Well, Happy Birthday

The most curious and wonderful thing happened this weekend.

Moving from one side of town to the other was really much more taxing than I thought it would be. I've moved so many times before - back and forth to college, to Colorado one summer, to Robbinsdale after school was over. Always the piles of clothes, lamps, desk items, art supplies, and books. Oh God, the books. Always my most plentiful, heavy, and precious belongings, books really weigh far more than I am ever prepared to lift safely.

I was in a frenzied state of here-and-there. I had spent a night at my parents' house after the Dan Wilson concert at Bryant Lake Bowl (amazing, seriously), spent a few last nights in Robbinsdale, Saturday in Uptown finally, had been back and forth to the DMV to change my address, to the bank to deposit birthday checks, to the doctor's office for checkups, to class in Delano, then Minnetonka. I woke up in the mornings in "Go-Go-Go" mode, packed at least 2 boxes worth of belongings everyday before work, and was entirely preoccupied with how much I could get into the back of my Fusion, and will the box spring fit into the Explorer, and look at the state of these floors - I'll never get my deposit back at this rate. Then, Sunday evening, my birthday happened.

If it would have been up to me, I would have opted out entirely. The cleaning, the piles, the dirt, the dust - the sliver of OCD in my skin was poking at me hard, and I pried myself away to take a trip home. Well, to my parents' house.

Birthdays always seem like another day until my mother gets involved. She makes an event out of every tiny victory, whether that be an instructor certification weekend or the anniversary of your birth. She had prepared snacks, bought nice beer and wine, made a cake, invited surprise friends over. When we finally sat down to dinner (BLT's and corn on the cob, by request), I was looking at 6 people that I would not have known were it not for We Can Ride. I think we all realized this somewhere during that time - looking around at each other, talking about what we have in common - horses, classes, people with disabilities.

Never before have I radiated with happiness like I did sitting at that beat up old kitchen table (with remnants of high school nailpolish on the edges) on a fall evening, leaving behind all thoughts of the transient frenzy the week had been, listening to everyone say something about a client they loved, or the story of a horse's past, or, how, despite the odds, this crazy chaotic thing just seemed to work. It felt so fated, sitting there - almost helpless against the flow of conversation, against the outpouring of love for this organization. This was a table of servicemen and women, in the non-military sense, of course - each speaking from the warm place in their hearts that all We Can Ride volunteers know.

That place is where the amazing, breath-caught-in-your-throat things happen. It's where people who have never walked get on a horse and ride. It's where those who have never talked look down at you from 15.2 hh and smile. It's where we watch as a retired show horse stands patiently as a nervous client cries out in fear. It's where you meet retirees, teenagers, housewives, and high powered professionals dressed in boots and t-shirts, tromping around for hours of pure service, of pure joy.

I'm reminded that, for every night I come home shaking my head with disgust at government, at corporate giving, at the state of finances, at the problems that being understaffed pile on my desk (not unlike the belongings in my bedroom), the changes in my personal life - this place makes amazing things happen, and I believe. May I never forget that I believe.

"Como girafa!"

I met a little girl today - her name was Kelsey - while hanging out at my friend's house in the Stuart neigborhood of Minneapolis. The little girl was a beautiful latina - long black hair, caramel skin, big grin. She was playing with Hershey the dog, who Katie and I were walking back from our trip down the Midtown Greenway.

Kelsey wasn't alone - she had young friends and cousins romping around in the yard with her. Nobody was older than 7 or 8, youngest was probably 3. Summer was fresh on their faces, in the grasstains on their knees, in the breathless way they ran from yard to yard. I loved that they all crowded around the dog laying there in the lawn.

I crouched down to be with them and the dog, and a curious and familiar conversation began to happen.

Kelsey and another little boy pointed to my shoulders which are covered with freckles. They furrowed their brows together, and Kelsey pointed to a patch of them, asking, "What are these on your skin?"

This is not the first time my speckled skin has drawn attention from children. When I visited Thailand in 2004, we lived in a villiage with many young ones. As I walked through the playgrounds to the cabin we were living in - all of us tall, white basketball-playing women - I was always met with pointing and staring. None of them spoke English, however. I only realized what they were laughing at when they got close enough (and brave enough) to touch me. Suddenly they were prodding my arms with their hands - giggling and giving me questioning looks.

These children spoke English, though - even though much of it was laced with Spanish words I understood - so I was finally in a place to explain my particular spotted appearance.

"These are my freckles," I said, and Katie offered the Spanish word "peca" to back up my soon to be wordy explanation.

"But why?" Kelsey asked me.

"You see your skin?" I said, pointing to her arm, "You see how you get brown in the summertime? Well, I do too, but instead of it being an even brown like your pretty skin, I can only have it in spots."

"You can't be in the sun?!" one boy asked, alarmed.

"No, no, I can be in the sun. It just makes me look a little different than you," which I knew wasn't giving them the answer they wanted, so I laughed and offered, "The sun makes me look a little bit like a giraffe."

Katie laughed one of her hearty, lean back laughs, and said, "Girafa!" which of course made Kelsey and her friends laugh, too.

They then moved on to looking at Katie's cell phone, wrapping themselves in blankets and playing tag, and tearing grass out of the lawn.

I'm always oddly happy to be a curiosity - suddenly so foreign. I sometimes forget that even the briefest intersections can leave me feeling like a giraffe, like a funny joke, like someone to stare at. Maybe there doesn't have to be much interesting about me beyond my "markings," and my ability to sit down in the grass with a dog and some children and play.

I like the simplicity of being a giraffe for an afternoon.

Letters from a stranger

I learned many things this week during my various intersections with humans in my life.

From a pair of relative strangers, I knew what it was to grieve and love through someone else's memory.

From a group of clients, I learned the power of chemistry - one girl requested that her class be reunited for next session. "You can take care of that, right? Because I don't think I want to do this without them." I watched a woman 6 times their age hand over her card, encouraging these young girls to call anytime - just to talk. She drove 50 miles back to Minneapolis, racing the setting sun.

From a past love, I learned the power of peace - because begrudgery only lead me to obsession and sadness. The days are fleeting and begging for the lightness that regret never allows.

From a rascal, I learned that I was maybe less dramatic than I once believed. I think what happens to a soul on it's way down a new path is something best described as a scattering - thrown in several directions at one time, and trying to pull everything together to make a whole. I learned that "Well, it happened, and there's no taking it back now."

I learned that meeting the parents is not always that big of a deal - and that school teachers can run with the bulls in Pamplona, or scream and carry on in a cab in Japan. Lawyers sometimes bike to work, looking like aliens all lit up on their trek downtown.

From a writer and a thinker, I learned that "get in the pool" life theories are good, and ones I need to follow more often. Throw your whole body at your target, I've learned.

Bon Appetit

This morning, I sat down with a colossal pancake that I made for a very late breakfast and flipped on the gigantic television my roommate owns. We don't have cable, and I have little patience for anything on non-cable television besides the news (on occasion), and Public Television.

I have always loved PBS. Every kid starts loving PBS nowadays, it seems - what with Sesame Street and the late and beloved Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. I guess I never lost my zest for public television (and radio, actually), ever since I discovered Globe Trekker and the occasional movie special. I've been to Egypt, watched Humbert Humbert seduce Lolita in black-and-white, started a reality television addiction with "Pioneer House," and even caught a documentary made by a Carleton student about giving up technology once. I think a general life goal I have is probably to have my own show on PBS, but until then, I'll tell you about what I saw today.

With all of the hype about Julia Child lately, it's no wonder that even PBS needed to capitalize on the movie buzz by plugging "The French Chef" seasons on DVD as a gift for contibuting to their cause. I remember vaguely watching Julia Child with my grandparents when they came over to babysit us once. We also had to watch "Yan Can Cook" - but that's a whole 'nother story. My memory reminded me that she had a very distinctive voice - but that's about the extent of it.

In the episode they were airing, they featured Julia making a spit-roasted chicken stuffed with parsely, challot, salt, pepper, and, you guessed it, butter. She even gave the chicken a "butter massage" (her own words) to prep the skin for roasting. Later, she tied pieces of bacon to it in an effort to "self baste" the bird.

What I learned from this episode and perhaps my readings on Julia in general as of late is the following:

1) Julia Child was tall and awkward. This endears me to her, of course, as there aren't many of us 6-footers out there. We have to band together.

2) In the days of South Beach diets and the like, it was strangely refreshing to see someone slather on butter like it was her job. It's not like Julia sat down to eat that entire chicken, or that she made it every day - but if you make something special, you have to think about how it tastes. If you're presenting your best work to others, wouldn't you want it to be so perfect that they could think of nothing but the heaven that is hitting their tastebuds? We worry so much about how we talk, how we look, how we present ourselves - but cooking always reminds me that sometimes the best reflection of oneself that can be offered is something made, and something given.

3) The greatest gift a teacher can give is the accessibility to the subject matter. The more I read and learn about Julia, the more I learn that she did precisely that: demystify. As a teacher myself, I struggle always to analyze tasks, to break it into tiny pieces and feed it to my students in such a way that they learn.

4) All the best people have playful hearts. They make fun - they create great events and great enthusiasm around their own personal passions. They aren't afraid to be the most ridiculous person in the room, or to pick someone off the floor, or to trip and fall themselves. What great fearlessness she had, indeed.

There is plenty of hype, and rightfully so, stirring around Julia Child as of late - I believe that she and so many of the teachers, friends, parents, and heroes we all have are made of similar stuff. And as for me - I'm learning to savor the tastes of today, and remember them as they slip into tomorrow. I'm going to try to be the best awkward 6-footer since Ms. Child herself.

A different kind of 'Bunny'

I love riding therapy horses.

Most people would not say this. Well, most horse people would not say this. Most therapy horses are donated to programs due to their flaws or their age (or both). The show ring and the hunter course aren't always forgiving on older bodies, nomatter how willing the spirit may be. Trots are no longer symmetrical. There might be a hitch here and there. They may have grown sluggish, or unwilling to move faster. They may not like to be saddled, they may have started cribbing on wood, they may have stopped eating, or become obsessed with eating.

So they come to us, sometimes a little overweight or underweight, or off on the right front at the canter. Some of them have forgotten how to bend and flex their backs, their hindquarters. Some of them never learned the fundamentals, some of them refuse to remember.

Cantering Bunny around the arena has been both a source of pain for me and a source of great pride. She had been sluggish and out of practice, unhappy with riders and riding. I figure, at the end of the day, all horses just need to move. They are built for that, it's in their blood. Like any natural athlete, when fitness falls to the wayside, they start to get sad.

Bunny's canter was hesitant. We started at a jog-trot, then I pushed for her to extend. I began to post (rise and fall with the leg on the wall) as she found a little more momentum. We rounded the south end of the outdoor arena, and I sat deep in the seat of the saddle. I lifted my inside rein, applied my outside leg, and made a kiss/hiss with my mouth.

My legs are long, which makes cueing relatively easy. When my leg moves slightly, horses really feel it, feel my weight shift or my seat engage. It's my own sort of advantage in a world of 5-foot nothing riders. So, when I asked once, I knew she'd know what I was telling her with all that body language. Bunny flicked her ears back at me, and her trot got lightning fast.

I asked again, and again, and again with my legs and my hands and my voice. Bunny was trotting so fast and breathing so hard trying to avoid cantering that I knew she had it in her. She was just out of practice, and feeling lazy.

I reached behind me, and slapped her rump and growled. That did it - quite literally, this fast-trotting mare bounded up into a nasty canter that threw my hips out of alignment as my seat, upperbody, and legs fought to keep her balanced. We went about 15 strides before she broke back down into the trot.

She's gotten better, I'll admit. Bunny canters now without a crop, a growl, or even a hard cue. She rushes into the transition a little bit, but I'm hard pressed to complain. My hips now sit level in the saddle, paralell to the horizon, and though I still have to really work to get her to bend around the corners without crashing into a fence or cutting straight across, she goes and goes and goes. Today we cantered 2 complete laps - her ears forward, her body pushing from behind.

I look at these angel horses and marvel as they tolerate screaming clients, balls being thrown at their faces by excited children, clumsy volunteers cinching up their girths too tightly. Some of them bite when a rider gets too wiggly - but they'd never buck or rear to put that person in danger. They have a voice, in their way. They have a look when they're scared, when they're relaxed, when they're unsure, when they're very happy. They wear it in their walk, their head carriage, their ease of transition from faster paces to slower paces to standstills.

When a horse is really happy, they listen.

Therapy horses taught me that the happiest souls are those with their ears always searching for input, and their bodies stretching, bending, and moving.

Thoughts from Colorado, a Few Years Later.

Did you know that people bike on precarious mountain roads, over 7,000 feet above sea level?

Well, they do. And sometimes on Saturday mornings, when you're dressed in a long sleeved Wrangler shirt (with breast pockets perfect for a can of chew that you don't have) and wearing spurs someone made from old horse shoes, sitting astride a big prancing idiot of a horse who has no business trying to herd cows, trailed by about 5 beginning adults who either know what they're doing or want desperately to get their overweight asses out of a leather saddle, you see the bikers as they pass your small herd of cattle. Actually, it was more common for them to break for a while and stare. You'll quickly contrast your dusty grunge and tense horseflesh to all that neon spandex and plastic straddling an economic display of titanium alloy and wheels. They almost always wave and smile, these bikers - and your heart dips a little in your chest because they remind you of the city and where you come from, not just the person you're being paid to be. They remind you of the kinds of people who work in a physically idle state, and have to persue exercise as a hobby because they'd be worthless lumps of overthinking fat and hair and bones without it. Even you can remember that desperate need for escape into something vast yet navigatable, to feel like you can make your body do things it doesn't want to do, go places it couldn't normally go, just for a few minutes or hours a day until you recage it and re-invest it in mundanity.

Now you're a a 20-something girl on a massive bay gelding came striding onto County Road 40 pushing 20 cattle ahead of her. There's a lot to think about up here - the even pressure of weight in your sturrups, the tension in your reins, pulsing your hands to remind your steed that he needs to listen, listen. Waiting for the last cow to get ahead of you, because rushing in the middle would scatter them. You watch the others and make sure their horses are behaving, making sure they're beside you as you cross the road. Making sure they're not walking their horses through holes or over barbed wire. You're tense, you're not thinking about much else besides your physical actions, the job at hand. But you look up, and that biker waves - that biker that you used to understand really well. You might still understand him, but right now you feel like worlds are colliding. A semi truck stops and idles as you push cows past. The other riders wonder if we're doing something illegal - but no, here, the cows have a right-of-way. You're allowed to stop traffic, to make jaws drop. You have a job to do.

But in the end, you feel oddly homesick as you look at idling drivers in minivans or bikers or even people out walking their dogs. Your life has become some kind of warped version of a western - or a reality show, depending on the day. You wouldn't trade it, really. Every once in a while, though, you wish for the perspective of the biker and not the wrangler, even if just for a minute.

Being clean, being pretty, being eloquent, being well-read - these are not things valued where you are. Half of the contents of your brain are completely useless here. This is a place of reflex, of literal touch-and-go, of sunburn, of manure, of hill and dale. It's a place where the biggest puzzle you have all day is how to match guests ("dudes") with your herd of horses, or the best way to get Scottish Highland cattle off the sides of very tall hills. You've fallen off, you've bruised yourself, you've gotten lost at this point. You've probably lost 10 pounds at least from sheer motion for 14 hours a day, 6 days a week. Your cell phone doesn't work anywhere out here, and you get mailed week-old copies of the New York Times to stay abreast of the world outside. No, looking at that biker on a Sunday morning makes you more than homesick, it makes you envious. Things are easy, fast from that bike.

Things are gritty, painful, sometimes even mindless from this horse. So much of you loves it, and yet so much of you is left behind.

Even now, so far from that place, I wonder which parts of me I'm supposed to leave behind.

Walk on, walk up, and whoa.

She's nervous, you see.

I could tell when she walked into the waiting area in the barn--suddenly pacing, repeating, "I'm going to the mall." She'll be going to the mall tomorrow with a school group, its true. She flipped her head back to look at the ceiling lights.

I knelt down to get to eye level. "Hi, my name is Andrea."

"I'm going to the mall," she said, looking left of my head, into the arena where horses were warming up. I adjusted her helmet a little, shortened the chin-strap to fit her head. When it was her turn, I took her hand, and her mother asked if she could come, too. I agreed.

At the gate, mom had to go. It was just me, the instructor, her, and the horse now.

She protested. She dropped to her knees. She pulled against us. She whined, waled, turned limp in our arms.

Up the block, step by step, we practically dragged her. When we lifted her onto the back of the horse, she whimpered, screamed, began to kick. Her horse stood there patiently against the panicked blows, and we pulled her away, back to the block, then to the waiting area.

Her horse was brought over again--for grooming this time, not riding. Mother and I held her hands and I put a brush in my back pocket. She began to get weak in the knees getting into the arena whimpering as before. Mother cradled the back of her neck while I pulled her arms along until we were next to the horse again. I held the brush in her hand and we ran it down his neck. "I'm going to the mall. I want to go home. " No, you're here, with your friend, the horse--we told her these things again and again. After 5 minutes of brushing, watching her horse's ears flick back and forth as she repeated his name, and eventually reaching her fingers into wooly winter coat, she went back out of the arena to regroup with her mother. She returned later, helmet still on. Her mother's jaw was set, her movements were brisk. They came over to me at my post by the gate.

We talked. "I'm going to the mall." Let's go see your horse one more time, okay?

Volunteers positioned the horse at the block for the second time. Like the professional he was, he stood squared, calm, seeming not to remember the tiny girl-explosion who had approached him earlier. While he stood, we practiced walking up those steps, assuring her that she didn't have to ride today. The instructor and I stood there, supporting her weight as she reached a tentative hand forward to touch that familiar fur, put her hands on the instructor's hands, placed her fingers on a closely-clipped mane. "Thank you, horsey."

Good. This is better. She came off the block down the steps, to the cement waiting area outside the arena. Mother and I sat with her to watch the last of class. We waved at her horse as he walked by, riderless. "I would like to pet him again," she said. We exchanged surprised looks. "Going to the mall, I have a pool, do you want to come?" she said. Mother scowled a bit at that.

I called the volunteer leader over again. He brought the horse, who stood there like a patient kind of friend as she was coaxed out of her chair. Two hands, now, through the gate, into his fur. Fingers reached through the thick hair to get to the skin. Good. This is better.

When her horse was lead away, she reached for my hand and said, "You come to see my pool? My horsey come to see my pool?" Oh, friend, you come to visit me, and I'll help you learn to ride. Its so much better than a pool. Just you wait and see.