The day after...

For two days I drove through early morning mist to attend a horse clinic in New Jersey, given by Buck Brannaman. The drive to the barn was spectacular and worth the early morning wake-ups. Fields glistened with dew, and streams ran strong from recent rain as I wound around the back-country roads.

For those who are not familiar with Buck, he is the original Horse Whisperer. If you get a chance, see the documentary/film, Buck. I've seen it twice and strongly recommend it. You don't have to own a horse, or even be associated with one to appreciate the film. Buck's words go beyond the lessons of horses, and straight to the heart of life.

From my cabin window I look out at the animals in my woods, and realize how much I am committed to their well-being. There are days when I go from euphoria to despair, especially during hunting season. I do what I can to give these souls a place of safety. Buck does this same thing in the clinics. His horses are gentle and quiet, asking nothing in return but respect and he gives it to them. He teaches riders to prepare for the unthinkable, and I believe we can follow that same rule in our own lives.

Be gentle, but firm. Accept nothing less from animals than what you would expect for yourself. I loved the clinic and learned much more than how to handle a horse.

Safety and shelter are different sides of the same coin. In our hearts we all ask for this. Next time you see a Buck Brannaman clinic in your area, give it a go!

The Equinox..

As I look out on a gorgeous morning it comes to mind that the Equinox will occur later in the week. Hmmm, a time when day and night are approximately equal in length. "What does this mean for me?" I ask myself?

All life, including mine, is equal in the eyes of our Creator. We are each given what we need to carry during our years here on this planet. Perhaps I can make equal time for all that is important to me. A balance, so to speak, of life's gifts.

Every life has a story, and in every story there is a lesson. It is up to me to listen carefully, for my thoughts create my reality. During this time of Equinox I hope to work hard with whatever gifts I own, and then let them go. It is not up to me to direct, it is up to me to do everything I can within my own space here where I live.

And then I'll ask my God, what would you have me do for the greater good? For what is real, and what is lasting, is who you are.

Still and uncomplicated!

It is the beginning of September, and the country fairs are in full swing. People show the bounty from their summer gardens or quilts they've made over the past winter. I love this month and know it as a gentle one. Nothing is expected, no leaves to rake or large meal to prepare, and no holiday with gifts to wrap. Those joyous seasons come later.

September is a time when I feel still and uncomplicated. The days are warm and the nights and mornings are cool. The air is not as humid and the vegetation will become dormant soon. It is a time to allow myself the pleasure of tranquillity.

A recent hurricane blew through, rare but not uncommon for this month, and some of the old trees fell. I hate when old wood falls, but it is a reminder that we all have a finite amount of time on this earth. Trees give of themselves in both life and death, and I feel the worth of that fact as I split their logs to use in my wood stove over the winter.

Within the stillness I feel my spirituality renew itself, and again I am grateful for this month of softness.

Serenity!

What a scene playing out before me!

Sitting here in my cabin this morning I'm watching a doe with her triplet fawns. Mom is trying hard to nudge them away from having their breakfast on her! It's the time of year to begin the process of learning to eat from nature, and the mommies are attentive to their work. Because of their size, all three fawns are feeding from the soft green leaves of the underbrush. Grabbing a leaf in their small mouth, they pull hard until it rips from its branch. Once in a while they hold on to it for a moment before chewing, and it is comical to watch them walk away with the leaf sticking straight out. It looks like a green cigar!

Now, a second doe with her twins are walking by and they are doing the same thing. Teaching the young. Tails are wagging lazily keeping the bugs off their bodies, and their ears are twitching to keep anything from flying in. To watch the innocence and caring of the mothers is nothing short of heartwarming. I love how they all stick together, as if all in one family.

Squirrels chase each other around my oaks, and birds fly through the woods beside them. The deer hear the noise, but all of this seems normal. The white spots on the fawns are fading, but so far they are all keeping their tan coats. I see the little ones are tiring and are nestling themselves into the ferns. They will stay in the dappled morning sunlight for a while, then get up again to follow their moms.

Oh my, now they're back on their feet waiting for the large buck who is approaching fast through the forest. He's herding them to the water baths I set out and waits patiently while they drink their fill. Paying close attention to what surrounds him, he slowly leads his family into the deeper woods.

Five fawns, two mommies, and a buck. A graceful serenity that presents itself to me this morning. I feel blessed to witness this natural wonder most every day from my cabin window.

Turkey Talk!

I am walking toward my writing cabin as fast as I can, holding my computer in one hand and a bundle of papers in the other. A darkening sky and blowing wind accompanies me this morning, and I can hear thunder in the distance. Yanking the door open, I slip inside, closing it tightly behind me. I'm safe, dry and snug in here, I think.

Through the wall of windows I can see lightening break across the sky, jagged and powerful. Tree branches are whipping wildly against each other as the storm arrives in full force.

Ten wild turkeys are running through the ferns, heading for my pile of brush. I put it there for the ground animals to hide under during thunderstorms and blizzards. The turkeys climb on top of the mound tucking their feathers tightly to their bodies, and lower themselves on the rough dead wood. I don't think they like to get their feet wet. They preen a little, and then drop their heads.

Loud thunder...gobble gobble gobble. Louder thunder...gobble gobble gobble. With each roll of thunder comes the turkey talk. I'm guessing they don't like being interrupted from their ground scratching and pecking, but what do I know of turkey talk?

For a decade I've witnessed many storms in these woods, and the turkeys always squawk after each clap of thunder. A private joke perhaps? Laughter? I'm not sure, but it never ceases to amaze me.

Turkey talk! Who knew?

My writing group....my friends.

I have the most amazing writer's group. We critique each other's work, write stories for our newest anthology, and laugh at our own mistakes. We've been together five years and all of us are dedicated to becoming better writers.

For example, after I've spent weeks or months writing and editing a new short story, I go back to my group with ten copies of it tucked into my briefcase. Unwillingly, I pass the stapled copies around and ask if someone would read it. Out loud! I listen. I watch the faces with curiosity while they mark up their copy of my valued work.

After the reading is finished, I reluctantly ask for comments. What they say, you don't really want to hear. You do not want to be told that the first sentence is off the mark, or that there's not enough dialog, or the protagonist is not described well. Even worse is noting that someone is writing furiously in the margins of their copy before they pass it back.

When I return home, I leave the ten copies in my bag, and don't look at them for two weeks. I don't want to read their 'additional' comments. Three weeks later, after bringing them to my writing cabin, I turn them upside down on the floor by my table. The pages talk to me as they sit at my feet with their corners flipping up in the breeze from the open wall of windows in front of me, and I feel their urging to be looked at.

Finally, enthusiastically, I grab one. Then another. Now I'm on the floor with all the copies forming a circle around me. The comments are helpful, but I wince when I see the obvious mistakes I've made.

I've a long way to go as a writer, as you can tell because this blog has not been edited by my friends, but I get better with each piece I submit to my group. I'm proud to be a member. And when it's my turn to write a comment on another writer's story, I'm honored. Really!

My cabin!

A new friend came over to visit this week, and in the process of walking around my woods I introduced her to my writing cabin. Her oooooh's and ahhhhh's, surprised me and we sat within the cabins soft walls for an hour or two. We spoke quietly with each other and watched the deer, birds, and wild turkeys play by my windows.

My cabin sits proudly on its stone foundation, one that I built with my own hands. And as I sit inside I am humbled once again by the distinct loving feeling it gives to all that enter.

Later, on the way out to her car, we walked by my tool shed and I told her how my housemate and I lived in it for six months while we built our home. Our two Maine Coon kitties came along with us for the adventure, and we lived in it until the cold and snow drove us away. This comment drew raised eyebrows and a frown, followed by disbelief. Then she laughed and said, "only you!"

Friends and family come to my home often, but few realize the agonizing efforts of construction. We built a house 'from scratch'...two women, one crazy-cool opera-singing contractor, and hammers tucked into our tool belts. The experience was exhausting, exhilarating, and exciting. I'll cherish those months and carry them in my heart forever.

Compassion....

We do best what our heart tells us.

Gazing out my cabin window this early morning, I feel compassion within. It gathers strength as I watch two fawns frolic in the dappled sunlight, then run through the ferns at the edge of my woods.

As I watch I melt with grace at the beauty of these two babies, and I make a commitment to non-violence in thought, word and action. Compassion is the reason I'm a vegetarian, and I have a difficult time understanding the 'need' to kill anything this beautiful. Or any other life form, for that matter.

This Earth will live on after I leave. The question I ask myself is; have I done my part to sustain or offset other's carelessness or non-caring? If the answer is no, then I must try harder with the life I have left. All living things need our mercy, sympathy, and kindness. I can challenge myself to do better.

Life is a gift. And love? It connects all of us....