Horse Heaven

Yesterday, a pony died. A special pony… the ‘best friend’ of Bee’s pony.  It was septicaemia that got her. She was sick, she was taking medicine. Then she was gone.

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Trina was a darling pony. A grey, like Lulu.  Trina was the pony I loved the most when Bee started at her riding school. I would watch Trina with awe as she sped around the jumps in the arena, flying over each hurdle with gusto.  She liked to go fast.  In horse years, she was a young lady.  Old enough to know a bit about the world. Young enough to still flirt with speed and enjoy the challenges of competition.  I would watch her and dream that one day, Bee might have a pony like her.

When Lulu came to be Bee’s pony, she joined the main herd. There are two groups out where the horses live. The ‘top paddock’ sport horses, and the general herd, which is made up of owned ponies and school horses.  It’s a sizeable herd and Lulu took a while to find her place in it. When she lived on the property previously, she was a top paddock mare.  I think she remembered that and didn’t much enjoy the comedown.  Horses are herd animals and develop strong bonds. They need each other. And breaking into a herd you don’t know must be akin to moving to a new city.  Lulu was sad, and drifted around on her own, or waited at the gate, for a few weeks. Then, after a while, we began to notice that Trina had become Lulu’s special friend. They ate together, drank from the bore together, and could always be found near each other when they had to be caught.

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When Trina got sick, Lulu lay down beside her in sympathy.

And now Trina has died, Lulu must surely wonder what has happened to her dear companion. Do you think she knows? I hope she does. I hope she understands that Trina isn’t feeling sick anymore. I hope there is a horsey kind of statute of limitations on grief and that Lulu won’t suffer this loss for too long. And I hope she will find another special friend soon.  It must have been so lonely out there last night. Her horsey heart must be sore.

My eyes keep leaking, because this pony business has made me even more of a sook than I was before.  I can’t bear the thought that one day, Lulu too will cross the rainbow bridge.  I don’t know how horse owners can cope with that sort of grief.

Rest in peace beautiful Trina.  You will be missed by so many. I really wish you could have stayed in the paddock with your girl, Lulu. I bet she does too.  Because there is nothing that makes the heart feel more secure than being able to hang out with your best friend.  I know that when it is her time to go, she’ll be welcomed into horsey heaven by you. Because that is the kind of friend you are, until then Trina, remember our girl Lulu, she loved you very much. X

Inheritance

“…comme-ci, comme-ca”  my son’s small hand wavers horizontally in the manner of telling me he’s feeling, well, middling.  Not this, not that. He’s into language, currently French.  Much easier to comprehend than some of the made up languages he used to speak in! I have to say, I concur with his sentiments, but for different reasons. Today is Christmas day and he’s been gorging on christmas stocking treats, so faced with the prospect of Christmas dinner, he’s non committal. But my middling feelings are not about food. No. I’m feeling middling about Christmas itself. A holiday I have always loved is so much more complex now.  I don’t think I can explain it to him, and anyway, he bounds off to do something busy. I’m left to myself to prepare the salad, left to my own middling thoughts, my own sweet and sour, light and shade. My own shadow dance.

This time of year is reminiscing time, and I try really hard every year not to fall into the murky depths of melancholy. I think a LOT about my mum. About my childhood. And about how I wish I could just tell her that I get it.  All the stuff I didn’t get when I was a clueless kid, an angst-ridden teen and a self-absorbed young woman. All the stuff about being a Mum, and the efforts that go unnoticed. All the stuff about the importance of having family traditions, how crucial manners and generosity are. How hard you have to work to help the family with that stuff. I want to look her deep in the eyes and make sure she knows that I finally get it, and I am so thankful to her. If she were here, she’d probably shrug me off, in her trademark bluster. But I’d put my hands back on her shoulders and say “MUM! I get it!” and she might laugh and tell me there is still waaay more for me to get. I’m a long way off knowing it all.

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Grief reaches across the years, never really releasing me. And it’s not just because of the aching chasm that exists where her love used to be. But because of the lost opportunity to love her back. She’s gone. No more chances to let her know that I appreciated all of that self sacrifice and hard graft. With every decoration I hung on my tree this year, my heart keened for her like it was her last day all over again. I can’t have Christmas without memories of her that ghost through every song, every ritual, all the ways we do things. For me, there is no joy to all men without sadness for one woman.

I just miss my Mumma… you know?

The tsunami of feeling inundated me mid-morning. The hubster was having a nap. The kids were playing amongst the drifts of wrapping paper on the living room carpet.  I decided it would be good to take my tears out into the wind and I strapped on my helmet and climbed on my bike. Even with my legs burning and the rush of air against my face, the sadness enveloped me. Chased me around the quiet streets. Followed me through the park. Settled in my chest where I knew it would weigh on me for the rest of Christmas Day.

It occurs to me that the only way I can love my Mum without her here, is to pour the love I have for her into my kids. Her grandbabies. She would probably have liked that.  I look at my girl, lying next to the cat in a sunny patch of the floor, so young-old it hurts. I hear my little guy, shadow fighting an imaginary opponent with his light sabre, he’s bound to be victorious any moment now.  I will love these kids with all the love that belongs to you Mumma.

An extra serve straight from my mother heart, the one I inherited from you. x

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PS.  We watched Inkheart tonight. Tom Baxter’s song ‘My Declaration’ is the theme song. I loved it and thought I’d share it here. It’s a good anthem for carrying on, for doing your best.

Hope Floats

_...just give hope a chance to float up.

There’s always something happening.  Something threatening to pull us under.

Sometimes it is big enough or politically scary enough to warrant getting onto our news service. Where we can watch it through our shiny big screens and then turn away, horrified.  Soundbytes of a few seconds aimed at providing the juiciest details, so that even children can grasp it all. But we can carry on breathing air, scented with the pine Christmas tree; we get up and move into another room.  Guiltily move our thumbs across to the ‘off’ button.  Get on with our pre-Christmas to do lists.

It’s overwhelming to think of the things that are always going on, somewhere in our world. When I contemplate the number of human beings that are being tortured, raped, imprisoned, separated forever from their loved ones, killed. I don’t want to stay with those thoughts.  I don’t want to consider the reality of all that bad news.  My mother heart feels it personally.  Knows, that for the people inside those news stories, it won’t finish in time for the next headline. Their stories will go on to affect them and their families for generations. It’s a big and painful reality. Small wonder we choose not to watch.  How fortunate we are that we get to choose not to, to postpone considering these harsh realities… until later, when we don’t have the small ones beside us, asking questions from those beautiful, wide-eyed faces.  Not yet.  I don’t want to explain all that to them yet.

In my own little world, I cling to the presence of a strange hope that is always there, tugging me upward.  It is such a buoyant human trait. It is an odd thing, when we are all mortal, that we have developed this protection mechanism from the brutal truth.  We are all subject to tragedy, suffering, loss.  At some point in our lives, our exemption cards will run out and we will be visited by human heartache.  It’s a guarantee. It might not reach the news. It might not be considered newsworthy. But that moment might carry the worth of our entire human experience, or those of our loved ones. In that moment when suffering comes to visit, the worthiness of our own story will be carried by us, or by our loved ones.  In the fragility of our fragment of mortality.

I am always staggered by how hope renews itself, in the face of terrible odds. I remember, that movie with Harry Connick Junior and Sandra Bullock …not the storyline, but the title… ‘Hope Floats’, it has always stayed with me, that title.  How true it is.  We can be sinking in the quagmire, far from the light, drowning in despair.  We can be pulled under by the terrible things that have been hitting the headlines.  The realities of life with a progressive illness. The sadnesses and tragedies experienced by friends in our close circles this year, and the wider circles in our community, our country, our world.  We can think about all those difficult things, and when we feel ourselves going under, we can grab hold of our flotation device and float back up to the surface.  Our lungs fill with fresh air, our faces turning to the sunlight. We can believe that it is possible, all over again.

It’s not perfect.  But sometimes I reckon hope might just be the best mechanism our human race has as we hurtle through time on this little blue planet. Hope is bigger than love, because it comes in when we love is lost to us. Hope is bigger than peace, because it makes it possible for wars to end.  Hope is bigger than understanding, because we can’t always understand why people hurt people. Why people get sick.  Why suffering happens. Hope keeps us afloat when our own humanity pulls us down into the depths. Peace, love and understanding are the tenets for a brighter future. But we will never reach them if we don’t allow ourselves to be buoyed up with hope.

Hang on to hope.  Give it a chance. Let it pull you up from the depths.