What in the world do I do with myself?

On Tuesday afternoons, I typically come home from school, immediately change clothes, and head to the barn. However, today, I stayed home. This is partly because I'm tired, partly because this week is insane at school (tons of papers to grade), and partly just feeling blah. But I don't know what to do with myself! I'm so used to constantly running, doing, going, teaching, riding, teaching again, that I don't know what to do when I just stay home. Just sitting still? Ugh. Just watching random TV? Ugh.

Even in school I had riding lessons, piano lessons, drama practice, etc. In college, I was involved in a ton of stuff and had evening classes. Even in Montana, I taught piano lessons, had an overnight at the school each week, and made plans to stay busy.

Now, it just feels strange to come home and do nothing. I can't decide if I want to do this kind of thing again on a Tuesday.

What in the world do people do when they come home from work and don't have somewhere else to go immediately?

Hamlet!

In my favorite class to teach, I'm just starting this week with all the background/context and such for Hamlet. It truly has become one of my favorite pieces of literature to teach.

I stumbled upon this great version of the play online. It's Hamlet done completely in stick figures. It's the entire text of the play (which is rarely how it is performed or filmed...except for Kenneth Branagh - his version is not only beautiful, but it's also the complete play) and it's told in comic strip style frames with stick figures. Hilarious - and useful! 

Hamlet Stick Figures

Self-sabotage

I've noticed in recent years that I do this strange, self-sabotage thing in my friendships. When they are real and deep and good (everything I want!), I find myself withdrawing from them. It's not a conscious decision, and I typically don't even notice it until weeks or even months have gone by and I haven't bothered to contact whichever friend it happens to be at that time.

Take as an example my friends D & G (I don't have their permission to write about them, so I'll stick with initials). D and I went to college together, and we were incredibly good friends. He was a year behind me, but we ended up spending a lot of time together because we shared a major (Bible & Religion) and because we were in the same musical group, The Refreshment Company. We'd hang out and talk, laugh insanely, and play music. We took a Ballroom Dance class together (which is HILARIOUS if you know how awkward I am). We won the talent show one year with a pretty smashing piano/violin duet called "La Folia." (Seriously, it's an amazing piece....see here for an example that's not us). Even after graduation and I had moved back from Honduras, D and I kept in touch. When he was in seminary in Atlanta, I went to visit him. When I lived in Wheaton and in Montana, he came to visit me. His friendship was always that comfortable t-shirt that ALWAYS feels like home.

D told me all about G when he met her. She was perfect for him, and I prayed from the beginning that they would marry. Well...they did! They now have two beautiful boys - a perfect little clan of incredible people. I've gotten to know G better over the times we've been able to spend together, and she's a gorgeous soul. But, for most of the past decade, D and G lived in Virginia...hours away from me and Jim. We were able to visit a few times here and there, but nothing too consistent.

Then, last summer, D and G moved to a town only 40 minutes away. Forty minutes! Jim and I helped them move in to their house, and we visited over several weekends. But then, it's been so easy to just let it slide...to let time pass without making the effort to reach out to them and continue to hang out. Why????

Why do I do that? They are the types of friends that I love dearly - we can laugh and the silliest, junior-high-boy kind of humor; we can talk about our deep struggles and doubts; we play board games; we watch movies. I love them. I truly do. So, why do I find myself going weeks and months without reaching out, even just a Facebook message to say hey?! It's sad, too, that it actually takes those weeks and even months for me to even notice what I'm doing!

And D and G aren't the only ones! I do it with my best girlfriends here from the barn - I do it with my longtime sweet friend Koryn - I do it with my other college friends (especially Jules, who is also good friends with D and G). I've almost completely lost touch with other friends who, when we were spending all our time together, felt like they were a very part of my heart and soul. And yet, we don't speak now.

I only have myself to blame if I feel isolated and alone. The sabotage I craft for myself is sneaky, silent, and able to grab my heart before I know it's even around.

I don't have answers. I'm not even sure why I started writing about this today, and it feels weird to leave it hanging there with so much unresolved. I'll let you know if I figure it out...but don't hold your breath!

The story...again

As I was driving to the barn this afternoon after school, I was thinking again about the story of Ella and John. John was from a large family...13 children in all, though 11 lived to adulthood. His youngest sister, Gay, raised my mom (and she's who I consider my grandmother, though in actuality she's my great-great Aunt). Their mother, Martha, probably instilled in them their strong personalities. She had come from a childhood of misery - orphaned as a child, raised by a family that used her as a house servant and nanny rather than treating her like their own child. At Christmas, they would give her coal while they purchased beautiful gifts for their own kids. I can't imagine that kind of childhood; even further beyond my grasp are the effects that kind of upbringing must have on the heart and mind of a young girl. I wonder about Martha - I wonder if she sought escape in her marriage to W.W. Rector (my great-great grandfather) - I wonder if she ever in her life felt like she deserved to be loved, even as she was married for many years and surrounded my many children - I wonder if she ever struggled with anger and bitterness and hatred.

It seems clear where John may have inherited his big personality and determination. I think that strand of a story will end up in my work somewhere. And I can't deny my own stubbornness that may have its roots in John.

I've stepped through the wardrobe

Seriously, it feels like Narnia here - well, the Narnia at the beginning of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, because winter's grip has not lessened despite the time "springing forward" and the "official" start of Spring withe the vernal equinox. I know, I know, I live in the mountains and it's March. But seriously, how far can that excuse really go? It's the 25th of March and we woke up to two inches of sticky, wet snow this morning. It melted off during the day, then it began again a couple of hours ago, and everything is covered again. I love snow...but holy moly, there needs to be an end to everything, right?

Since I'm on the Narnia train of thought...what would I do if I stepped into Narnia and met Aslan? I think I'd be undeniably drawn to him, but I would also be scared...or maybe ashamed? I'm not sure how to label that "negative" feeling, but I feel like I would need to apologize - what for, I'm not sure. So, while I can exult in the idea that "Aslan is on the move," I'm just not sure I want him moving too close to me. Maybe it's because I feel like I have so many unanswered questions and doubts, there so much I just want to KNOW, and I feel so weak in "just having faith" instead. Maybe it's because I don't feel like I pray enough or read my Bible enough. Maybe it's because I'm still cynical about church (not God, not Jesus, not my faith - church) and I'm often reluctant to try to go. Maybe it's because I judge myself much more harshly than anyone else ever could, and I only see the places where I DON'T measure up to whatever imagined standards I've imposed upon myself. I realize those standards aren't Aslan's - but I'm sorry about not meeting them anyway.

In other news (and somewhat related to my thoughts on this), you really should read my friend Koryn's blog. Even if you're not into horses, there's good stuff there, and she has such solid ways of thinking through even her silliest ideas. And, the picture she posted today of her riding Bimini is pretty darn awesome.

It's Monday...

Tonight....turkey burgers with all the fixin's (avocado, bacon, lettuce, tomato, onion) and fried potatoes (the potatoes from neighbor Ron's garden).

Yep...that's all I got. It's Monday...

In two months...

In two short months, we will be in the midst of our trip to Ireland and Scotland. When things get a little crazy, and the semester seems to be dragging on, and committee meetings pile up faster than dog hair in my house - I remind myself of the diminishing number of weeks between me and the trip I've wanted to make ever since I can remember.

We've bought plane tickets, and we have lodging for our first three nights in Dublin. Other than that, we're keeping it loose. We have a general idea of what we'd like to do, but we don't have a tight schedule, so we'll be flexible to stay somewhere a bit longer or move on more quickly - whatever floats our boat!

So, we'll spend the first few days in Dublin, doing everything we can - Trinity College, the Book of Kells, the Gaol, the Post Office, the parks, Guinness, etc. Then, we'll move out to Tullamore to the west, because there's a horse trials going on that first weekend we're there, and I'd just like to say I've seen an Irish horse show (since I drool over Irish horses in general). Then, we may tool around Kilkenny and the Wicklow Mountain area before heading north towards Northern Ireland, stopping at Drogheda and the Hill of Tara along the way. We'll spend some time in Belfast, seeing where the Titanic was built, going to the Giant's Causeway, and taking the Black Taxi tour that discusses The Troubles. Then, we'll catch a ferry over to Scotland!

A rough approximation of our time in Ireland

In Scotland, we'll dock near Troon, which is near an area where some of Jim's ancestors are from - which we will, of course, explore. Then, we'll drive across Scotland's narrow little waist (such a girlish figure!) to stay in Sterling - we'll do the William Wallace stuff and day-trip into Edinburgh. 

Our plans for Scotland

 

We'll head back over to Ireland and down to Dublin, where we will catch a plane back to the USA. A little over two weeks traipsing about across the pond is how we're spending our tenth anniversary! 

 

So, the countdown is on. We're getting clothes (easy, packable, light, made for walkin'), gear (rain! wind!), and our travel guides together (thanks, Lonely Planet!). 

 

I wish we were leaving tomorrow.  

 

Out of the corner of my eye

Have you ever had that experience where you think you see someone walk by, but then you look and no one is there? Or you think you see someone standing on the side of the road as you drive by, but when you look in your mirror, there wasn't anyone? Or maybe you mistook someone to be someone else when you don't look at them full on?

I've done that several times today, and just now, I experienced the most jarring one. I saw a person walk by my office door, and I just knew it was a certain student. But this student passed away last semester, so I shook my head a bit and realized it was someone else, just strolling by. I felt the shock of sadness that I felt last fall when I'd learned that this student was no longer with us, and I had to force myself to remember that it was Spring - a different season AND a different semester.

In class yesterday, we read a poem entitled "Nothing Is Lost." In it, the speaker discusses very reverentially the idea that nothing is lost over time - no person, no love, no meaning. In the first stanza of the poem, the speaker says that "It is not that the dead return--/They are about us always, though unguessed." I was reminded of that today, when I mistook one student for another - one who is gone, at least physically.

In the third and fourth stanzas, the poem explores the idea that in us lives the very DNA of every ancestor that came before us; we betray it in our freckles or the way we walk. I love this idea, and it's part of the reason why pursuing my genealogy is so important to me.

I don't know what I think about the dead - where they are, what they know, what they see or hear. Can they see us? Do they know what we're doing? Do they watch us? I can't decide if that would be a comforting thought or not. Perhaps it would be too much weight to bear - too much responsibility to "live up" to what the dead want from me. I have enough anxiety over living up to what I think the living expect from me.

But I do love the idea of my ancestors living on through me through what I've inherited from them. I'd love to be able to look back through time and see who I look like, who I sound like, who I walk like, who I think like. Certainly I'm not the only one who needs to question and reason everything! :)

Nothing is lost.

The power of words

We all know that one of the biggest lies passed around elementary school is "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." It seems a bit cliche to even talk about how words have power to hurt and heal - it's something we know, right?

As an English teacher (teaching mostly composition), I harp on the idea nearly every day - word choice! Audience! Purpose! I'm sure my students get tired of hearing it at times.

Today, though, the immense power of words came crashing into my classroom. We were looking at Billy Collins' poem "The Names" and Wilfred Owen's poem "Dulce et Decorum Est." Both poems seek to memorialize, to etch into our hearts and minds the memories of those who have died. One does so in a reverent, almost ritualistic-prayer kind of way; the other does so by using bitterness and shocking, sickening images. Although they approach this same idea in vastly different ways, both poems carry with them the power of words - of images, of sound, of rhythm.

I introduced "The Names" by asking my class how old they were on 9/11. The oldest student was 11-years-old on that day (most were between four and six). I know I can't make them understand the experience of the day the way an adult would have experienced it, but I shared about where I was at the time (Wheaton...more specifically, Tyndale), what I saw, how I felt. We read the poem, and its prayer-like tone, repetition of the word "names", and images familiar to all who saw 9/11 unfold (words like "falling" and "the updraft amid buildings" and names that are outlined in a "green field") all came crashing in. I got a bit teary-eyed, and some of my students did too. I'll admit, I barely made it through reading the poem aloud. I didn't have anything to say at the end...so we just moved on.

I feel that way a lot, that I have nothing to say, really - that I should just move on. As someone who writes and loves words, that's an awkward, uncomfortable place to be - wordless, empty. I'm starting to see, though, that even my silence, even the "moving on", is saying something. And maybe it's saying more than mere words could.

It's just a story, right?

At work today, I received another email from the magazine Narrative announcing a writing contest with various categories for short fiction, memoir, essays, etc. I would never dream of entering such a contest; in the past, it's been won by writers like Sherman Alexie and Joyce Carol Oates. Yeah...a little out of my league.

But the invitation reminded me of a story I'm longing to write, and yet every time I sit down to hash it out and get it rolling, I get scared. I haven't typed a single word. Even NaNoWriMo couldn't wring it out of me. I roll this story around in my head, twisting it and folding it like biscuit dough, but I can't bring myself to actually do anything with it. By this point, I've wallowed it to death.

"Come on, it's just a story," you say. "Certainly you can just write it and then go back and fix it, right?"

Sure, I guess it could work that way. But this particular story carries such freight with it, and it's so heavy and meaningful to me that I'm sure I won't do it justice. Not only that, it's a true story from my family's history, so I feel a certain amount responsibility to all those folks to get it right if I'm going to do it. *sigh*

Okay, here are the basics...I can do at least that, right?

My great-grandmother was a short, vibrant woman named Ella (though folks called her Ellie). From what we have left of her keepsakes, she loved poetry, she was highly social (especially as a young woman - she was constantly mentioned in the local paper's tellings of ice cream socials and hay rides), and she fell in love with a romantic man who wrote her love letters for several years before their marriage and even after they were married. Her husband, John, was a steadfast man, set in his ways, and convinced that he was put on earth to preach the Gospel (which he did, both spoken and written in the local paper). After they had been married a short while (and had four children - the youngest of which was my grandfather, Jack), John was found dead in the barn with his throat slashed. Family lore says that Ella found him with the knife next to him; she picked up the knife and took it to the outhouse where she tossed it into the dark, stinking hole. From then on, family would speak of the incident in hushed tones; Ella never spoke of it. The story told around town was that it was a suicide. Family members, though, had and still have another theory - murder. John was a member of the KKK, and, it is said, that after his death, the only black man in the small town of Clinchburg was never seen again. He left town with no word of where he was going or why. So there was Ella, left alone on a farm with four young children in 1920s Southern Appalachia.

I want to tell her story so badly. Yet, I think it's that very want that makes the story scary to tell. She's the main character in my mind - she's the one confronting such huge crises that no one would blame her if she broke into a million pieces - she's the one who shouldered the yoke and made it through. And I'm scared to death that I won't get it right, that I won't do her justice.

Maybe the words will come some day - certain images have stuck in my mind and I've hastily scribbled them on scraps of notebook paper that I've tucked into my family genealogy book - images of a sunrise over the hills that takes hours to get to the valley floor - images of the mule's breath, cold and frosty in winter - images of the barn, the outhouse, Ella's rocking chair (where she sat to rock my mother when Mom was a child).

I suppose I need a certain distance, a forced objectivity in order to start this story. I'm just not sure how to find that.

A balancing act

Nearly everything in life is about balance. We balance check books and priorities. We balance a job and family. In dressage, we talk about the horse's balance. We balance our emotions.

There's a balance I haven't found yet - the one between being compassionate and protecting myself. The latest event to highlight my lack of balance has been dealing with our next door neighbors.

When we moved into our house about four and a half years ago, the little blue house next to us was inhabited by a very old lady who babysat her grandsons during the summer days and during afternoons after school. She was quiet and sweet. She gave me plants, and she would use our fenceline to hang her sheets and rugs after washing them. That was perfectly fine with us, because she was such a good neighbor.

Flash forward to now, and the sweet Ms. Cagle is gone and the little blue house now has a couple of girls who are married (though I assume only in spirit since gay marriage is still not legal in NC) and, supposedly, a son of theirs. I only say supposedly because Jim and I haven't seen a kid around there at all. In fact, we've hardly seen one of the girls - all of our interactions have been with only one girl. Well, from the beginning, those interactions were a bit off-putting. When she came over to introduce herself, I was alone at home, so I just cracked the door enough to jut my head through and squeezed an arm through to hold open the screen door. As she introduced herself, she also told me about another girl who was stalking her, and that they were feeling the need to put up security cameras because this stalker-girl wouldn't stop, despite the fact that our new neighbor had once waved a gun in stalker-girl's face. Now, is that the kind of story you'd tell your neighbors after moving in and trying to introduce yourself to them?

Then came the traffic. Cars of all sorts would come and go all day long and well into the night. They would often come, part on the street for a few moments, then leave. There was a steady stream of them, and Jim immediately got suspicious of drug activity. So he called the police just to let them know what we were observing. A few days later, when we got home from school, there were six police cars (including a K9 unit) surrounding the house next to us. The police searched the home and ended up towing away one of the vehicles. Jim and I hid inside our house and spied furtively out the windows to watch the activity. A few days after that, the neighbor girl caught us and apologized for all the traffic. "It was only pot!" she called out to us. We just shrugged and went inside.

There have been several other incidents that just make us uncomfortable having these folks as neighbors. I want them to move more than anything else right now. Yet, I also feel called to be like Jesus and be compassionate. At the same time, I don't want anything to do with these folks because they've proven themselves dangerous (or they at least want to be perceived that way, what with the "gun waving" story and all) and untrustworthy. What does compassion look like in this case? Simply leaving them alone? Not provoking them in any way? Saying something? Or, do I simply ignore compassion and think only of protecting myself and my home? Admittedly, I lean towards that last option, mostly out of fear of them - fear of getting hurt or fear of my home being damaged in some way.

So there it is..I have no answers or pithy conclusions to come to. I don't like my neighbors, and yet, as I type that, I hear "love your neighbor as yourself" in the back of my mind.

History night

Last night, I got to talk literature with my oldest niece, Lauren. Tonight, Jim got to talk history with our younger niece, Whitney. She's in fourth grade, and she's fascinated by history, especially the wars. She started the conversation by asking Jim what started World War I. Jim did the best he could to explain the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and the alliances of various countries on either side. She loved it. And then I told her about Wiley Neal, her ancestor (and mine) that died in France during WWI...exactly one week before the armistice. I showed her pictures of him. I felt so lucky to be able to show her those and to tell her Wiley's story. And it was so cool to listen to Jim talk with her. What a great trip this has been!

Now, to avoid the race traffic as we head back home tomorrow! Thanks, NASCAR.

Making connections

I know, I know...I missed a day. And I'm fine with that.

It's Spring Break, so Jim and I have come up to Bristol for a bit to spend time with family. Of course, the NASCAR race is in town this weekend, so moving around town is going to be a bit tricky. And we'll see how long it takes Jim and I to get out of town when we head home on Sunday (DURING the race when most of the crazies will be confined to the stands of the racetrack).

Last night, my niece came over with my brother, and while she was sitting with us all, we started chatting about her English class at school. There has been great upheaval in this class due to the teacher's murder at the hands of her abusive husband (another story for another time, but if you're interested, see here). As my niece and I talked, she started mentioning the stories and novels they had read. In addition to being encouraged that there actually are still teachers out there who teach real literature, I was also thrilled to be talking with my niece about metaphor and theme and symbolism. As she talked, she said that at the beginning of the semester, she had been like John Smith in the scene in Disney's "Pocahontas" where the mother tree ripples the water and John Smith can't see the meaning in it. But now, said my niece, she can see the meaning in works of literature (yeah - she used a movie metaphor to describe herself - she's so rad).

We talked about "The Yellow Wallpaper" and Edgar Allen Poe and The Scarlet Letter. I kind of geeked out on it all, but it was such a wonderful way to connect with my niece...something I've been wanting to do for sometime now. She's a lovely girl, intelligent, thoughtful, kind. I feel drawn to her, and I love her dearly. She's been through a rough patch recently, and it was reassuring to see her and hear her thoughts.

I hope to spend more time with her in the near future.

Missed a day - but today was awesome!

Sure, I missed a day posting on my blog for Lent. But today was most awesome, so I'll write a bit about that.

Thanks to being on Spring Break, I was able to have a lesson with Debra (who teaches at the barn during the day on Wednesdays). I asked for help on the trot half-passes and the flying changes that come into play in Third Level. Obe and I have both working, but they aren't exactly awe-inspiring. She tends to die out in the half-pass if I have enough bend. She tends to hop and buck a bit in the lead changes. So, I presented both to Debra and we went straight to work.

Holy moly...we worked so hard! We cantered almost the whole time, working at ways to prep for the flying change and then get it with as little drama as possible. Why worry about drama? Well, when I asked for the first change of the day, Obe bucked her hind end above her ears and nearly dumped me. She was not pleased with the idea of changing. So, we changed tactics a bit and shifted to a large circle/oval shape where Obe's mind was a little calmer and engaged. We schooled the change from counter-canter to true canter and then back. We got it several times very nicely...other times, not so much. Obe is still convinced that she should only counter-canter and never change - good little Second Level horse.

So much of it boils down to my prep (including getting her even on both reins) and slowing my brain down and thinking through it all. I tend to do the, "Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes....CHANGE!" approach that almost got me bucked off today.

Then we moved to trot half-passes (since we had her all jazzed up from the changes). We used the movements from Third Level Test 1 to school, but rather than do the shoulder-in in trot (then half ten-meter circle, half-pass back to rail), we did medium canter down the long side, transitioned to trot in the half circle to centerline, then half-passed back to the rail. Holy smokes! Her half-passes got all jazzed and fluid! Loved it!

I know that was terribly nutshell (and so many fun things happened), but that's what I have time and brain power for.

Oh...and love my mare!

Does truth move?

Most of you know this, but I was raised in a conservative Christian church. I was taught from an early age what the Truth was, that it never changes, and that we should always follow it. This resulted in a teenage version of myself that was VERY SURE about nearly everything in life - I was sure about what was right and what was wrong; I was sure about what I was going to be when I grew up (a missionary); I was even sure about who I was going to marry (my pastor's son). I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what my life was going to look like - after all, I knew the Truth, and that was never wrong.

Well, it doesn't take much looking around in my life to see that NONE of the above came true. In fact, as each of these things crumbled in front of my eyes (my relationship with the pastor's son, my ambitions to be a missionary, even the church itself), I found myself having to reassess what I believed. After all, everything I had been SO SURE of had just disappeared, and I had no idea what to do with all of it. I didn't have a category in my mind for "When Everything Falls Apart."

I watched the church slowly disintegrate when the pastor quit under the spiritual guidance of a popular conservative speaker (and I now know cult leader by every definition of the word) who told the pastor that no man who has ever had a divorce is fit to lead a church. So, the pastor resigned. Chaos ensued...and I was intimately involved with it all as I had been selected to be on the New Pastor Search Committee as the voice of the younger church members (I was a sophomore in college at the time...19 years old). I watched icons of my church world (older members who I'd revered) become bickering, back-talking, insulting, sarcastic children in these meetings. All of the sudden, I realized that it wasn't about truth...it was about whatever they wanted. And I was broken-hearted, furious, and confused.

I won't go into all the details of that time period. Rather, I'd like to jump to the present. That pastor who had resigned and left so much pain in his wake, has taken on the position of pastor of another church in the same area. Apparently, what was true so many years ago (that he was disqualified as a pastor because of a divorce in his past before he became a Christian) is no longer true. Apparently, truth has shifted. It moved.

If that idea can be classified as "once-was-true-but-isn't-anymore," what else about what the pastor said is the same way? If that truth can move, what else could?

Take that line of thinking very far at all, and you can see how it leads to a crisis of faith. I guess the past decade and a half has been something of that crisis, not in the sense that I'm weeping in a dark corner of my room, but in the sense that I doubt, question, and try to reason through everything I that I take as Truth. And I'm actually getting to be okay with that! I realize that God made me this way - questioning, thinking, reasoning, not just accepting. Well, at least I'm not just accepting anything anymore. It doesn't mean I don't have faith....and it doesn't mean that I have to explain everything. But I'm certainly never again going to be like the teenage version of myself that soaked up everything I was told to be. Nope. Nope. Nope.

I think. I wrestle. I doubt. I pray. It's not easy. It's much easier living in a world of stark blacks and whites, but that's not reality much of the time. And so, I keep wrestling.

And God loves me anyway. :)

Seriously?

Jim and I are fans of The Walking Dead, and this week's episode just ended. I HATED where the writers left the character of Daryl. Now, I stopped reading the comics a long time ago when the tv show veered do steeply away from them, so I can't know if this was something to be expected or not. Either way, I don't like it.

How's that for a hastily written blog post from my phone while laying in bed?

Getting ready

This afternoon, Jim and I went to Mast General Store in town and did some shopping for our big trip to Ireland/Scotland that's coming up in a couple of months. I love that store, so it's always a treat to go in there knowing I get to purchase something...but even more than that, it was what the purchases point towards. We're going to Ireland and Scotland!

We're both incredibly excited about it, and we talk about it almost daily. We've scoured maps, travel sites, our travel books - we've talked about the sites we'd like to visit and the connections they have to history or to authors we love (CS Lewis, James Joyce, Frank McCourt, etc.). We've created a loose plan for the trip (start in Dublin for several days...then drive around the town and then up north...a few days in Belfast...ferry over to Scotland, drive to Sterling...a couple of days in Sterling/Edinburgh....back to Ireland, down to Dublin, back home). Jim even found a map on U2's website that highlights all their haunts in Dublin (and, yes, we're going to get that map and visit those places!).

I really can't wait. Ireland is the one place that I've always wanted to go. In fact, I talked about it so much in high school that my friends Brian and Kenny bought me a beautiful picture book of Ireland as a going away present when I was headed to Honduras one summer. When I look at those amazing pictures that are familiar to nearly everyone - the green, green pastures, the walk walls, the small stone buildings, the castle ruins, the Celtic crosses - I'll sometimes physically ache in my heart. I feel drawn to Ireland in a way I can't explain.

Two more months...and I'll see it for myself.

Lent - Day 3

I'm not going to title every Lenten post like the above - but it's all I can think of right now.

I'm not quite ready to do the big post on Gideon that I've had in my head for MONTHS now (seriously, since last summer), so I'll do a horse post.

Over the past couple of years, I've tried to take away Obe's need to do a flying change if we change direction in canter. This is mostly because I was wanting to get my scores for my Bronze medal, and Second Level tests require counter-canter. Because Obe naturally has a great lead change, she was always wanting to throw in a flying change when she should just stay on the same lead all the time. So, in our flatwork and even in our jumping, I stopped asking for flying changes and I made sure to bring her back to trot to change leads while jumping.

But, we've gotten our Second Level scores, and, while I'll still show at Second early on this year, I want to start schooling Third. So, we're working on flying changes again. When I first started asking for them earlier this month, she wouldn't even TRY to change. It was almost like she was saying, "Nope, I'm not supposed to...you've told me for over a year that I should counter-canter, so I will." Yep - the same horse who would angrily switch leads when we first started trying to counter-canter now wants to counter-canter all the time. Mares....

But, on Wednesday night, I started out in the outdoor arena, but it's too open to really challenge her to change leads....and we've counter-cantered around it for hours over the last year. So, I moved to the indoor where there's a wall to act as a definite visual as I crossed the diagonal and set her up for a change. At first, she wouldn't change, and then she offered a change from right to left (accompanied by a bit of a pogo stick bounce through her hind end). Several times around a small-ish figure eight, and she would reliably give me right to left, but not left to right. I slowed my brain down, rode the collection in the canter like I do get a canter/walk transition, and BOOM! We got a HUGE change from left to right. Of course, her hind feet were three feet off the ground, but it was a clean change!

I laughed the whole time around the new circle, brought her down to a walk, and patted her like she was a queen.

Good girl, Obe. And watch out Third Level.

Two days in a row...that's good, right?

I know, I know...it's only the second day of Lent and I'm still keeping up with what I've committed to do. Big whup-dee-doo. Anyone can do something for two days.

But see, here's where that line of thinking ends up if I'm not careful: you're not really all that good; people think you're such a good person, but you know you're not; one day they'll all find out and think you're a fraud, and then why will they love you?

I've explored that idea in a previous blog post, so I won't hash it out again. But I would like to flip the conversation a bit and discuss what line of thinking I SHOULD be following when thoughts like the first paragraph jump into my brain. First, a bit of theoretical background...

In horse training (you KNEW it had to come up somewhere, right?), it is important to be constantly aware of whether or not the horse is trying to do what you've asked. Especially when training the horse to perform a new task, a good trainer will immediately stop any pressure and reward even the slightest movement or smallest try from the horse. So, at first, if I'm asking a horse to step forwards into a trailer, I may stop pressure and reward him if he even LEANS forward into the trailer. A movement that small still indicates willingness.

Let me repeat that last sentence: a movement that small still indicates willingness. Why can't I treat myself the same way? Why can't I mentally give myself a break every now and then and reward myself for small movements? Why can't I just take the pressure off?

So, yes...it's only been two days. But even that small movement indicates a willingness - a faith - a desire to move towards instead of against.

Release.

Lent

I didn't grow up in a church that observed Lent (or any part of the liturgical year), and I'm sorry about that fact. I won't go into it all, but I feel that the seasons observed in the liturgical year give depth and meaning to our journeys as Christians.

Anywho, for Lent this year, I'm not giving something up. I'm adding something. Now this isn't a novel idea that I dreamed up on my own - many folks do this for these 40 days.

I'm adding writing. This sounds strange, I know, since I teach writing at a community college and I direct the school's writing program. I'm surrounded by writing; I write every day as part of my job. And that's probably one of the reasons I want to add THIS writing.

For the next 40 days, I'm going to write on this blog every day. Now, this isn't some kind of personal challenge like the 30-Day Squat Challenge or a cleanse or whatever. If that was my only motivation, then it wouldn't make sense to do this for Lent. I could do it anytime of the calendar year. However, the fact that I'm doing this intentionally for the Lenten season means that I'm going to write about my own journey as a Christian.

Let me tell you that this scares me. I don't have all the answers, so don't expect to come here reading an inspiring, youth-group-on-steroids kind of Bible study. In fact, I have a heck of a lot of questions. That's probably where I'll start, the persistent questions I have, and some of the ideas that I'm mulling over now as they pertain to my faith.

I totally understand if some of you want to block this website for the next 40 days. Feel free to do so...I'm tempted to do so myself. ;)