The Secret Life

Two grandsons, big and little.

Neither are smiling, but the big one can, and the little one is trying.

I’m afraid if I say this my log design person will go “Auugh!”

We’re thinking of selling the house.

We want greener pastures and some flat land.

That’s on the home front. That information, like a pink elephant, has been standing in the room, all pink and sparkling with glitter. Lately he has been trumpeting day and night, waking the neighbors, so I have to attend to him. There will be more about that later.

Why am I doing this?

This blog, I mean. Why do we do anything? Either for fun, for the learning experience, or to impart information.

Guess I’m doing it for fun.

You know how it is, we want to do that thing we do and have something meaningful happen as a result. I’ve been working on the book I mentioned earlier, If, a journal, a film and a baby, about Daughter D’s and my journey into a child for her, a possible film for us, and a book by me. As I edit it and read a chapter or so to Daughter D, she says “I don’t remember saying that.” So, see, it’s important to jot down events as they occur. I never understood how a person could write a memoir unless they kept a journal. Not that everyone is interested in the minutia of our lives, they have their own. Without expression and creativity, though, life is bland. And who wants a bland life?

After writing my book, It’s Hard To Stay On A Horse While You’re Unconscious, I decided that nobody knew I existed, and only a few close friends knew me, so this blog is my way of making myself known.

So, Hi guys, hope life is going well for you.

Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die,
we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.
Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

Thursday Came on Sunday This Week

First I declare that my blog will go out on Thursday and what happens? I miss my own self-imposed deadline. Guess I’ll have to fire me.

But before I do I have to say that the people who respond to this blog are the nicest people in the world. Thank you all. This is blog number10—if you know where the time went please tell me and we can go there and party on someone else’s time. You have heard people speaking about time speeding up? Don’t you find that some days you feel like a test pilot? The adrenaline, the speed, the nerve wracking attention to staying alive? I’ve heard it said that the vibration of the earth is actually ringing faster than it did a few years ago. (The earth can be compared to a giant tuning fork that when struck rings at a certain frequency.)

Well, with all this ringing, pinging and scurrying, I have found a few things I can count on, one is that invariably when you take clothes out of the dryer a piece will land on the floor. When walking through the house in a jacket, with toggles dangling, or even a pocket, one will catch on a door knob and bungee you against the door frame like a sky diver pulling his rip cord. A flake of hay will probably bounce out of the wheelbarrow, and what is it with all those hay bale twines? Two strings per bale, sometimes three, yet they seem to multiply faster than aardvarks. (I don’t believe aardvarks multiply fast, but I like the image better than flies multiplying.)

I’m feeling pretty good today. Thursday when I started this I was feeling out of sorts. Could be that the anticipation of cleaning the garage was worse than doing it, not that the garage is clean. I figure if, like hauling manure, I do a wheelbarrow every day, and soon have a mountain, the converse ought to work on the garage. A pickup truck full of junk taken from the garage to the dump, and before long, viola’ a clean garage. The trouble is I have to keep hauling to get those results, and that sends me into a tailspin.

Monday Baby D was six weeks old. (The picture above is Baby D at six weeks of age.) We took him to El Torito Restaurant to celebrate—he didn’t eat Mexican, but he smelled it, and before long he will be sopping up guacamole with the rest of us. We go to El Torito whenever we want to celebrate, and we celebrate the sun coming up—other things, too, like the day we bought our “Flip” house, and the day we sold it, the day Daughter D found she was pregnant, and now Baby D being six weeks old. Oh gosh, tomorrow he will be seven weeks old—guess we need to go to El Torito again.

Daughter D, Baby D and I are planning a road trip to New Mexico next month. It will be a property search exposition, a “Flip” house search, a fact finding mission. I told my husband his head would explode if he went along for we are traveling with a baby and two dogs, and will be stopping about every two hours, or sooner… Daughter D says to write about it. I could call it Help, I’m Tapped in a Minivan with a Daughter, Two Dogs and a Baby.

Here is a great quote that doesn’t apply to what I have been saying, but applies to life. It is attributed to the Buddha.”The teacher comes to point the way and the student ends up worshipping the pointer.”

Don't forget to check out http://www.wishonawhitehorse.com/

Thanks ever so much,

Joyce

On The Horns of a Dilemma

Bathing Beauties...

The pictures are for fun.

Regarding Dilemmas. Have you ever seen one? They are fiery beasts; have Texas Longhorn protrusions on the sides of their heads, a pig nose that spits fire, claws that hang on no matter how much pulling or shoving you do, and hair like a big foot. Have you ever seen a big foot? Neither have I.

You can sit on a Dilemma’s horns, which is where I am now.

The Dilemma? I think my book it too expensive. If I sell it cheaper I will go in the hole. In the hole and on a dilemma—a terrible place to be. I think I need a new publisher.

I forced myself to stay away from my computer for a couple of days, as I was becoming obsessive with writing queries (for other books) writing ads, feeling bad if nobody clicked on my website, and then this morning a miracle.

I don’t know if I will sell any books from it, but just getting it warmed my cockles. My brilliant log home designer volunteered to advertise my site if I sent him a banner ad. Yet before I sent the ad he had placed a banner on his site. I am honored. If you want a log home, he’s the one who will design it. Check out his site at:
http://www.logrhythms.com/
My ad appears on
http://www.lhoti.com/board/showthread.php?t=2161

Now wouldn’t people who like log homes also like horses? Maybe. Maybe not. Horses might not be your thing, either, but I bet life is, and that is the reason we reside here on this page together.

Life is something we all have, all have opinions about, and all are trying to master, yet so few of us have a clue. I received a phenomenal link to another website this morning called Children of the Sun. On it Greg Bradden, a scientist trained in the physical and earth sciences, found there was more to life than his books taught him. Now he attempts to marry science and spirituality. On this website he gave 20 Keys of Conscious Creation. I jotted down these two:

“The minimum amount of people to jump-start a change in the consciousness of the world is 1%.”

One percent! Holy Cow. We could do that. We could start a movement that said, “I’m going to look on the bright side of life. The world might be in peril, but we can change that. We are, after all, the animals with the big thinking brain—for heaven’s sake we have technology to drill for oil at the bottom of the ocean, we build oil derricks that rival the size of rockets we send into space. We went to the moon. We started the Peace Corps, and young people by the thousands signed up to live in one room shacks with no running water because they wanted a hand in changing the world. The WPA helped bring us out of the great depression by providing 8 million jobs with evidence of their work in almost every town in the US. Guard rails on the old scenic highway down the Columbia River gorge were built by the WPA. Timberline Lodge at the base of Mt Hood here in Oregon is a testament to the skill of artists who handcrafted that magnificent structure. Timberline Lodge has withstood winter snows that reached its roofline for 72 years.

I’m not going to believe the nay-sayers who say the world is falling apart, or the movie Mongols who believe the population wants violence. Neither am I going to follow journalists who propagate the theory that, “If it bleeds it leads.” I am going to believe we are the children of the world. We are the ones to make this a brighter day…

Number 2: “We must become in our lives the very thing we want to experience in our world”

Now that's a challenge. Are we up to it?

Happy Thursday—Thursday seems to be my day to blog. See ya next week!
Ta Da!

Joyce

P.S. Want to be notified of a new blog post? Send me your email address. (Don’t worry, wild horses couldn’t drag your address out of me.) wishonawhitehorse@yahoo.com
P.S.P.S. Got a comment? Send it.

What, now you're talking about health and hormones?

Look at me, I'm Baby D.





First born daughter's son.

And since this site circles around horses, I have to include one. Here is a picture of my mustang Sierra.

I have to hand it to you guys who found my blog. And I have to hand it to you guys who read it. There are a zillion blogs out there.

I wasn’t into blogging until I started this one. Now that I have followers I have to check them out. Some are absolutely beautiful, Boho girl--an astounding site. Her photos are incredible, and the story about her adopting a baby, I’m wiped out. I spent hours trying to respond to her, ended up signing up on myspace.com. Got hooked into writing a profile, and can you believe they wanted my age?

I tried saying I was born in 1909, their earliest listed date, but they said to enter an age between 13 and 100. I would have put 39 but my daughter said I couldn’t, that’s how old she is.


The day is almost over and what did I accomplish? A warm chair and frazzled eyeballs. Those missing spaces after paragraphs in the last blog bugged me, but the site refused to enter them although I tried at least 600 times.

I let the horses out a few minutes ago—that’s something accomplished. Since I’m not exercising them, they need to do it themselves. Sierra and Velvet like to frolic around the house, up the drive, into the forest, over the retaining wall. We had to fence in the house and the deck so I could have some ornamental plants. A couple of summers ago the goats ate the fig tree down to a nubbin. Last summer a visitor commented on how beautiful it was, and offered to lend them a goat.

The horses are free-range for only an hour or so. Having grown up on this property, they stay around the house, and when I call them they run to get their grain. That is one thing they are respectful of, me walking with a grain bucket. I learned a trick from Monty Roberts, point to them and they keep their distance. Both of them kicked up their heels in rebellion when I first enforced the rule—they were kids then—now they walk calmly over to the fence and receive their grain like ladies.

The trouble is they are so accustomed to this property, and anything new is as though stalked by a mountain lion.

Monday Baby D was one month old.

We took him out to dinner to celebrate.

And him being particular about food, he brought his own—that is discreetly nursing under the table in the restaurant booth. Did you know that breastfeeding actually makes breast tissue younger? We learned that from a lactation consultant. When the mother is older, she said, sometimes it takes a bit longer to get started, but one started there is no difference, and the cells of the breast actually change to the younger version of themselves. Those changed cells are now one reason researchers believe that mothers who have breastfed have fewer incidents of breast cancer.

While I am on the subject of health, I am a champion of using hormone replacement therapy that does not involve a horse. Premarin is made from mare’s urine. Doctors routinely prescribe it, unless the woman requests otherwise. It is not necessary for the health of women and it is a cruel horrible practice for horses. Mares are kept perpetually pregnant, tied, standing on cement (that kills their legs) and with a catheter for the duration of their pregnancy. (Yipes.) The foals are throw-away-babies. Unless someone adopts them they are often destroyed. Hormone replacement therapy can be produced from Wild Yam or cholesterol, same hormones, work as well, and it does not torture an animal to do it.

I want to keep this site positive, but this is information is important to the health and welfare of women and horses. I love them both. I see that now Oprah has the courage and knowledge to encourage Individual specific hormone therapy. Yea, a new day—maybe flowers are blooming after all.

For information on my book It's Hard To Stay On A Horse While You're Unconscious, see http://www.wishonawhitehorse.com/