Hernan

The waters rose in the night, fast.
No nos dio tiempo de subir cosas, she tells me
and it’s true. Fue una perdida total para muchos.
In the photos, the refrigerator is listed over, had floated
into the centre of the kitchen and landed tilted back
against the counter, left gently reclined as the brown water
receded. Jesus. The mattress and the sofa they piled on top of it,
submerged.

We lost it all.

It’s okay. They are just things. My suegros built their new house up five feet,
knowing, of course, how it floods. There are no photos of their youngest
son, my husband, as a baby or a child. I sometimes try to imagine his face
as a newborn, the tiny dark baby that left his older sisters disappointed.
They wanted one like they saw on TV, soft and round
and light, but he was flaquito y morenito and they loved him anyways.

His grandmother left him the tiny house and he rebuilt it
like a piece of art, with salvaged wood and the good hands
of his friends, and brought two babies home, held me together
when I lost my oldest son.
How does that happen?
How does the water just rise that fast in the street?
Waist deep in an hour, trucks submerged. Everyone
looking for somewhere to sleep.

There have been so many floods. I know that mud too well,
how it coats everything with the realization that things
covered in mud are sometimes just things
and sometimes they’re less or more than just things, but always
they are impermanent. The only thing to do is wait for the water to subside

and accept what’s left. It helps to laugh, so if you need to drink
a little, why not. Everyone will help one another to rebuild
when it’s time, blessed with the fishermen’s secret
understanding that to build in an estuary is an act of acceptance
that we are just guests here, even if we forget it for a while.

N.M. Lindsay

28/08/20

The hands at your back

This morning I walked the dogs in the rain on a loose leash,
felt my shoulders soften, the breath come even with my stride
and realized that, these days, my rage is more sad
than usual. There are no more injustices
today than there were yesterday. There have always been
so many I can’t even fathom the depth.

I think about Marina, the ship captain’s daughter, antlered
with migraines like a chandelier of broken glass, the shards
cutting into her eyes, light refracting from a choppy offshore wave
in a stiff wind at high noon.
Even though she never went to sea, that light still pierced her
like her father’s sharp, impatient needle and worsted wool.
Too bright.
Too hard.
Too cold.

My problems aren’t really problems, are they.

I think about how my rage is more tired and more sad than usual,
but I don’t really want to talk about how sadness runs in the family
and how there’s medication for that, too, or how I could just
cut out gluten. Maybe my sister is right. Maybe I should go paleo.

Maybe there is a conspiracy and we are all brainwashed sheep
breathing eating reading drinking shooting up poison
into our selves & our kids
keeping the machine running on our addictions to things,
on our cute hopes & dreams,
our savings plans and good investments,
our empathy and best intentions,
our routines and recycling and sensible shoes.
and the Bonny Henry ones too.

(Because isn’t she just a fucking hero up there on our screen
one that kind of looks like me, a perimenopausal doctor/mom/Karen/
crone-in-becoming,
one who asks to speak with the manager in a kind, calm voice
asks the kids one millionth time to do this one basic thing
smiles sweetly and waits, quiet.
Breathe in. Hold for 4. Breathe out. Hold for 4. Repeat.
I know that smile too. I know what it is to feel
that deflated, like a large party balloon that someone blew up over and over
and over, and then got bored and forgot to knot.
Maybe she also drinks wine to laugh and forget once in a while.
Maybe she has also lost a child,
or will.)

But I won’t comment here on the politics of pandemics and whose deaths
matter. I want to talk about how I don’t need to be day drinking
to articulate my rage or my sadness in a steady, calm voice
and I don’t need to be disciplined with a chipper anecdote about
how you pulled the double shift and made brownies for cub scouts
and it was the best time of your life.

I don’t need to be reminded of the invisible lines
around things you don’t say out loud without reaping the consequences.
How unbecoming is anger and why
are you so angry anyways?

Fuck those invisible lines. Fuck the isolation and immobilizing fear
of disagreement that keeps us inside them. Fuck the good manners and
the anger you won’t express and the shoes
you can’t afford and don’t need anyways.

The house is already burning, and all six of the kids are dead.
Later, you will keep their ashes in a small tin on a shelf.
It’s okay to cry. They still exist somewhere.
You still exist
somewhere, so please, don’t forget this one thing:
the hands at your back are holding you up
holding you up
holding you up
holding you up
holding you up
holding you up.

HBD my sweet boy & thanks for the black bear medicine

My baby would be 24 today. There are no words to describe how much I miss him, so I’m just crying it out — pretty much for the past week, but especially today. It seems weird, perhaps, but I need more time today to pause and just be here. But I dropped off the kids late at daycare because Au had a music lesson, and now it’s already 3pm and I need to pick them up soon, and all I’ve done is cry and talked to my mom a bit and cleaned about 1/63rd of the house.

It doesn’t matter what I’d hoped to do today, I guess. There are only so many hours, and as I’m realizing, grief has a weird way of making time flexible and erratic. So fast, sometimes. Other times, everything stops, even the clock.

I want the clock to stop right now, for about another 5-8 hours so I can clean the house, right down to the bones and make it sweet and fresh. I want to ride my bike to my path in the woods and haul my ass up that hill until my lungs burst. I want to fall down on the soft green growth and smell the wet earth, let the dog push his nose into my face & fog my glasses with his breath while he licks the tears off my face, even though it’s gross. I want to go home and take a long nap and dream of Noah. A sweet, vivid dream, one that makes me laugh and smile and cry all at the same time.

I want to tenderly build an altar around his photo. Light candles. Lay down flowers. Meditate. Breathe in and breathe out.

I want to bake a cake from scratch, and lovingly decorate it into a piece of sugared artwork that proclaims how soft and sweet and painstakingly patient is my steady love for my firstborn child. I want it to be fine and delicate and tall, and I want to slice it thickly and hand a slice to everyone I love and everyone who loved him.

I want balloons that don’t pollute, floating into the sky like candy-floss gossamer, melting into the white clouds during the day, orbs of light at night. I want them never to stop releasing into the sky. Also, bubbles. Shining, impossibly luminescent bubbles rising slowly and endlessly to heaven by the thousands.

But mostly, more than anything, I want to hug him again, feel his round soft baby cheek under my lips, touch his silky little boy curls, feel his wiry gangly awkward limbs as a teen, the surprising and suddenly so *big* strength as a young man. I want to feel that thrill in the pit of my belly when he calls or texts me out of the blue. The one that made me sheepishly laugh at how I felt like a 13-year old with a crush whenever my kid gave me the least bit of attention. No one prepared me for how weird it would feel to parent an adult be totally ignored by my own kid.

But I don’t have a lot of time for fantasy. Thirty more minutes, to be exact. Actually, I’m already late to pick the kids up from daycare by half an hour.

I wanted to buy birthday presents from Noah for the kids, so after dropping them off at daycare at 11:30 I drove up to College Heights where there is a small independent toy store. It seems like I can’t help crying any time I am alone, and so through my tears on the drive I tossed out a little wish to Noah to send me a sign. I don’t do that often, but sometimes I just need it so badly. To know he’s somewhere still here. Close. Or, I don’t know. Closer than gone completely.

I’m lucky to live in a place that’s still got some wilderness close by, and so wildlife sightings are not a completely rare thing, but a minute after throwing out that little wish, here comes rambling up across the road right in front of me this beautiful young black bear. I slowed right down and watched him lumber across the road. I did not do something totally illegal like grab my phone to take a video. No regrets. If I had, it might have looked something like below.

Thank you so much for this little gift, my boy. Thanks for always being with me. I will love you and miss you always.

9 months later

It just struck me: if I got pregnant around the last time I posted in late August, I’d be expecting a baby in the next few days or weeks. And then it just struck me again, only harder: I did get pregnant around the end of August and was expecting a baby at about this time, 24 years ago.

That span of time between late summer and early spring. How much can change, how fast.

I feel like I am a different person writing here, reflecting back on what took place in the nine months since I last wrote in the afterglow of this incredible adventure & awakening I had in Colorado last August. Anyone who’s had the good fortune to experience a retreat or adventure or really amazing break from “real life” in whatever form it took can probably relate to the way you take that spiritual light, that psychic high with you when you go. If you’re lucky and skilled it stays inside you like a spark you keep alive by remembering to gently blow on it once in a while while you gather twigs for the next fire you’re going to light.

I kept gently blowing on that spark for a good long while, and it kept me warm & hopeful. Even tiny sparks can throw a lot of light sometimes. Even if it rains for a while.

I put the wheels in motion to organize a retreat that I had been dreaming about for over a year. It would have been as amazing as I’d imagined, I’m pretty sure. It also would have been more challenging than I could have imagined, I’m pretty sure. But those are just what-ifs. In the end, I look back and think that maybe I dodged a bullet by having that idea go nowhere so quickly, though at the time it was a blow.

The truth is that probably I wasn’t quite ready to do it. I know I will be one day. I’m a firm believer in things happening when they should, and having as few regrets as possible no matter how difficult that is, because things are always unclear and terrifying and random from close up, and any step is really a step into the unknown. It’s only in looking back that you can sometimes see how the path appeared beneath your feet, how little separated you from the void. How easily you could have fallen.

Maybe not everyone looks back at their life and sees a series of close calls, narrowly avoided brushes with disaster. Some people are more prone to safety, probably. Others more hooked on adrenaline. Everyone has some kind of addiction, whether it’s food or blow or romance novels or exercise or work or whisky. Only some of those addictions are fatal, and some more sure and slow than fast and explosive. The ones who survive are those who learn to manage their preferred addictions: some good, some maybe not so good but balance it out with moderation and a good bit of luck and, boom, you made it to middle age, baby. Way to go!

It’s only on reflecting on the path behind that you can see how random and unlikely your survival actually was. That is probably what makes people really believe in their lord Jesus or destiny or whatever spiritual guiding principle provides the most comfort and resonant explanations for the beautiful chaos of life, and also offers a way to be grateful for all of it. I am learning to make altars and offer prayers because it feels right to have holy spaces around my home, in the smooth rock I find in my pocket, the space between the grass and my feet, the dirt under my fingernails.

The microbes are supposedly antidepressant, too, so there is that. I’m all about self-medication with plants and animals and fresh air and light. Or prayer, by which I mean all the words we speak out loud or silently to someone who isn’t there. The words we drop like white stones in a forest at dusk. The ones we twist and twine and weave like threads. The ones meant to shore us to some sense of sacredness or surety, despite the not-knowing.

In the last 9 months I started to write again, long-hand in a notebook. I’d forgotten how good it felt to journal in cursive that I can barely read — probably the last time I had a regular journalling practice was in my late 20s. But late last fall I figured that if I was going to organize this retreat I should start trying to write blog posts more regularly, and I knew that I would need a solid non-public writing practice to process everything I was going through. Which, to be honest was kind of a lot because last fall was rough. As in, I took a new job and totally blew it for a variety of reasons (mostly related to lack of child care and work space) rough. And the winter, well. We were on our way to Mexico but then got stuck up north doing renovations on our tenant-thrashed house and I observed the second anniversary of Noah’s death, which I managed a bit better than the first because I got a kitten instead of dengue. I am learning, see?

So by early March, we’d had 4 months of vacancies and associated loss of income as we renovated and moved into the main floor suite, and then renovated and moved into the basement suite. Husband person was breadwinning far out of town, so I was on my own with the kids and the move. I’d literally *just* finished settling into the basement and finding a good tenant for upstairs, had both kids in school/daycare, and even had this journalling practice going (although I was not anywhere close to blogging and had already decided to delay offering the retreat) when COVID hit and then, you know. Lockdown with 2 small kids and husband suddenly home from work, all of us crammed into a tiny basement suite while anticipating death and devastation around the world. Fun times.

But we’ve survived it, so far. Improbably, by the skin of our teeth, and with a few weeks of touch-and-go, but here we are with this amazing reminder of how lucky we are to have our little fierce and loving family that is actually TOGETHER, one of the things I had wanted more than anything. Fingers crossed that we can keep it this way. We’re trying to figure it out, which means that I’m trying to work as much as I can so husband person can be stay-at-home kind while we figure out childcare in this mess of a world we’re living in. I’m hoping to somehow restart my writing practice, and even maybe blog once in a while like I had intended so many months ago. We’ll see what happens.

I know better than to promise anything more than that. The retreat is on hold indefinitely, but I’m still keeping that spark alive because I know that one day the time will be right. I’m hoping that we will be back in Mexico next winter for a good long chunk of time, because it’s been too long since we’ve spent time with our family there, and the house and property will need a lot of work after such a long time away. I miss my horses a lot, and I’m also half terrified of how I will manage everything when we’re back because it’s no small amount of work to do everything PLUS have a couple of horses in the back yard to keep. Again, we’ll see what happens — I have no idea what it will look like.

But I do know that not knowing is one of the inescapable conditions of life, so I’d better get used to it. I mean, we can think we know a thing, but it’s usually just an illusion, an approximation of knowing at best, and it’s only later that we realize how little we actually knew. Twenty-four years ago I was anxiously waiting to meet my first baby. I had read What to Expect When You’re Expecting and Spiritual Midwifery and between those two books and my mom I probably knew enough to muddle through better than most unwed and single 20-year-olds expecting a baby. I’m glad I didn’t know how hard and good it would be all at the same time. I’m glad I was so blissfully unaware that I would only have 21 years with him. Surviving the loss of a child at any age is unimaginable, until it happens. And then it makes you realize how every moment is a gift, and not to take any of them for granted. Which is honestly a weight that no 20-year-old single mom should have to bear, because it’s a bit heavy and she’s going to have her hands full as it is.

In a little less than two weeks, we’ll celebrate his 24th birthday, the second no, third–how can that be?–with him gone. I’m getting better at learning now to navigate this. How to just cry when I need to. How to keep telling him how much I miss him. How much I will always love him. I’m learning the rituals that help: a framed photo. A candle and birthday cake. A special dinner, sushi. Wine, water, and coffee shared in the little dishes that are just for him. Holding space for the memories, all that love, all that grief, one breath at a time while the circles keep coming full circle, again and again and again.

Two weeks later: finding space and a big announcement

Two weeks ago I left Ridgway in the company of one of my sweet new friends from the Running Wild retreat, and started the long journey home. It was a gruelling one, in distance and time and in the degree to which I longed to be home with my babies back in my arms, but it was made much better by the opportunity to spend time with two of my oldest friends, both of whom I haven’t seen in a couple of years. But in the context of friendships that span decades, what is a couple of years? Just a reminder of how everything and nothing always changes, and everything and nothing always stays the same. I’m so grateful for these friendships — and how time and distance only seems to make them deeper & more dear.

Since arriving back home, which for now is a campsite on the edge of a northern lake full of loons and trout, I’m slowly assimilating the experience of being away and coming back — and trying to feel conscious instead of helpless about the slow part. For the first week home, I did nothing but unpack, clean the trailer, organize inside & out, laundry x infinity, snuggle the kids, walk the dogs, and read stories on demand. I probably spent an average of about 4.5 hours a day reading, mostly from the series of Disney stories I brought back from our storage shed (Cinderella, Snow White, Peter Pan, and 101 Dalmatians), but I made a kind of unofficial policy to say “yes” every time Au asked me to read. So last week, no matter what I happened to be doing, if she asked, I dropped whatever it was and sat down and read her a book. It was kind of amazing for both of us (she’s a different kid when she’s getting all the attention she wants 100% of the time). I wish I could keep it up forever, but I knew it was a temporary thing — both my new 30-hour/week job and Au’s Kindergarten homeschooling started on Monday, although I technically started preparing & planning for both much earlier than that, because that’s how I roll.

I’m trying to roll consciously, though. I’m trying to create a good balance between how I work and how I parent and how I stay both grounded and inspired with the things I need to do and the things I want to do. And the things I have the capacity to do, which is another thing entirely. Sometimes recognizing and accepting my limitations is the hardest thing of all. How do I balance my aspirations with the practical realities of my daily life? How do I keep my dreams alive when it feels like such a struggle to do the basics: staying on top of the laundry, the shopping, the momming, paying the bills?

I don’t have any wise insights on that, but I have realized the value of chasing the audacious and impossible dream, one small step at a time. Honestly, the more I reflect on it, the more I can see exactly how miraculous and unlikely it was that I even made it to the Running Wild retreat. And now looking back on the experience I can also see exactly how much I needed it. To be away from everything in my normal, everyday life. For the first time in 18 months, to have this little piece of space and time to actually begin to grieve the loss of my oldest child. To do that in a place where I was surrounded by mountains and horses and this incredible little circle of women, each one on her own journey of healing.

This amazing group of humans ❤ (that’s me, third from the left)

I am starting to get it now. How grief and loss takes time to unfold, and how I am just at the beginning of a process that will last for the rest of my life. How for the past 18 months I’ve been holding it together for the babies and L and for the sake of just getting through, and how that is just a survival mechanism. How I can’t keep on doing it without finding some space for release. Some space to feel my grief. To cry freely. To feel utterly broken. To sit with it, in it.

I’m starting to understand how necessary it is for me to somehow carve that time and space out of my everyday life so I can keep doing what I need to do to carry on. Beyond the magic of horses and mountains and hot springs and wise women, attending the retreat gave me a taste of how it can be when people gather together in a time and space apart to learn and grow and heal. I didn’t know how much I needed that space and time — even now two weeks out, it is all still just sinking in. I’m so grateful for everyone who gave me the nudge and encouragement (and tangible, practical help) I needed to get there: Katie, Melissa, Grannie, my parents, all my friends near & far who chipped in — you will never know how much you’ve helped me. The poets have always understood how words are at best the smallest approximations, the smallest gestures pointing towards the most ineffable experiences of life. Still, thank you <3. I love you all <3.

Before the baby wakes up (because the sun is up and he is tossing and making sounds already) I need to make an Important Announcement — to bring to light an idea that I’ve been holding close for some time now because I haven’t been sure if I’m ready. Now I know that there is no such thing as being ready — there is only listening to the call, trusting in the journey. I have decided to say yes.

Riding on Playa Coco. That sky <3.

I am organizing a retreat. April 18-25, 2020, seven days of rest and healing beside the ocean in a beautiful B&B with daily satsang focused on being present with the grief of losing a loved one. This is a risk for me. A first. I will be co-facilitating and also participating in my own healing journey, inviting a small group of others to join me in practices oriented toward creating space for grief and healing: pranayama and meditation, yoga, writing, being with horses. I’m very excited to have Dr. Pamela Richardson joining me as a co-facilitator to lead contemplative writing and offer her gentle wisdom and experience as a counsellor. Our group will stay together at the beautiful Villa Star of the Sea, located on the serene and powerful Playa Coco (which just happens to be one of my favourite places to ride to a beautiful hidden secret beach). All meals (with the exception of one dinner out) will be cooked and provided on site, and optional activities include yoga (2 daily classes focused on pranayama, meditation and restorative asana), massage (1 included, more can be booked on request), horseback riding (2 scheduled rides), daily contemplative writing group sessions, private counselling, beach walks, napping, sun bathing, swimming in the pool… In short, 7 days of bliss, whatever that means for you.

Since I need at least a few people to sign on so I can put a deposit down on our accommodations, I’ll be creating a poster and promotional materials soon, which I hope you’ll share with anyone who needs something like this. In the meantime, if you are interested and want more details, please contact me at playacocoretreat2020 [at] gmail.com.

I couldn’t be more excited (and nervous) to bring this dream to reality, to take that big step to create the space I need for my healing, and to be able to share it with others. ❤

Playa Coco happy place.

Day 10: sad goodbyes and the long journey home

The last few days of the retreat went by so quickly that I think all of us experienced a similar, head-spinning thing when all of a sudden it was the last day and we were wondering how it happened so fast. I had a handful of nice short & easy sessions with Lulu, and in the last session as I was working on shaping her nose to fist targeting, she started to linger a bit with her nose just *barely* touching my hand, which was super cool and made me feel all warm & fuzzy inside to think that she was starting to be comfortable enough with the contact that she wasn’t pulling away and stepping back immediately. I have a feeling that she’s going to progress rapidly with Maddy and I’m really excited to keep following her journey.

We ended our last day with a gathering at the teepee Maddy has on the bottom pasture near a pond where a couple of beavers live. We hung out by the fire for a bit under an almost-full moon and then held our closing circle inside the teepee with the sounds of the beavers splashing in the pond and the horses close by. There’s something so magical about sitting in a circle inside a teepee, listening to those sounds of the creatures outside and sharing space with a group of people who are each in their own way undergoing a metamorphosis, getting ready to step off this bridge between before and after. We’re all connected now, having come together as strangers and parted as friends, and in a way that is the best gift of all.

And while it was sad to leave my new friends, and to say goodbye to the mares and the ranch, and the stunning landscape surrounding it, I am so ready to get home to my babies. I still have a long journey ahead of me, and lots of time to reflect on what I’ve learned & all the magical things I’ve received through this experience. I have a feeling I will be back here one day… In so many ways, this feels like the beginning of a journey and not the end. ❤

Day 9: taking it easy, zebras and hot springs

It’s super late so this will be another short post to say that today was a good day. I’m loving our little group of women & the ways we’ve become so connected over these two weeks, and I know I’m going to miss everyone who has been a part of this amazing experience. It’s a remarkable thing when a group of strangers can come together to create a space this warm and supportive and inspired in such a short span of time. I suspect that we will be keeping in touch <3.

Today my training with Lulu continued to be exactly what the doctor ordered for me: soft & slow, quiet & calm. We haven’t made any great leaps forward — in fact, I’ve taken a few small steps back just because I wasn’t sure that she was ready to advance in any of the behaviours we’ve been working on, and I’m glad that I listened to that little voice urging me to take it easy today. I’m learning how to see the subtle signs showing that she’s not quite ready to move on to more advanced/scary things, and it feels good to think that I’m building her trust in humans by respecting her boundaries. I would love to have months to work with Lulu to see her come out of her shell, but I’m reminding myself to be grateful even for this small glimpse into her world and the opportunity to share this time and space with her.

Since I was taking it so easy today, I had a bit of extra time to observe the other horses, especially Mirror, who is looking 100% better with a more confident and knowledgeable trainer. It’s amazing to see that much of a change — from the scattered, nippy mess that I was creating with her, to this really beautiful and calm relationship she has with someone else. It’s a good lesson in non-attachment: sometimes success is knowing when to stop and step aside to let someone else take over. Although in the moment it was really hard, I’m so happy with how things turned out for all of us (and I think the feeling is mutual, which makes it extra nice).

Our day ended with two amazing things. First, an observation session in which Maddy kind of spontaneously worked her two zebras first, and then as she was getting them out of the arena (they did NOT want the training session to end), two other horses broke into the arena, so we saw her work with each of them in turn before she got them out (again, these animals just want to be with her 100% of the time, it is so mind blowingly amazing), and then she ended the session working with a fifth animal, which is the one she was planning on working in the first place. It’s hard to put into words the experience of watching Maddy work with her animals. The connections she has with them seem absolutely magical, but after seeing the time and thoughtfulness she puts into her work with them I can say that it’s not just magic — rather, it is the result of serious dedication and discipline mixed with love and pure passion. So much respect for that incredible young woman.

Maddy working on the Spanish walk with Finn the retired racehorse (photo by Emilee)

Practicing the lay down with the zebras (photo by Emilee)

As if all this wasn’t fantastic enough, we topped off this great day with a visit to the local clothing optional hot springs, so I got to strip down and float around in hot mineralized water, which was just about the best thing ever. And now that I’m all charged up and mellowed out, I’m looking forward to an amazing sleep & a heart-full last day in this magical place with these magical creatures (both human and equine) <3.

Day 8: much better

I had four training sessions with Lulu today: two in the morning and two in the afternoon. The first session this morning had a major breakthrough: she started to eat hay from my hand, which is a big deal for this very shut down and frightened horse. But I feel like I’m building a connection with her that I wasn’t able to find with Mirror, what with the biting and bossiness and all. Lulu’s energy is so completely different, and it has been really nice for me to be in the quiet and calm space that she occupies, moving at her gentle, slow pace. So much better.

So where I’m working with Lulu right now in a nutshell: the follow (with an extendable bouy target stretched quite long) in both directions seems to be her favoured B (less challenging) behaviour. However, she also sometimes chooses to target the cone, allowing us to use it as the start button for other more challenging behaviours: targeting the bouy (shortest length) with her nose and now targeting my fist with her nose quite consistently as well. I introduced a new variation: low target to the bouy (longer extension), but it proved quite challenging for her so I didn’t push it much today.

The hand feeding is the really exciting thing for me. I tried it on a whim, not sure at all if she would go for it but she surprised me. After just three approximations (stepping towards the hay in my hand), she took a bite, and then another, and then she was consistently taking hay from my hand with a handful thrown into the feed pan in between each single hand feeding to allow her a bit of space to eat comfortably while I waited, a bit closer to the feed pan every time (but in a crouched position facing away from her). I was surprised and amazed how comfortable she seemed with the whole thing, and once she even finished the hay from my open palm and touched my hand in the process, which made her jump back terrified. After reaching that threshold, I dialled it down considerably because pushing too far at this point isn’t useful.

We only have two more days left (!!) and then the retreat is over, but even if we don’t get much further than we did today, I’d be totally happy with it. I really like working with Lulu — even though she’s way further back in the gentling process than Mirror, the little breakthroughs with her are really exciting. I’m happy to report as well that Mirror seems to be doing way better with her new trainer, so that is cool to see. I guess horses are like people: sometimes you run across someone that just doesn’t mesh with you, and that’s okay. We don’t need to love everyone all of the time. I can appreciate Mirror and reflect on what she taught me, and accept that I’m just not the person for her right now. I’m really grateful that she has someone working with her now who appreciates what she has to offer and is able to take her where I wasn’t.

I’m sad that the retreat is coming to an end so soon, but I’m also really starting to feel ready to get back home to my loves. It feels like it’s been so much longer than two weeks that I’ve been away, and I’m missing them hard now. Nothing like a bit of time away to really appreciate what you’ve got waiting for you back at home. ❤

Day 7: feeling defeated

Ugh, and a little bit of okay today, but I’m not out of the woods here yet. We only have three days left of training, and I hit a block with Mirror. I could feel it before I even started working with her in the first session. If I’d been feeling this way at home with my own horses, it would be one of those days where I would go back inside and cry and come back when I was feeling better and stronger, but it’s hard to do that in this type of context. So I went out with her and felt a bit meh, but okay, until she took her first air nip at my arm when I was feeding her a reward and my brain basically said: “okay, that’s it for now” so I changed directions, did a couple more behaviours, gave her a jackpot and ended the session.

I gave up.

Ugh, those are hard words to roll around in your mouth or your mind, especially when you want something to work so very much.

But you know what? I think it’s okay to give up sometimes. I also think maybe it’s even a little bit brave to swallow your pride and your tears, especially if you have to do it in front of an audience (however lovely and supportive that audience might be). But man, all I can say is: shit fuck that sucked. It still sucks, reflecting on it.

But for the afternoon session the person working with Lulu offered to switch with me. She likes Mirror and was happy to work with her, and I got to work on an entirely different level (Lulu is just touching the target with her nose and starting to follow) with a completely different energy (so quiet, so calm, so relaxed), and it was really good for me. I felt less like crying afterwards, anyways.

So that’s where we’re at today. I still have a lump in my throat when I think about it all, and maybe I’ll need to have a good cry later to let some of this out because I’ve been holding it all day. I’m grateful for the chance to work with a different horse, and maybe that’s what I need to keep doing. Right now I don’t really know. There is a part of me still that feels bad about not working through my block with Mirror — it feels like a failure, and it kind of undermines the confidence I had hoped to build up here.

I don’t have anything insightful about this right now. It feels like I just have to sit with this disappointment and sadness for a bit. At least I’ll have a glass of wine and a spectacular view and a group of sweet humans to keep me company through it.

2 days off, Day 6, and circles of women

Two days off horse training in the middle of this retreat was a good idea. It worked really well for me, anyways — I needed a bit of down time, time to absorb and take a few breaths and reflect. On Wednesday morning I got some work done that had been weighing on my mind, and then caught a ride into town to hit the thrift shop and look for something to read since I’d finished the book I brought with me: Anil’s Ghost by Michael Ondaatje — which was a lovely poetic, meditative story that I was sad to finish way too early on my train ride here. I found two books at the thrift store: one that I hadn’t heard of before (Cavedweller by Dorothy Allison) but chose because it was pretty much the only one that really spoke to me, and then I also grabbed a copy of Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf just in case. Back at the lodge I did a bit more work and then had a massage. I’m SO super glad I signed up for that even though I had to think hard about spending the money. But a good massage is always worth it. Afterward I caught another ride back to town to meet up with 3 of the others who had gone in shopping. I followed them around and browsed a few shops, then we had dinner together at a really nice Mexican restaurant.

Thursday was my birthday. It was a really nice day from start (a Skype meeting about an exciting new work opportunity) until finish (a call with my love, a bit of my current favourite show, and not too late to sleep). In between I spent the day wandering around Ouray, a super scenic little town with amazing shops. I don’t do a lot of shopping on a normal basis but it was so much fun to wander around all day looking at all the things and not buying anything (with $16.00 in my pocket and $62.00 in my bank account, it wasn’t too hard to resist). But I did spend a bit on lunch (a glass of delish brown ale and an amazing warm, cheesy corn dip with tortilla chips) and I bought a stick of santo palo ($2) and I would have bought a shampoo bar if I had found one — I asked in pretty much every store but no dice. When we got home just before dinner I was surprised with carrot cake cupcakes with candles, a beautiful rendition of Happy Birthday, and a lovely gift, followed by really nice evening visiting at the lodge with my new friends.

We’re at the point in the retreat when friendships are growing and solidifying, and I feel so lucky to be spending time with this group of amazing women, although we’ve had one guy hanging out with us since last night, and that is also really nice. But being in a circle of women is feeding something in my soul that doesn’t get fed enough, and I have a super deep (and growing) appreciation for this opportunity to be here, in this company of women who are all so different and so amazing in their own ways. It’s a pretty great group, I have to say. Not that I’m really surprised by that…. there is a certain magic when women gather, and if you add some horses and some stunning landscape and a step outside of our ordinary lives into the mix — it is no wonder that it becomes extraordinary and healing and honestly above all, fun. So there is that.

But today, Day 6 of the retreat, was another hard/frustrating one for me. I’m struggling with Mirror — there’s no other way to put it. I think she’s a challenging case, but I also think things are coming up because of my lack of experience or inadvertent mistakes or … honestly, I’m just grasping at straws here because I actually have no idea what’s really going on or why. We’re having to back pedal to address Mirror’s nippiness, although her relaxation is a lot better. Today the set-up was a bit different and she charged at Calibri less (maybe only once or twice), and only wandered off a few times. But she’s starting to take the food from my hand with her teeth instead of her lips, and she’s nipping me in the process as well as getting nippy towards my wrist/arm, which feels like it might be frustration. Maddy worked with her a bit to see if she had the same problem (not really), and has come to the conclusion that I need to deliver the food reward in a different way: cupping my hand and kind of tilting it upside down instead of holding it lower, which allows Mirror to take the food with her teeth and nip me — probably accidentally, but still. Not fun for me at all. Maddy figures that I can avoid this by holding the food higher toward the top lip, and cupping the hand in a certain way so the food just falls if she tries to nip, thereby avoiding reinforcing the teethy/nippy thing. I’m struggling to master this different way of holding/delivering the food, however, because it feels quite a bit more awkward and I’m still not 100% sure about exactly what I need to do differently — it’s subtle and hard to see, but we captured some video that might (hopefully) help me figure it out.

Sooo, it’s another early bed time for me because I’m exhausted & a bit dejected, and I just want to curl up and be warm and drift off to sleep. Hoping for some insight and change tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted.