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