Someone To Start My Orange

"I just want someone to start my orange." Not sure why that thought came into my head, today. I guess I am struggling a bit and reminiscing of better days gone by. When one gets 70+ years old, I think that is probably a bit normal as the aches and pains one has earned in life, start to catch up with us. 

But my mama…

Gone from us now, almost ten years; and though she was ninety, it was still far too soon. She was the comfort of all comfort when I was a kid. She always knew just what to do. A particular memory flooded my heart today, leaving me in silent  tears, while tightly holding my breath. This, in order to keep my sadness silent. But, in truth, the memory also brought a smile.

When I was little and attending our small town, grade school, I was a bit shy. I often couldn’t do things, because I was afraid to try...until I got mad and then I could do anything… But I digress.

I was so shy, I was afraid to ever utilize the "hot lunch" service at our school. The price was only a quarter; and if one didn’t want to carry a lunch packed from home, the student could get a hot lunch, with milk. A student could also just get the milk for 6 cents. I didn’t do that either. I didn’t like milk.

I only remember getting "hot lunch" one day, in my entire 8 years at that grade school. Yes, it went to 8th grade! And then we were bussed to the larger junior high school, south, and then to high school as sophomores. 

One morning when I was very young and in grade school, my mom was very sick. She wasn’t up to making lunches for my siblings and me. As she handed me the quarter and told me I would have to get lunch from school that day, I balked. I told her I didn’t want to get "hot lunch". She didn’t understand that the reason was because I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to do it and that I would be embarrassed by not knowing what to do. Poor Mama. She basically begged me to just take the quarter and get hot lunch. 

I still remember stumbling nervously through the hot lunch line, not knowing what to pick up, or which way to go. I picked up a milk carton, at the front of the cafeteria line, even though I didn’t like milk. And then I heard someone lecture me… "No, no, no! You will get your milk at the end of the line. These are for the kids simply wanting milk only, for 6 cents."

Ugh...I knew I would do it wrong...and then I headed the wrong way. Someone else pointed me the right direction. Somehow, I made it through the rest of the line, as they filled my tray. After eating, I had to figure out how to return my tray and make sure I cleaned it correctly and put it in the right place. Sounds silly, I know; but to a shy little girl that was basically afraid of everything social, it was devastating. I do remember liking the lunch and telling Mama how good it was when I got home from school that day. Sometimes, as I look back, and think of how shy and uncertain I was, I wonder how I ever made it through school at all.

I don’t think I ever “took hot lunch” again. I like things the same every day. I do better with routine...even as an adult. Routine for me then, was carrying a lunch box. Eventually, as I got older, I also became embarrassed about that. It wasn’t cool to carry a box. It had to be a brown paper sack. My mom willingly obliged. I still remember that package of small brown lunch sacks that we had to pick up from the market from time to time.

That little story is to set the stage for the memory that made a visit today. But oh my goodness, the stories I have about that school cafeteria!! And they flood my mind as I try to relay even just the short one. This post may get way distracted from my intent. But that cafeteria!! I can literally smell it, and feel it as I write. It was in the basement of the old gymnasium, where I also have a ton of memories! Carnivals, cake walks, school dances, graduations and "Go you Chicken Fat, go!" But that is for another post I guess. You can read some of that here, and here and here. Oh, and here. Too much?? lol

Back to my lunch box. My lunches from home were often the same. Usually a tuna, or bologna sandwich on white bread, (often homemade) a cupcake or cookie and a fruit - usually an orange or a banana, because I didn’t like apples that well. My siblings and I were thrilled when we would have one of Mom's homemade cinnamon rolls show up in our lunchbox. 

As I said, Mom would often pack an orange in my lunch, as our fruit. If I remember correctly it was always a whole orange. We never had "baggies", ourselves, back then. Mama always wrapped everything in wax paper. I don’t think wax paper would be strong enough to prevent the juice of an orange leaking everywhere. Without a baggie or plastic container, juice would get all over everything if the orange was sliced.

But anyway, this memory is about a whole orange. One school year, several times in a row, I left the orange uneaten, bringing it home in my lunch box at the end of the day. Finally one day, Mama asked me why I wasn’t eating my orange at lunch.

“Because I can’t peel it, Mommy. I can’t get it started." At home, Mom always either started the orange peel for me with her thumb, or she just sliced it and gave it to me that way.

I will never forget the look on my mom’s face when I said that. Her face lit up in understanding and maybe just a bit of a look of motherly failure. I hate to call it sorrow, but as a mom, it kind of is that. You know the feeling you get when you know you have let your child down...even if it is something as small as an unpeeled orange – yeah, that look.

After that, every time I had an orange in my lunch there was always a little notch out of the peeling, probably started with her thumb or maybe a knife. That was the only way I was able to peel my orange the rest of the way by myself. It didn't have to be sliced and I could eat it without juice being all over my sandwiches and cupcakes. Mamas are the best for fixing everything.

So as I struggled today with what ever little thing it was that I was doing, this is the thought that came to me. “I wish I had someone to start my orange.” I hadn't thought of that in years - probably decades.

I don’t need a lot. But today I need someone to start my orange. And her name is Mama.

Pine Cone Messages

It was a warm, moonlit summer night and my best friend was spending the night. We were about 13 at the time and now at age 71, the clarity of the memory has faded. I’m sure we were sleeping out in the back yard of my family’s modest home. We loved to do that after the long, hot days of summer and we took turns spending the night at each other’s homes.

My bestie, Cathy, and her family were horse people. They raised Tennessee Walkers and some of my fondest memories of childhood revolve around those days.

Her family was probably one of the wealthiest members of our small, tight-knit community. Because we lived in what was then a rural neighborhood, the families in our little community were known as the “country bumpkins” to the kids from the schools of the larger city, further south. But to us, we had it far better than any of the “city slickers”. We had a mountain to climb, a lake nearby to swim, a pond to skate on in the winter, two little grocery markets, woods to walk in and a hill with woods where we loved to ride our horses. We also loved to ride them around the neighborhood, where traffic was minimal and paths along side the roads were many.

Cathy was smart, pretty, and feminine. I was just an average kid, and a bit of a “tom-boy” at that age. I was a big fan of the Trixie Belden book series when I was young and to me, I was Trixie Belden (all except for the short, curly blonde hair) and Cathy was Honey Wheeler to a T - the rich, pretty, best friend who had horses, a fancy stable, lots of property with woods and everything else a kid would want to grow up with at their disposal.

Cathy's family had three horses that I remember. Sandy, Midnight and Go-Go (yes, after the Go-Go Girls of the 1960’s). Sandy was the aging Palomino mare, that in the beginning we rode the most and who I was allowed to ride on my own. Next, Cathy got Midnight; a big, black Tennessee Walker that we rode together on all kinds of adventures. And then there was Go-Go the young Palomino filly who I only remember riding once. And in all honesty, I was a bit frightened when Cathy (with her Dad) allowed me to ride Go-Go in their large pasture. She was young and spirited. I only took this little filly a ways down the pasture, quickly returning, telling them “I had better not ride her, I don’t want to ruin her training.” lol     That was a kid’s way of saying: “Get me off here. I am scared!” In reality, Go-Go was as good as gold, or they wouldn’t have let me ride her alone. Fear has always been the emotion that has held me back the most, it seems, no matter the issue. Oh to be 13 again and do it all differently! Oh to be 71 and do the same!

But on this particular night, as we laid out our sleeping bags in the back yard of my safe, childhood home, an idea came to us. The next door neighbors’, whom we did not know at the time, had horses that seemed to be beckoning to us. Why, I don’t really know, as often as we got to ride Cathy’s horses.

“Let’s sneak over there and ride those horses!” Cathy was already plotting all of it out in her mind. Me, being not the leader, but the follower, willingly agreed; not stopping to have even one care about the fact that we had not one idea about the rideability of these horses. (Double negative for emphasis!) We didn’t know if they had ever been ridden or not; we didn’t care if we had a bridle or halter, or rope; and we most certainly had not one concern about a saddle. We just went. We crept under the fence and into their pasture. I don’t remember all of it, but I know Cathy told me she would mount first. As young teenagers it was easy for us to jump onto a horse’s back, stomach first and then swing our right leg over. With her getting on first though, this wouldn’t have been possible for me to mount that way, and I don’t remember exactly how I mounted. Perhaps she extended a hand and I somehow managed to mount without pulling her off. Or maybe we found a tree for me to grab onto and pull myself up. I just don’t remember. I only remember my friend, who was already an expert horse woman, guiding that horse around the pasture, lit only by the light of the moon. I remember riding past the big old tree that sat along the side of the road at the furthest edge of their pasture and ducking under a branch. I remember thinking excitedly, “We did it!” The horse was obviously well-behaved, and though there was another horse in the pasture as well, we rode together. I don’t remember anything after that...only this short scene that feels like it is fighting it’s way out of my mind, seemingly not wanting to stay. But it is one memory, that I absolutely treasure, so I hold onto it just as fiercely, as it tries to leave.

I have so many fond memories of this childhood friend – the day she got her first high heeled tap shoes as she continued her dance lessons; galloping Midnight across their pasture singing “Scarecrow, Scarecrow”...a popular Walt Disney movie of the era… “Don’t tell Dad we do this,” she had often warned me. 

And I remember one time at the pond, which the owners so graciously let the entire community use, we found a dead horse. She was distraught, but knew just what to do. She went up to get help and told me to stay there with the horse. (Not sure why) The owners of the home didn’t answer the door, so apparently she went on to her own home. But it was taking so long that I got scared, (big surprise) so I left. Kinda regret to this day not waiting for her to come back. 

I also remember camping out alone at the base of their mountain in the woods...in the dark...alone...in our homemade shelter, Did I say alone? At night? We got scared. I think we eventually went in to her house before the night was over. Not sure she was too happy with me about that. She was obviously the brave one, I think.

I also remember letting her down another time. We would meet each morning before school so that we could walk the mile to school together. I lived on the last street in our neighborhood. At that time, our street was sometimes called “Foothill” and she lived at the base of the mountain, and perpendicular to our street, with their house as the center point, directly across from their huge pastures. Every morning she would walk across that big pasture to meet me at the corner of my street. There were two big pine trees there, and we were to place a pine cone at the bottom of the biggest tree if one of us was late and the other got worried the friend was not coming. That way if one did come late, we would know the other one had been there, but gave up waiting...so we should just continue on to school. Well one day, I was pretty late...and I waited a few minutes, and decided there was no way she was coming, so I had better get going. But I couldn’t be bothered to leave a pinecone! I was so convinced she had already gone and had simply not left me a pine cone! I regret doing that to this day!! Because I later found out she hadn’t been there! And when she did get there, she trusted me enough to wait for me, being certain I hadn’t been there, because there was no pinecone! A good friend would have left a pinecone. Her waiting for me had made her late for school and it was my fault! What kind of a friend does that! I guess, I do. Suffice it to say, that was the end of the pinecone messages...and maybe just a bit of a loss of trust.

Anyway, we shared a lot more friendship after that. We were Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy together for a school party. We shared secrets and hopes and crushes on the cutest boys. We called each other every morning and stood by one another through thick and thin, We separated a bit in high school, when she was popular with a different crowd than I was, but we came back in full measure as adults. She comforted me through divorce and being newly single; and I cried with her when she lost her favorite horse, then close family members and finally her biggest tragedy of all – the loss of her only daughter in a tragic traffic accident at the age of 13. Cathy was also seriously injured.

I don’t think Cathy was ever the same after that; understandably so. Though a few years before the accident, she had moved to the southern part of the state, we always stayed in touch through letters. But I never saw her again. 

Finally, one day I got a call from her little sister telling me that she had passed away. 

After her memorial which I could not attend, her husband sent me the beautiful memorial, a  picture of her when she was young and a poem her daughter had written her when she was just a little tyke. A bit later, her husband called out of the kindness of his heart with a message, which I kind of look at now as kind of a “pinecone message”. She had gone on ahead, but she had thought of me. 

When their daughter had passed away, I had given Cathy a locket which held a photo of their daughter. He wanted me to know how much that meant to her and that she had never taken off...even for a day. I knew this was true, because when Cathy received it, she called me and told me how much it meant to her because it told her that I understood... Her grief, of course, was about losing her daughter; not about her own injuries. 

When her husband made that phone call to me, he also wanted me to know that she had often told him that some of her fondest memories were of time spent at my modest, childhood home, where she always only felt safety and love of family.

I don’t remember too many phone calls meaning more to me than that one. And I most certainly know and will forever remember that she was always the one to leave the important messages...

When Sorrow Is Offered Hope

 

It was a bright, sunny March day, and it seemed spring had arrived early. I knew it wouldn’t be long until my bluebirds arrived for the season. Their normal arrival date is around March 11^th , only 1 week away. I suspect due to the mostly mild winter and apparent early spring, they will arrive early. I knew I had to get out to clean their boxes before they arrive. I didn’t really relish the task, but I also knew from past experience it wouldn’t take long and it isn’t at all difficult.

I felt the warmth of the sun, without even a slight breeze and everything was so still, as I walked out the back door. It was actually a perfect day to have a small job outside. But as I started my task, I became a bit discouraged by the condition of the boxes. They are old and it is probably time, to replace all of them. I realized they were no longer as safe for my birds as they should be.

A walk through the
Raspberries.

The first boxes that I worked on went easily. But the last box that I cleaned, took longer than the other 4 all put together. It was in rough shape and the nest that was left over seemed to be stuck to the floor of the box. I had been negligent in getting to this box last year. Too, the box was a bit higher than the rest of them and I was foolish enough not to bring a step stool or ladder and too stubborn after already getting started, to go get one.

For no reason, I started to cry in frustration. It didn’t really have anything to do with the task at hand, or my difficulties in finishing it. It was due to the moment I walked out the back door, and I had felt the stillness, I felt only the emptiness. “It feels like death”, I told myself. It was all due to the fact that my little Arabian mare, was not there to greet me. And she never would be again. 

I know it is past time to be over the sorrow of losing her. But I also knew all winter long that I would feel like this come spring. I didn’t, however, expect it to be this bad. I simply cannot get over the sorrow and regret. Not only have I lost a loving, little friend who was my favorite creature to run away from life with, I have lost my life style. This is the first time in 21 years this property has been without a horse. Even as I write this, the tears come and the despair is great. As I went about my first outside chore of the spring season, I actually began to feel like I no longer even wanted to be here. Too many changes, nothing is the same. Too much work, which I am left alone to do. And all the hopes, dreams and desires from the past, now only linger in memory...much of it unaccomplished. It is now too late for a future.

There will be no more horses, because we cannot out live one, and it would be wrong to do that to an animal. I am too old to get an older animal in hopes that I might outlive it. An older horse requires far  more care and I would simply be putting myself in the state of worry I have lived the last few years, all over again.

I sometimes know it was right to put Juliee down, last fall. She was 30 years old, with suspected Cushings disease. She was missing 8 teeth and restricted to only a diet of soaked grass pellets and grain. I couldn’t throw down extra hay at night that she would have to eat to help keep her warm through a cold winter night. She was so fragile the harsh winter before, that I did not want to put her through that again. And yet, she had come through the winter remarkably. The prior two winters had been difficult with her suffering from a colic in March both of those years. It wasn’t due to indulging in too much rich green grass that often happens to horses in the spring. It was due to her not being able to chew her hay well enough for it to digest properly – thus the colic. She was doing well on the soaked pellets but for 2 prior winters I had readied myself for putting her down in the fall. This was the 3^rd year of feeling that way. When she came down with a leg injury, I felt we could no longer justify the expense. We tried wrapping it for ten days with a round of antibiotics and bute, but at the end of those days, it wasn’t any better. In fact, it actually looked worse. I couldn’t justify putting any more money into her. But I will always regret that decision. I should have given it just a little more time so that I would know I had given her every opportunity and not just given up on her.

I have carried on too long with the regret, I know. But it wasn’t just myself that I was letting down. It was my grandsons, and my little neighbor kids, my nieces and nephew. My son… We all wanted her to stay. I still haven’t been able to tell my little grandsons, letting them believe she was in the barn the last few times they were here. We can’t tell them. They had just lost their own two horses (not to death, fortunately) and a kitty. I simply cannot stand to see them sad, especially the older one who has fuller understanding.

Anyway, these were all the thoughts that ran through my mind as I cleaned my boxes for the birds that give me so much joy. But I only became more sad, and then frustrated as I tried to walk through my raspberry bushes, in order to get to the last box that I needed to clean. 

After I was finished with that box, I decided to go get the clippers and clip the bushes all away. I thought I would get them ready to have my husband come till them all away later this spring. In that moment I just wanted them gone. I wondered if I could get hubby out there to do it. That made me sad too. These were my mom’s raspberry bushes, but they too have been let go too long and they have spread until they are really unmanageable.

As I went to get the clippers, I had walked past the bleeding heart bush that when we first moved here, my mom had given me from my childhood home. It had thrived for over 20 years, But last year, it started doing poorly. I believe it was from when we stained our house, I hadn’t protected it properly. It was struggling and then I made a grave mistake of planting a flower next to it that I shouldn’t have. By the end of summer, it became apparent it was no longer going to make it in the spot it had always done so well. So I transplanted it that fall. What I saw now as I passed by where I had transplanted it, was that my beautiful bleeding heart no longer lived. I am heartbroken. 

So again back at the raspberries, I clipped and clipped and clipped with a powerful vengeance and still I didn’t get them all. (That may be a good thing. I guess I would like to keep a remnant.) Attacking the raspberries with every spark of anger in me, only helped a little.

And then realizing the futility of it all, I stopped. Letting out a sigh of surrender, I relinquished my mad attack on the raspberries, remembering instead how Juliee had loved to lean over the fence line and nibble at these raspberry bushes. And the silent tears I had been softly releasing all along turned to torrents….anger, sorrow and regret all wrapped up in a tsunami of destruction intent on washing everything that lived here all away.

I couldn’t do any more. I told myself I don’t want to live here anymore. Nothing is the same, nor ever will be. In exasperation, I threw down my tools and stomped off to the house. I had to pass by the magnolia trees I had planted a few years ago. Now still bushes, I had been watching them patiently every year, excited for them to become flowering trees.

I had asked a friend when I planted them, “Will I ever live long enough to see them become a tree like yours?” I had asked her.

“Oh yes”, she assured me, “you will see it in your life time.”

In spite of my anger and tears, something caught my eye and I stopped for a moment, to take a closer look. “They are turning green already”, I whispered in surprise. The snow is barely off the ground and they even have what looks like buds! I was absolutely amazed. In that little speck of green life, I found hope. Just enough hope to help me correct my perspective. Thank you, Jesus.

And then I heard the meadowlark sing. Pause. Breathe.

It was a God Wink in an otherwise ultra sorrowful day. I was glad I had cleaned the boxes. The raspberries can be for another day. I guess we will be around for that.

To be continued...

The Heart That Heals

I simply stood in silence, watching both directions unsure from which way they would come. I couldn’t believe the stillness. It is always quiet out here, but it was uncommonly still. As if everything had shut down; and there was no wind at all; not even a breeze.   

In better days.

My mare, Juliee, whom I had come out to spend some quality time with, came to us 14 years ago. She came with that name and spelling and we decided to keep it, though I had never really liked it. Until recently, she has always been an easy keeper and an excellent companion. Now reaching 30 years of age, she had only begun to present us with some challenges in the last few years. 

Today, as I spent time with her, she suddenly decided to lay down. I could tell she had had enough. She never lays down when she's with me. Of course, the vet who had been called for an appointment yesterday was a few minutes late. That is expected, and one can't really blame them because there's no way to predict how the prior appointment might go; or how traffic might take a turn. But as I stood there watching her, I couldn't help but wish they would just hurry.

As I waited, I quietly watched one of my favorite birds, the Northern Flicker, who flew clumsily into the Mountain Ash tree. Those silly birds! I caught the sound of geese crying overhead and marveled at them as they flew in their perfect V formation. Their cry is so very forlorn and yet at the same time so beautiful and warm. It seemed appropriate for this moment. It's one of my favorite sounds. And geese are another of my favorite birds...perhaps you prefer foul or game bird.

I had been texting on and off with my sister who was so kind and thoughtful to help me through this crummy situation. She helped me pass the time as I waited for the people that would come to help my horse peacefully leave this earth. My sis helped assure me I was doing the right thing.

My niece had just been here with her kids to say their final goodbye. And I let the kids give Juliee as many treats as they wanted. She was eating it up. ;-) (Pardon the pun.) It helped having them here. I noticed my niece took several photos which I know I will be glad to have, someday.

I wondered about my son and if he was doing okay. I kind of felt that he wanted me to wait just a little bit longer for this day. But then he hadn't seen the new decline in Juliee's leg...

The man who was to haul her off after being euthanized was here first. And he couldn't have been kinder and was another distraction for which I was very grateful. Juliee didn't get up when he arrived. That was a sign for me. Prior to this day, she would always get up when someone came.

I knew what I had done to cause that. I had let her eat too much, trying to baby her and spoil her before this dreadful hour. I had a vet once tell me, "Oh she can eat as much of the pellets as she wants; it's just grass." I feed her a combination of soaked Alfalfa and Timothy pellets. I knew better when she said that. Because both Timothy and Alfalfa are rich and could colic a horse almost as easily as grain. But this time I gave way; using her advice as an excuse, and I let Juliee eat to her heart's content. I shouldn't have done that, but I wanted to distract her from her friends down the pasture, so I gave her another bowl of mash. The neighbor horses had finally come out to see her, which I've been wanting them to do. I wanted her to be able to go down and see them a few times before she passed. It is a big part of her life and the things she loves to do. Today, however, I didn't want her down there because I didn't know how she would fare with them, or how she would do on the trek back. So I fed her to sidetrack her from her neighbor friends. I didn't want to see her longing for something she couldn't have in her last hour.

Anyway, the vet got here and I could tell by the way she pulled in and rushed to get her stuff, that she felt bad about being a tad late. I think she was surprised to see Juliee on the ground, because it was scheduled and not called in as an emergency. It's just not normal behavior for a horse to stay down when there's action going on. The vet, like the gentleman who had arrived, was very kind and attentive and got quickly to the job at hand. I couldn't be more thankful for the two people appointed to this task.

I had asked my husband who would come out to join us, to bring the check I had written for the man (undertaker, of sorts) who would take Juliee's body away. But apparently hubby didn't listen when I told him prior that payment would be on the table and to please bring it when he joined us. I got the message quickly when I asked him to give the man the check and he had no clue as to where it was. So after they gave Juliee the first injection, I had to run back in to the house to get the check. This broke my stride a bit and my ability to pass some love onto Juliee before she left. Perhaps that was for the best. When I got back, they were ready to give her the final injection, so I simply and quickly thanked them all; gave Julie one last goodbye hug and whispered in her ear, that I would see her on the other side. I turned my back and walked away, never to look at her again. I just wasn't able to stay for the remaining moments. I didn't want to have that as my final view of her. The sleepy Juliee and the pain in her eyes as she received the first injection to make her sleepy was bad enough to have to remember.

Well I meant this post to be more hopeful and meaningful and inspiring. Instead it's just a bit way too sad. Perhaps it's too early; or perhaps because my hip is sore I didn't sit at the computer and instead chose to use the microphone to put down my thoughts. There's something better about fingers on a keyboard when you want to write… I will clean it up a bit later.

After it was all over my husband and I decided we needed a distraction. We couldn't quietly sit and think about what had just happened and look all day at an empty pasture. So we decided to take a drive to the place North that is always our comfort spot. Or at least my comfort spot. And my husband is always gracious enough to take me. We visited my parents' grave; had lunch at my favorite restaurant and went to our favorite bakery. We bought all the foods we should not eat and our favorite bread, meats and cheeses. Then I bought toys for the grandkids and something for our son and daughter-in-law. Anything to keep a cooling salve held in with a tight wrap, to keep the hot grief from spilling out.

Articles I had read to find answers, said the day before is actually the worst day before putting down a horse; and I absolutely found that to be true. I think the initial decision is the hardest of all - the worry that you're not going to do the right thing. And in the end, I'm still not sure I did make the right decision. I was worried about getting her through winter; about her suffering; about not able to eat any hay; about being too cold; about being able to walk through the snow; and on and on. Then too, I'm not as young as I used to be and I have a new hip problem coming up which is extra sore today. But of course it has been a mild November and by forecast it's going to be a mild December. So perhaps this would have been a winter she could have gone through. But how does one ever know? The doubt rages, the guilt overwhelms.

I will always wonder if I acted too quickly. But I chose that over the possible regret of being too late. I’ve been too late, too...with a cat.

On our ride home from our comfort spot, I received a text from my niece. A friend of hers who is a "horse whisperer" and lover of all things equine had at one point told her this. It helped explain my feelings. It read:

"It is believed that the magnetic field produced by a horse's heart is stronger than that of a human heart, and that this field can have a positive effect on the human body. Some people believe that being in close proximity to a horse's heart can help to improve circulation, reduce stress and anxiety, and promote feelings of well-being and relaxation. In fact, many people who work with horses or spend time around them report feeling more grounded, calm, and connected to nature when they are in the presence of these majestic animals."

This is all very true, and probably why I have always said, cleaning stalls when your horse is there is the best job in the world and I never want to stop! But that magnetic heart is also why we worry more about them than other animals while they are here if we see decline.

Finally then, when it's time to go, it doesn’t end up being about them as much as it is about us… It's about more than just missing a beloved companion. We will miss us! The rides, the challenges, the part of us that we have poured into that life. It's a part of who we are and it is suddenly gone. When one gets to be my age, that is never coming back. We are too old to start with another. It would be selfish. 

That quote explained everything for me. A magnetic heart that draws us in, is gone! It explains why the grief seems so unbearable. But I guess that is also why it will heal more quickly and completely. I think that strong heart they lend us in life is also why we will heal more easily when they are gone. Maybe...

Thanks for the years of love and obedience, Baby Girl. Everyone knows you didn't have to do what you did - that you were actually the boss, but you chose, instead, to let me pretend to be.