. Asking for help is rolling off my tongue, only a little more easily, as I work the problem and move my feet. I look out across the road at the happy brown horses, no worse for the wear as yet, and I smile. It has always been a difficult horse farm. It will make an awesome berry farm. I remind myself to stay focused on that light at the end of this year's tunnel; and to get to bed early and have good dreams tonight. As one of my biker chauffeurs often says: "hang in there... it'll get better sooner than you think..." I'm ever hopeful of that; another sip of tea soothes the way....
luv and peace ~ ell

this post is for the memories of summer, good friends in leather, awesome brown horses, and my devotion to the effort...

The wonder of horses...

If you know me, you know that I have a horse farm. If you don't know me, a little background may help you get a better picture. Its not an average horse farm, but rather a typical hill farm with an exceptional purpose. It does not have fancy barns or a comfortable lounge (coming soon in 2010). We sit on bales of hay and pee in a clean horse stall. This is a horse rescue farm specializing in assisting former harness racing horses. Awesome brown horses who have been lucky enough to come here instead of auction or slaughter. For twenty years, I've built my base of knowledge, a posse of volunteers and a community of learners to help with this comprehensive task. It has been the most rewarding and joy-filled experience I have ever known with horses. Through the years, we were becoming well known in racing; assisting dozens of horses every year and my group of horse loving volunteers needed help. I reached out to the differently-abled community and they delivered whole heartily. This turned a page for me and evoked a whole new professional path for my equinery skills. I now aspire to evolve my odd little farm into a therapeutic learning center. Several years ago I embarked on a masters degree in this field of horse-assisted therapies; I certified in my preferred professional organization, EAGALA, I drafted a program the Learn'ed Horse Project and offered it to the public. These days, I am enjoying the participation of a teenage student who is passionate about horses, beautiful, articulate, differently-abled. Working with Felicia is an endearing experience. It has rekindled my joy of horses and my faith in sharing that which I love. Though HOURSE in VT is paid for this service, it has become a restorative opportunity for me. It is one of my better talents to mentor a novice with horses and a very satiating endeavor for me. At our farm, we are horse-centered in how we offer horsemanship. Always infusing the empathy for the horse's situation, seeking in ourselves, what is our responsibility in supporting him in successfully working with us, how do we ensure his desire to be with us.... In this expectation, a little piece of magic happens. In this process of observing, evaluating, assessing, asking and listening of the horse, the student becomes entwined with the horse's perspective and perception; what it's like to be this horse as we ask for his co-operation. What a therapist would call an "empathetic moment". I call it becoming a better human. Twenty years ago, as a professional horseman embarking on this horse rescue adventure (sometimes mis-adventures), I never imagined that it would be a horse that made us better persons, a kinder partner in a relationship, a more forgiving friend, a more gentle member of a community... like a midwife for personal discovery, I am blessed to witness this "birth of humanity" with every student who comes to this farm, my farm. I hope when these people are older, wiser and set in their lives, they will look back and remember the glow in my smile as I stood at the back of the "session" and silently lauded their discovery, I hope in their recollections, they will then know the gift they brought to me. This is INFINITY FARM live~learn~grow, come visit some time, bring carrots.
luv and peace ~ el

this is for the awesome brown horses and all they have taught me and continue to offer me...

God Humbled me today

Some days are a perfect execution of contradictions...
We've had a stretch of fine weather as of late and I was looking forward to some scenic rides up in the north country, maybe Canada, NH and home with a good motorcycle buddy. We started out in great fashion, (I make it a point to look good on the back of his bike, silk scarf and all...He looks pretty good too). We got about two hours into some stunning country, stopped for a good lunch, stretched our legs, mapped out our adventure and then mounted up to continue. I was thrilled to be there basking in the sun in the very good company of a gentleman on his chromed out Harley. So very blissed-out, living a dream, feeling blessed in this shared experience over the road, cruising far and away from my intense life... "this is living...what could be better..." was all I could think about. Then in the course of ten minutes or so, I got an abrupt lesson in what a brain injury can do to ruin a perfect day. I became so violently ill I was desperate for him to stop. "Where?!" he replied; "anywhere safe", I pleaded. He pulled off in a door yard and shut down while I tried not to hurl all over his back. We were in the middle of nowhere; miles from any town, any store, any support. And of course, our cell phones had no service. In seconds I was awash with every bodily fluid my body could purge. Horribly ill, nowhere to go but to crawl behind a truck barn beside the road and get sicker. Concerned and confused, he asked if I was alright... head for the trees..."that's the plan...", was my weak reply. I was a mess, in every way. I can remember trying to discern what was happening medically, hoping that I had not burst my appendix and, oddly, that my leathers would clean up alright and I could some how clean up when there was no water to be found, just some sand. When I could finally take a breath without gagging, the view was pristine across the valley. I propped myself against the back of the barn and just stared out there, thinking: "life isn't fair...the sky is blue, water is wet and life isn't fair...", feeling a lot more vulnerable than I ever care to be. A group of bikes chose to pull off right there where our bike was. I heard them talking but don't remember what they said. My partner came around the corner to see me squatting and cussing. He sat low beside me and just listened as I mused,"I don't know what will kill me first, this brain injury or the meds they have me on...." He looked over and smiled, still quiet. "I'm so sorry. I guess our plans have been decided for us..." was my lame attempt at conversation. I wanted to just roll over and melt into the earth. Not only do I feel like crap (I now know what that means, literally), but I just outed my broken brain, exposed the random treachery it can impose and quite likely ended a wonderful friendship with a kind man...life isn't fair. I would have preferred dying to killing this friendship. And we had minimum of two hours riding to get me home. Swell. I felt utterly beaten, by a silent syndrome that rears its ugly dysfunction at the worse moments and I have precious little control over it. I couldn't even look at him. But he could look at me; he put his hand out, helped me up and spoke music to my ears, "come on, let's go". With that we walked to his chromed out ride while some happy bikers greeted us: "nice day for a ride, ain't it!" "Yes it is" affirmed my partner; he mounted up and I swung my leg over behind him. Feeling thoroughly helpless, I buried my face in his shoulder and held on tight all the way home. All I could think was God bless him and God help me. This was a lesson in how fragile the balance of medications can be in treating my injured brain. A seemingly minor addition of an antibiotic for a sinus infection tipped my physiology from balanced and happy to system wide chaos which spoiled a potentially perfect day. When I finally got home, I cleaned myself up, restored my leathers and lay back in my empty house exhausted and defeated. My mortal embarrassment easing away, I was struggling to make sense of such a disaster; what was the purpose in this? If everything happens for a reason and God has a plan, why would this be His lesson for me? Have I taken life's true worth for granted? In the evening silence, the reflection gently emerged. God showed me how majestic He could craft a day...how genuine He could create a friend...how fragile He could build a mind...how mortal He could make any person, including me...that His will is greater than mine...God humbled me today; I hope I never forget...I hope He allows that I ride again with this remarkable friend...
luv and peace ~ el

this post is in honor of a real friend and finding some good in all of the bad...

Good Life?

Have you ever heard the saying: "the faster I go the behind-er I get", "the harder I push, the farther I fall"? So why do I get so swept up in this futility that our culture demands... literally dragged along? Consumed by the gravity defect? Just recently, I was driving home from NH and even though I was speeding along, "n + 10" as they say, cars were zipping past me. While I was anxious to be home, back at the farm, where time is more relaxed and life is much more mellow, I found myself stressed by the crush for time. It wasn't until we hit the VT state line that I felt some relief from the frantic pace of traffic in NH. Why is everyone so pressed for time? If one doesn't like their lifestyle, stop doing it. I can't buy into it. I don't want more stuff, or bigger stuff, or more costly stuff. I want less. I want more experiences, more friends, more adventures (the gentle, pensive type). I am exhausted watching other people sprint towards material debt, drones in mindless jobs, slaves to monster homes, ailing in disenchanted lives. What happened to the enchantment of everyday life? Enchantment is what I seek, where ever I find it. So then, to my family, I am "odd", quirky, lazy... I don't have an impressive title at a corporate monstrosity so I am failed. Less worthy because I choose family, farm, friends, faith as the center of my universe. I have enough stuff, all that I need, most of what I want. I have enough and more. The "more is better American guidepost" doesn't suit me. It's my vision, my legacy, for this farmstead and my life to live richly, share the enchantment of everyday life, be sustainable and welcome others to this bounty. This past year, my differently-abled brain has taught me that it's ok to let somethings be undone for awhile, its allowable to suspend the measure of time, it's a good thing to be still. I've happily found that things still got done, even if I could not do it myself. Good things still happened. Maybe just maybe, "everything happens for a reason"; when I ease up, let go a little, wonderful things happen...must be, I needed that.

luv and peace ~ el

gentle thoughts go out to you....love is on the way....

to the Man Responsible for My Addiction ~ wind

a recent photo of Rene, leathered up on his HOG, ready to go

   My day started out pretty poorly by any terms. I was awakened at 6:30 am with a phone call from a disenchanted horse adoptor who was impatient about the process. Ten minutes later she was resolved to be patient with the methodical process for the placement of this horse. I hung up; I rolled over; the phone then rang sharply with the previous adopter, the one surrendering the horse to his new home. She was frantic, in tears and irrational, at first. Ten minutes later, she was settled down and committed to proceed according to plan. It's not even seven o'clock yet and I've conducted 20 minutes of mediation. Not the best way to start any day, by any means. I slothed out of bed, took a shower, had some coffee; the phone rang at 8 sharp. It was a good friend inviting me out for a "twirl" on his bike in the North East Kingdom. Did I want to go; yes!

   My gentleman chauffeur biker friend showed up on time with a toot toot of his Kawasaki touring bike. As I leathered up, fussing with long hair, sunglasses, and the finale silk scarf around my neck (I've been badly sunburned before, looking like a massive hickey at ride's end); he blushed and remarked that he liked my "outfit" (I don't ever hear that!) and I "looked very stylish and people would get the wrong idea..." I joked that I hoped so. We mounted his very comfortable bike and departed for the journey north. He spent the ride explaining the survival points of sharing the road with "cagers" (clueless people in cars) and the precarious conditions of Vermont's roads. And he did show me roads I never knew of, villages I'd only known about by their tiny name on a map. We did the "Lake Willoughby-tour".

  It was glorious over every mile. We took lunch at a little dinner and swapped stories about horses. I've know this fine fellow for 15 years or so; he is a retired mounted policeman from NYC. He has great pictures of his spectacular mount during the 60's when America was torn with civil events that often turned contentious and violent. He is a a very interesting person. He spoke with every intention of encouraging me to ride my own motorcycle next year and expected as much, brain injury or not. As we enjoyed lunch, a gentlemen-couple seated behind me  were discussing us. Finally, I stood up to put on my scarf and jacket and one patron felt compelled to speak to me. I turned to hear him say: "Do you know you look just like Julia Roberts? Have you ever been told that?" I could only respond with a shy smile and answer: "I have been told that by more than a few people over the years. I just don't know why. I can't see the resemblance at all." His reply, "Well you do, we really thought maybe she was up here, hiding out.." I laughed, "no, it's just me. I do wish I had her money though; but she can keep her problems, I have enough of my own." He laughed, "she has twins, you wouldn't want them." I smiled broadly, "I have twin boys; they're awesome but one set is enough. You enjoy the day, now..."

  I turned back to my riding partner and he was beaming. I shrugged, "the least I can do, is look good on your bike." He said, "we'll be heading home now, I'll show you a different way from how we came," as we strolled out the door adjusting our helmets. We mounted his bike, talked more about the motorcycle classes, the endorsement and his favorite memories on trips. A spectacular day in glorious country with very kind company. Perfect weather, warm wind, inspiring scenery, a very good friend at the dash. As we covered the last mile home, the spell lifted gently, we rolled to my door yard. I dismounted and gave him a kiss on the cheek, hug at his shoulder, farewell good man. He blushed and made a pact with me: "I will not see you again until you call me and tell me you have your own bike next summer...you can do this and you should, you need to be out here, with people, its a great culture and its made for you..." I interrupted, "I know, but its so much fun riding two-up...thank you for a wonderful day, for your wisdom in the ride...give my best to your beautiful wife..." He smiled: "I didn't even tell I was bringing you; this is our secret and I'm not telling! Don't say anything if you see her. I have a reputation over there; I'm 82 years old you know!" I was floored; I wouldn't have guessed that age for him. Strong, competent, adventurous, seventy maybe, but 82?! I gave him one more hug and walked to the house, peeling off leather as I went, swelling with inspiration. I hope, by the grace of God, I am riding my favorite bike over the hill and dale of VT when I am 82 years old. God bless you and yours my friend...until next time, happy riding.
luv and peace ~ ell

   this was 2008, he still rides giving a toot when he's rolling by my farm; always I smile when I think of him and our ride and my addiction for ridding and all of the friends that has brought me. Ride on Rene, always and forever.

It's all good. . .

OK, since some friends have been compelled to ask; this post is about me and my injured brain. I do often reference it as though it were some kind of limb or appendage independent of my will. Unfortunately, it some times behaves as though it is, indeed, a separate entity. In the beginning, I had a healthy mind mostly, although that is up for debate; just ask my family. Then in 1984, I had a debilitating heat stroke while working construction that summer. I put myself to bed and slept it off for two days. The problem evolved when I did not know how devastating a heat stroke could be regarding permanent damage. So time muddled on, symptoms of "damage" were so subtle that I dismissed them as odd, random events that quickly self corrected. I always considered myself clumsy and prone to accidents. (Boy howdy, I've had more than a few) Meanwhile, throughout my twenties, thirties and until recently, I could do most everything I wanted to try in terms of physical accomplishments. Enter summer of 2007; a sudden change in ability emerged. I had to deliver a horse about 9 miles across the valley. An easy ride for me not many years ago. The horse was up for it as well. So, off we went on a gorgeous July day, on a veteran horse over an easy route to his new home. I made it a third of the way when debilitating balance and coordination issues beset me. About twenty minutes further along, I could not stay in the saddle; I wanted to gracefully dismount but instead, I tumbled out of the saddle. When I hit the ground, I couldn't help but wonder how many horses would have liked for that to happen years ago. Once on the ground, I could not coordinate my legs to stand me up. I could not gain my balance to hold my head up without holding it in my hands. I sat there, in a "neighbor's" driveway for thirty minutes before I could stand up and stagger over to a lawn chair where I sat in the shade for another thirty minutes. The neighbor took the horse the rest of the way to his new home (another 3 miles). I sat there, angry, annoyed, terrified. I resolved to see a neurologist, asap. A bunch of tests later, I mean a bunch, an MRI revealed clusters of areas of brain injury. Old brain injury. Recently however, it has expanded a little bit. No one knows why. No one knows if it'll stabilize, get worse, or resolve it self (highly unlikely). I was awash with confusion. How can this happen to me? Squeaky clean habits, healthy lifestyle, strong by vocation. . . No use in that line of thought. Within minutes, I was relieved that it was not a tumor or ALS or something mysteriously fatal. Fast forward a year, I am gaining some improvement over the symptoms which knock me off of my feet. I'm learning to read my needs for rest, wine and treatment. After a few false starts, we (me and my head doctor) are managing an effective plan of treatment and support. Over all, I'm happy that I have what I have, can do what I can do, can stand up and walk on any given day. Though admittedly, some days are worse than others. In this story of unexpected outcomes; there has been a delirious dance between the good and the bad. The realization that I have brain damage is terribly unfair. The symptoms, when acute, are blatantly laughable (a convenient scape goat when I screw up on anything...), humbling (a precarious position of "needing" help sometimes - most of the time - often from perfect strangers) and clarifying. This "brain-injury-thing" has forced me to focus, really focus, on what is dear to me. What I want for me, my kids, my legacy. With this involuntary limit, these binding rules of random dysfunction, I have to choose how I want to live life ~ everyday, every experience, every choice, every relationship. Nobody promises tomorrow. There is a silver lining; this is my second chance to live life with no regrets, no" if-only's", no "should'a" or "could'a". To say YES as often as possible. The only rules that matter now are be kind, be fair, practice forgiveness, listen well, answer gently, live fully, feel everything, look for goodness, be open to the possibilities. A promise to myself to laugh louder and cry harder, all with a good friend. To hold on, be held and follow the platinum rule: "treat others the way they would like to be treated". I've lucked out in all of this; God's grace and some good science have given me a very vivid look at my possible future; its up to me and my imagination, as to what I make probable. Don't worry about me ~ 'cause I'm not; I'll be out and about, living some dream with some friend with all my heart...
luv and peace ~ el

this one's for the folks who love me as is. . .
when life hands you lemons; make lemonade ~ when life is hard; make hard lemonade!

running the river

Along the south boundary of our old farm we are met with the muddy banks of the Lamoille River. Situated in the north of the Mt Mansfield region, all towns, burgs and villages along this winding waterway are collectively known as the Lamoille Valley. It's a rugged, beautiful, historic place. The river eddies right at my pasture's edge as it makes a switchback at the base of the old rail road trestle bridge. In this place, it is very deep with a strong twirl for anyone who gets caught in it. Through the years, we have paddled this river in canoes, kayaks, and lap-strake guide boats. It's a very slow river in most places with more switch backs per mile than any other river in VT. It's perfect for beginners if not terribly dull for anyone seeking challenge of white water and hydraulics, until it rains. This summer, we have had endless rain, sometimes pounding rain. As our river is located at the base of the big mountain, 4300' of granite, all that rain must come down hill to the Lamoille via the Brewster river. In a matter of hours, the placid riverbed becomes a furious torrent and the "river beaters" venture out in their high tech kayaks. They mean to pound that river into submission. They can have it. As I've lived in this old house for twenty years now, I've come to an agreement with nature; I no longer wish to dominate it. It's not my quest to force its submission to my will. Not that it ever worked out that way, but most of my youth and good health was wasted in that futile pursuit. I am a devoted observer now; and there is more than enough to observe. My favorite subjects on the river are the flatlanders. (a generalization for anyone not born of these green mountains; it should include the suburbanites of chittenden county as well but that's another story). We have three river boating tour groups in town. They do a thriving business for tourists who wish to tame the river. Canoes and kayaks litter the banks, the landings and the river-way on any clear day. I enjoy watching them go by. Many are focused on the perfect stroke, committed to the precise execution of the craft. It's entertaining to hear the people bark out orders, panic at a shoreline critter, elate over a busy beaver. I ponder at their motivation to be there, on the river. I've taken a habit of piloting the river in an inner tube. I like hanging my butt and feet in the swirling waters. I like that the river picks the route of least resistance. I like the very mellow pace letting me see everything there is to see. It is a chance to step away from time and expectations that demand compliance. Huck Finn would delight in this passionate waste of time. I sometimes imagine offering it as a trek for tourists, but I don't want to spoil my idle outings. A selfish indulgence. When I'm drifting down the river, saturated in its ethology; it strikes me how much it reflects what life would like to be, if only we allowed it. When it comes to the river, some people want to tame it, harness it, defeat it. The slayers (they are in the kayaks). Some people want to organize it, master its purposeful current, unity with paddles, negotiated compliance with its forces. (they are in the canoes) Then there are those who are the spectators from the banks, intimidated by its size, breadth, unpredictability. They are the ones with cameras, standing at a respectful distance, more comfortable watching than doing. Then on a very perfect day; you might spot me. Big hat for shade, little tube with my cooler of water and fruit in tow, blue jeans, feet in the water, just drifting where ever the river wants to take me. Effortless, carefree, worrying for nothing, feeling everything. When I can meet life on these terms, its a perfect day. It's not complicated, once you know how. . .this one's for you Huck.

luv and peace ~ el

when horses act like horses

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a professional equine behaviorist and that I run a small, non-profit horse rescue at my farm. It has been an exceptional experience regarding the insights into horse and human behaviors. It lead me to my masters in horse assisted therapies. This past Sunday was a graphic reminder of the physical and social power of horses among themselves. They can be 1000 lbs of kindness, gentle companionship, docile communication. They can also be extraordinarily brutal to each other in a split second. Just such an occasion took place this weekend. It was morning feeding time and the 11 horses in our care had just received their grain as they do every morning. Usually there is no upset, no rivalry, no contention. Each horse goes to their stall or feeding station and waits for their portion. Soft nickers tickle the cool morning air. The sound of horses munching their ration saturates the barn.
All was well, I loaded two massive bales of hay to take out to the mud less end of the paddock and began setting out the portions. This took maybe 10 minutes. When I returned to the barn, a spectacular gelding was in a state of trembling at the gateway. At first no sign of trouble. All other horses were as they should be. But the horse wanted me. Then on closer inspection, when I entered the common area of the barn, I saw it. This horse had been savaged by another. One of the alpha mares took exception to his being too close to her stall door and lunged at his rump. She scored in her reprimand. With her powerful jaws, razor-sharp incisor's, and furious mind, she tore a slab of hide and meat from his hindquarters the size of a dinner-plate. The wound was horrific, mauled tissue hanging by a thin piece of hide, weeping, bleeding, purging. I could not fix this without a horse vet.
I had to move horses around, clear a stall for this horse's safety, roll my kids out of bed to come and help to sanitize a stall. I phoned the vet's answering service dreading the emergency-on-a-Sunday farm visit fee. This could not wait; if there was any hope in restoring the damage and avoiding massive, debilitating infection, the vet had to come today.
I spoke with the vet, she knows I don't call unless the damage is beyond my palliative skills and supplies. It would be an hour before she could get here. Oh well, at least she can come. If you've ever wondered how a lady vet who is all of 5'6" and 110 lbs can help a 1200 lb. horse who is overcome with fear and pain, the answer is drugs. Tranquilizers, numbing agents, more tranqs....
When she arrived, evaluated the damage and set to work. Stabilize, sanitize, begin reconstruction of tissues and structures. Three and a half hours later, every inch of suture material she carried used up, multiple doses of tranq and litacain, she had created a work of art. She was able to successfully restore all layers of tissue to their proper places. An adaptive suturing technique to accommodate the movement of the region. It was, compared to the mauled mess she started with, beautiful. The bill will be huge, $700 I'm sure. Now we are in the daily ritual of antibiotics, (25 cc penicillin am & pm, with 30cc genticin am), hot packs 3x a day, bute 2x a day, body work, arnica and hypericum homeopathic support and love). In 10 days, we'll know if he'll heal to a functional degree. He is a lovely horse; eight years old, nearly 16h, rich bay, beautiful face, former harness racer name of Mighty Legacy. So far, so good. He is a trooper and a talented horse. We'll do all that we can and more. My next two weeks will be dominated by his needs; my kids will all help. They will learn the value of caring for more than themselves, helping however they can, for one who can not help themselves. . . but Lord have mercy; I hate it when horses act like horses...

luv and peace ~ el

this post is for Mighty and his brave heart, the exceptional lady vet, Anne, who restored him, and the lessons this event taught my kids and me...be well Mighty, gentle thoughts go out to you

I know what I want,. . .for now

I was trying to explain why I like to ride two-up when it comes to motorcycles. A foreign concept to those who know me as a "doer" and not a spectator. When my friend couldn't grasp my preference for riding with someone to riding alone, it made me think and do an accounting of this phenom. It's a bit complex, or not, depending upon your view of my world. I am at a place in my life where, like it or not, my children and their needs have an isolating effect in my life. I have to be in command of every day, in every way. It's exhausting. Because of my son's autism and the socially irregular behaviors that define him, we don't fit into many public venues. He does the best he can and while we are used to his vocalizations, flapping, jumping and roaring laughter or dramatic screams, the rest of the world is offended or frightened. So we have learned to avoid those places we are not welcome. The resulting decline in typical friends is profound. We don't get invited to many cookouts, or dinner parties; not that there are many to be had in the Lamoille Valley. And this is a whole other reality. It is quite rural here and that means a bit "clan-ish". This is the northern spine of Appalachia; I am an outsider having lived here for only 25 years, not born here, not related to the well established family dynasties (if there is such a thing in up-country VT). So then, over the 5 year period since my son's Dx, my equine community has perished. My parenting worthiness has declined and I live as a single parent of four, high maintenance kids on an odd 25 acre farmstead in small-town rural VT. I love it, wierdly enough, as there is very little pressure to "conform" but it is also isolating to an involuntary degree. I describe myself as a team player with a very odd team. My kids, my farm, my community of families in autism. So then, enter my alter image of self. I love being in the company of good men. I covet the gleam of chromed out Harley's and the rumble of loud pipes. I thrive on the organic experience of gliding through the high country, platonic partners in the ride, escaping a very socially inhibited life for a day. It's how I "work the problem" I live 24-7. My gratitude for the guys who share their ride and make these random escapes possible is boundless. The men I ride with, get it. They appreciate the release I have when I ride with them. When I'm in the second seat, I am free to feel the ride without the demand of the high vigilance of the drive. A generous gift they bestow me. I am grateful, deeply grateful. Living in the moment, free of the dictates of a differently-abled life. Blessings upon them. Short answer: I ride 2-up so I can surrender control for pure joy. So I can feel the comfort of trusting someone else for a time. So I can be childlike in the experience. It's as carefree as I can hope for in any given day. Me: have lid, leathers, good to go.
luv and peace ~ el

yes I can, watch me

It was such a promising day when I woke this morning. Temperatures were pleasant and I felt good, really good. By 10 am I couldn't walk. As soon as the temps rise, the humidity rises, I fall apart. More accurately, my gaiting falls apart. So I sit down, before I fall down. It's a brain injury thing. It sucks. It's out of my control; no matter how hard I concentrate, how much I will myself to stand up straight and walk like a sober person, my legs will not comply. I have a assortment of scars from stubbornly challenging this fact. Betrayed by my own neurology. I could sit and bemoan my frustration but I'm not one to concede my power. I'd rather close my eyes and relive the best days of this summer, the days that I win the dual with my disfunctional brain. The days that I leather-up, fasten my helmet, dawn my favorite boots and ride. . . on the back of someone else's motorcycle.
Every bike that thunders by, loud pipes calling to me, I'm reminded how much I long for the ride. I can sit on the back of someone else's bike without problems. I can enjoy the veracious wind, the intoxicating speed, the scenic splendor, the very contented feeling of riding with a savvy guy at the dash. When I reflect on my past rides; I smile. Deeply. My physical disfunctions evaporate and for those hours, I am whole and satiated. I smile broadly, breathe deeply while living the view over their shoulders; it's better than sex. I have a great relationship with my biker buds, they don't know of my challenges, such barriers to function don't exist when I ride with them. No need to tell them. We have a blessed relationship; pure love ~ for the ride. In this, we leave all manner of reality behind, and get in the groove of loud pipes, gliding on chrome, over the meandering roads and velvet hills of northern Vermont. God bless them for including me; sharing with me this sacred space, this wondrous time to ride. The power of platonic, the power in this process; unless you've lived it, you can't appreciate it. It truly does transcend sexual desire. It is a level of the purest delight that is beyond the physical realm and nurtures me in a spiritual way. When I ride, I am at the mercy of the rider's expertise and I am, we are, in the hands of God. Wholesale trust: it is the most liberating surrender I have ever known. It matters to me that I think this is so; I hope my biker hosts feel likewise. With my hands comfortably anchored on their waists, I know they do. Blessings upon them. May the Lord bless them and keep them, may He be made to shine his face upon them and be gracious to them. amen.
luv and peace ~ el

this post is for the guys who've stepped up to my dreams, honored their gentleman's promise and shared their ride . . .

what is a little guy to do . . .

I spent the afternoon watching my younger daughter play with some of her friends on our big trampoline. The bouncing, the giggling, screaming at bugs and high five culture for the bustling girls. After a while, my son with autism wanted to jump with them. He is an accomplished jumper and he wanted to join in at something he excels at. He mounted the round surface a confident boy among a swarm of girls. He jumped high, with split kicks and rips of laughter. In this he is like them, but he can't speak. So they ignore him, not so politely. "mom, does he have to come up now?" Never mind that its his trampoline and you nor your friends even asked him. "He just wants to show off something he's good at too." my encouraging reply. After about 5 minutes, they dismounted and left to my daughter's room. Mumbles of "what's wrong with him, anyway?"
I note to myself that I need to help my kids learn how to answer their friends' questions. I need them to see his strengths and talents first as they try to explain their brother's autism. I want them to live the habit of seeing him with their hearts first. He will need us, his family, to know how to teach others to see him in such a human way. His autism creates barriers to a typical childhood paradigm, but I find myself grateful for this. He is so sincere in his actions. He lives the daily trials of trying to belong, trying to feel competent in a world that is materially competitive and emotionally punitive to those who are different, differently-abled. When I watch on a play ground, how he tries to keep up, to fit in and he is often ignored or worse chastised, my heart breaks. But not for my son; he is steeped in love and surrounded by a fiercely loyal family. My heart breaks for the other children; whose hardened minds and perceptions are narrow and shallow, lacking the spacious capacity to appreciate his gifts. Kids who, at such a young age, are already glued to media driven brands and commercially defined ideologies. In this domain, my son has a mission. He will do more to enrich the development of many of these children than any paid assembly the school can offer. For the kids who will grow up with my son as their classmate, fellow scout, 4-H clubber and citizen, they will have enjoyed an unconditional gift from him. When they are older, wiser, parenting their own children, I hope they will remember how he helped them become better humans. It is a daunting task before my blue-eyed wonder boy, not to overcome his autism but to overcome the rigid minds and occluded hearts of sheltered children. I hope that they will remember him when they feel content in their lives. Will they recognize his gift of autism?
luv and peace ~ el

this post is for my son's tireless love of life and for those of us who have yet to learn what makes us happy
please enjoy the attached PSA from ARC of Virginia and Blueberryshoes productions... the r word

if its not one thing, its two. . .

Spent yesterday dodging thunderstorms and downpours. Too nasty to be outside, by dawn a backyard lightening strike fried my DSL and woke me up. My storm sensitive dog hid under my bed and I rolled over unconcerned, the storm was intense, a frantic light show but I have great confidence in this old farm house. A classic brick federal that's been here for 200 years. Its raised umpteen kids and five generations of Vermonters. Now its duty is to us. Its gracious, green and grand in the most simple way. Passing the time, we read long ignored books, went up-street to catch a movie. All blissfully ignorant of the "tornado" that peeled through the valley at 3:2o pm. We don't have television here and I play the radio only when I'm in the barn. In this case, I am glad. While this old farm was untouched, not a leaf in the yard merely drive a half mile in any direction and see the trauma. Barns collapsed, massive trees snapped off straddling roof tops too stubborn to cave. The real scare was the down power lines across the roads. But blessings to the road crews and swarm of chainsaw brandishing neighbors who expertly cleared roads. There's a lot of fire wood in the ditches now if only I had a rig to line up and get some. It'll be the talk of the town for a long while.
All is quiet and lovely, the after storm promise. It's good to be back and jot my thoughts here. Every bike going by with loud pipes makes me lonesome for a ride up country. I do adore that call, the rumble of a windswept lapse from the weight of everyday. Vermont is a small place, but lots of people go their own way, riding solo, seemingly prohibited from offering a ride. I need to put the word out: "VT renaissance woman" willing and ready to ride... there goes another; so lucky they are. . .
"live an interesting life and you will meet interesting people". . . time to find the door.
luv and peace ~ el

this post is in memory of the green mtn boy and farmer who sited this home and farm for having the wisdom to read the land and know how to live with nature. circa 1793

the swimming hole

In Vermont, we are blessed with many exceptional swimming holes. Natural basins of sparkling water carved out among our swift rivers and streams along any mountainside. We have more than a few in this tiny township. Today was an optimal day at one of the local favorites. A five foot jump off a massive granite rock will drop you into a six foot pool of ice cold water. It gets your full attention when you drop into it. I save jumping in for last, before its time to leave. I spend my hour floating in an inner-tube watching people engage this awesome place in nature. The locals are uninhibited and thoroughly red-neck. Swimming in all matter of clothing. The tourists who venture into our backwoods domain are more than cautious, even a hazard to themselves. Its great sport to watch them wrestle with the notion of jumping from the great rock or ease in from the sand bar. Its a perfect psych test. Engaged couples should visit for a prenuptuial test of the risk taking sort. You learn alot about a person if they will jump or how they will jump or why they won't. It's great drama to watch couples and families cope with the dilemma. They have some thing to prove and often having fun is lost in the conflict. They are cheered on by the locals who genuinely wish to see them take the leap. But urban reasoning often overpowers their alter ego and they must abandon their dream of conquering the country swimming hole. Mountain Dew commercials make it look so easy, these city mice make it look so awkward. Its all fun. Safe enough and fair enough, those are the blurry boundaries of life. What's stopping you from being happy? . . . move your feet
luv and peace ~ el

When I put my saw down. . .Things to do, must do. . .before I can't...hope I have a boat load of fun

It's a lazy summer day. I should be harvesting fire wood with my little boss chain saw. I inventoried another good stand. It's too warm though, my gaiting will get sloppy and its not good to trip with a chainsaw in my hands. 8 more cords will keep the oil truck out of my drive way for winter, so next cool day I'll drop another cord.
For now I'll fester more things I want to do just so I can say I did 'em. I want to ride on an HD across country with a good group. On someone else's bike; no endorsement for me. Vision and balance at speed is something I lost with my brain injury. I want to hike Greenland with a good friend. I'd like to sail along Newfoundland some summer as long as someone else is sailing. I just want to feel the wind. I want to succeed in my learning center at my odd little farm. A place where people can come to get dirty, get savey and live life wholly. I'd like to finish my masters so I can say I did it and prove to my doubting parents that I am smart enough to achieve academic prowess.
I want to make a new friend every week for as long as I'm living; hopefully, I'll end up with hundreds. I want to see some great rock n' roll live. I want to learn to play the guitar, folk music, and spin stories and songs for people who think history and inspiration is only in books.
I've rescued 213 former racehorses and I think I'm finally satiated that way. I'm not fast enough on my feet to retrain these rockets any more and I want to step up to horse assisted therapies now. Horses helping people.
I want to start my son's upick blueberry farm; he'll need it. The world won't have much for him because he's autistic. Most people don't understand him, but he makes perfect sense to me. He's just like a horse and they are very autistic sometimes.
Mostly, I want to show my kids how to live a happy life in this world. How to stay ahead of the "gravity defect" (that's everyone and everything that will try to bring you down).

This post is owed to my dear friend who at age 70 yrs+ rides her favorite horse everyday. She told me once: "you can always make more money, but you can never make more time."
She's right, I'll do my best to fill it.
luv and peace ~ el

Virgin Ride on a candy-apple red sporty

I can't stop smiling, can't stop feeling the wind. It's been a week since my first long ride on the back of a harley, riding second seat and loving it. I did it, I lived a long time dream, though slightly modified. It was on my list of life dreams, to ride a harley through the NEK. We covered the west side of the kingdom, the road was empty, all ours, we took the road up to Jay and paused at the look out. Awesome, simple, organic, exceptional. I finally got a look at the rider I hopped a ride with. Don't tell anyone, but I posted a request to ride with a gentleman rider, so I could see the green mountains before I give up the dream or surrender to time and disability.
It felt so boundless, I didn't feel trapped in a "mis-functioning" body. It felt great to hold on to a veteran rider and leave the driving to him so I could soak it all in. The wind, the scents, the views...
I'm living it again and again in my mind. When the ride had to end, when I had to go home; he to his life, I thanked him with a grateful hug. It seemed so small a gesture for such an emotional accomplishment. I nearly cried in disbelief, in joy, in success, in the kindness of a total stranger.
An adventure I almost abandoned in logic. Thank you again my new friend, happy riding...
luv and peace ~ ell