Jan
13
A while ago my aunt asked me if I was planning to work on a book, now that I’m in this season of parenting/life and have more time on my hands. Oh gosh no, I said, laughing a little. I guess I just don’t feel called to that. I wish I did, really. I wish the words felt pent up, ready to pour from me. Or even that I would lower a bucket and at first it would just be a hollow rattling sound but eventually, arduously, it would fill. Writing feels like such a wetwork excavation, and I feel so dry.
People have often asked me when I plan to write a book. It’s meant as a compliment, I know. Writing a whole entire book and of course getting that book published is such an massive accomplishment and endorsement, I have so much admiration for that path. Maybe that’s still in my future, I don’t know. It’s always just felt too hard for me, really. I can’t imagine the discipline to spend that much time in the liminal space of writing, especially without constant feedback and encouragement along the way. I can’t imagine coming up with that much material, to be honest. I have often felt best suited to exactly this type of writing here on my little blog, relatively short and without much structure. When people say you should write a book! I have often thought, well but I like this. I’ve recently been watching TikTok videos from a girl who talks about true crime stories and her comments are full of people telling her to get a podcast, but she’s so right for the short-form video format.
It is true there is more of a potential for a larger audience with a book. I wonder if that would even be something I’d want, though. Larger audiences are scary. Whoever is still out there reading this blog, bless you, because it’s not like I make it easy. The little email notification thing is long broken, no one really uses RSS readers any more, and I don’t promote on social media. I feel like whatever’s happening here between me the writer and you the reader, it’s pretty intentional and personal at this point. You’re not just stumbling upon me. And even if you are, that’s kind of special just because of how unlikely it is. Here I am, writing letters in bottles and tossing them willy-nilly into the sea, and there you are on some distant beach. That’s pretty cool.
I miss how the Internet used to be, how we used to discover each other as writers. I miss reading bloggers on a regular basis and how that was so motivating for my own writing, and how I just don’t feel that way from monetized Substacks or viral social posts. But who cares — the world has moved on. Crabbing about that feels like when I drive by this sign near our town that says “I MISS THE AMERICA I GREW UP IN.” You probably miss blatant racism, I always think, grouchily, but maybe they mean something more wholesomely nostalgic. Maybe they miss when everyone watched the same TV shows or didn’t have phones to stare at or kids played outside until moms stood on porches and called them in or food wasn’t full of processed garbage or microplastics, but what does it matter? The sign is silly, because here we are, hurtling ever forward. We can’t be mired in what we miss because we’ll never get it back, not really. I’d write a book about it but I’ll never have the right words.
Nov
24
Next spring it’ll be two years since I started riding again. Two years, wow, you’d think I would have advanced pretty significantly by this point, but ha ha ha no! I mean I’m a better rider than I was, for sure, and now I know exactly how to put Little Joe’s blanket on instead of staring mouthbreathingly at the straps for 20 continuous minutes before attaching them incorrectly and also having the entire thing on backwards, but I’m still quite the beginner.
I only rode during a lesson when I started this new hobby. Eventually the situation evolved to me paying a set fee per month for access on my own to ride Joe twice a week, and that’s worked out just fine for me. Would I be improving faster with the expertise of a trainer? You bet. But am I riding exactly how I want each time, and more importantly, able to come and go as I please without having to coordinate with someone else’s (very busy and ever-changing) schedule? Yes, and that’s truly alleviated a lot of ongoing anxiety I was having about riding.
On Joe days, I come to the barn when I’m ready, and I do my Horse Chores: mucking out his stall, filling it with fresh bedding, filling his water, filling his hay bags, and setting out his feed. I frickin LOVE Horse Chores, let me tell you whut. Horse poop does not bother me one bit and I get so much satisfaction out of transforming his stall into a clean and refreshed environment.
Once I brought Dylan with me and as he shoveled next to me he said, “You know, this feels like real work.” I knew just what he meant: not real work in the sense that it’s hard (although it is, kinda! I set my fitness watch the minute I get there because you better believe I’m counting it as a workout) but like it means something. I don’t know why scooping out cat litter doesn’t feel this way even a little, but Horse Chores are deeply rewarding.
Then I groom him and tack him up and take him to one of the nearby arenas and ride as long as I want, which usually isn’t very long, maybe half an hour or so. If there is a particular thing I am working on, it’s finding stability and relative comfort in Joe’s trot, which has been charitably described by other people as “bouncy.” Imagine if a malfunctioning washing machine was also a horse, is how I’d describe it. I am sure I have a better seat during a trot than I used to, but there is MUCH room for improvement.
I do like riding, but my favorite parts of these days are less about being in the saddle and more about spending time with Joe, saying hi to all the other horses, handing out carrots, petting the barn cats, inhaling the cortisol-lowering combo of manure/wood/hay/horses/leather. I have no interest in competing in horse shows; the place where I go hosts a LOT of shows and it seems like that becomes the main driver for plenty of riders: the idea that you’re always working towards the next goal, which is an event of some kind. I am legitimately only there to soak up the horsey vibes and fuck around a little.
I feel like I’ve become a bit more clear-eyed about being around horses. I think you can watch too many cutesy horse videos and end up attributing too many traits to them that really aren’t there. It doesn’t feel like bonding with a dog or cat, it’s more like … an honor? Gahh that sounds so corny but it DOES feel that way, like it is a real privilege to be so close to such a big animal and to be allowed to touch it and pick at its feet and lead it around and put things on it and even clamber rudely onto its back, good god. They can be so gentle and patient, even if you are a buffoon who routinely tries to put on their harness upside down. They feel like a wild part of the earth that we humans are for some reason permitted to join, and together I get to feel a part of that wildness in me.
They are also nervous-nelly prey animals who can absolutely lose their shit over the most random things, which certainly keeps things interesting. I definitely believe in the stress-reducing benefits of horses but there probably aren’t too many other therapies where you can go from calm trauma-healing mindfulness to pants-shitting fear and/or injury/death in the blink of an eye.
All to say, it’s been a real gift to have Little Joe in my life over the last couple years. I could never have pictured this, re-embracing my inner horse girl at 50. It makes me feel lucky, it makes me feel hopeful, it makes me feel alive.
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