I had today off from work, and what a gorgeous day to do so! 70 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, the multi-colored leaves still on the trees.
With plans for trail riding ahead, I arrived at the barn early to blow some steam out of Lim in the outdoor arena. She was docile as I groomed her but shortly before I led her over to the outdoor arena, her boyfriend Nick began calling for her from the pasture.
Lim called back and became riled up. We were alone in the arena and she looked about for other horses. If she spotted one, she whinnied at it. It wasn't looking good for the trail ride! She wanted to trot fast and long so I let her. During the canter, she wanted to eat the ground up with her strides and I let her. She slowed and I made her continue cantering. By the time we walked again, she was quiet.
A half hour later a couple of other boarders and I headed for the trails. One horse led, Lim was in the middle, and another horse followed.
Oh, what a beautiful day!
We trotted along tree-lined paths, the brightly-colored leaves a canopy above our heads and yet more leaves a rustling carpet beneath our horses' hooves.
We stopped by the Danada Equestrian Center and visited the Percheron foals. Mirror images of each other, they peered over the top railing of the pasture fence at us. Lim and the other Thoroughbred (a 21-year-old bay gelding) watched with curious, apprehensive eyes and ears. I remembered a time when Lim saw the Thoroughbred/Warmblood cross foals at our eventing barn a decade ago, how bright and curious and almost longing her eyes were. The Percheron foals did not rouse the same feelings!
We went beneath the tunnel--no problems there--and by the grass racetrack. When the lead horse trotted slowly I sat the trot on Lim and collected her. Her strides were so long (as is normal for her) that there was no other way to keep pace, and I was amused to find myself doing dressage moves on the trail.
We cantered a short stretch and she did not grab the bit and run, as I partly expected. I slowed her to a nice, collected canter and she was content and happy with the pace.
We went through a patch of thick woods--woods so thick that bicycles could not enter, and those on foot would be fighting the shrubbery. But the horses glided through and around it as if they had been doing it for thousands of years. The crimson, golden, and orange leaves high above us filtered the sunlight and I could hardly tear my eyes away from it. I let Lim loose on a long rein and she followed the horse before her, head down. The only sounds I could hear was the crunch and rustle of hooves on the forest floor.
We entered a clearing and followed a narrow path through tall grasses. A couple was ahead of us and the woman watched, delighted (horse lover, no doubt!) as we smiled and waved at her and her husband before disappearing through thick bushes.
On our way back, the woman riding the paint horse commented on how pretty Limerick was and what a nice trot she had.
Lim stumbled a bit and jumped, spooked by herself. She eyed a large patch of thick white fuzzy seeds in the grasses along the trail, wary. I laughed each time and that was the end of it.
We were gone for almost two and a half hours. What a wonderful Halloween!
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
A dream
I had a dream last night that I was on a racehorse. We were mid-pack and flying down the homestretch. A gap between two Thoroughbreds was opening up before me. Power surged through my horse and into my arms as she readied herself for her big move. Adrenaline.
The sun, a low early morning sun, was slanted sideways into my eyes. Strong golden light and dark shapes were to my right and the brilliant colors of horseflesh and jockey silks were in sharp detail to my left. My ears thundered with falling hooves and the roar of the crowd.
I balanced upon my horse, my thighs strong and tight, my hands hard around the reins but ready to loosen them as soon as the gap opening up before us was clear. My horse's mane flew in my face, her flat ears bobbed up and down with her head.
The gap cleared. I let my horse go.
Then suddenly, all was quiet. Time slowed. The urge to look to my right overcame me and I did.
And there she was.
She passed me, passed us, moving slowly yet much faster than the rest of us. Her long, long legs stretched out on and on as her strides let her fly over the track, her head and ears high in pure sheer joy, the sun breaking around her like a halo. She was all dappled dark bay hide, all lean muscle and flying tail. Her jockey clung to her back like a turquoise gem, his arms moving with her neck, body and whip tucked away tight. She was so long that she seemed to pass us forever, her stride hanging just-so, her hooves perfectly poised long enough for us all to see her.
And then she was gone and the roar of the crowd and the thunder of the hooves and my horse's strength within my hands and arms returned. My horse was as strong as ever, my horse flew through the gap and ahead of the field, but a part of her faltered at the sight of Zenyatta flying before us, pulling further and further away.
The sun, a low early morning sun, was slanted sideways into my eyes. Strong golden light and dark shapes were to my right and the brilliant colors of horseflesh and jockey silks were in sharp detail to my left. My ears thundered with falling hooves and the roar of the crowd.
I balanced upon my horse, my thighs strong and tight, my hands hard around the reins but ready to loosen them as soon as the gap opening up before us was clear. My horse's mane flew in my face, her flat ears bobbed up and down with her head.
The gap cleared. I let my horse go.
Then suddenly, all was quiet. Time slowed. The urge to look to my right overcame me and I did.
And there she was.
She passed me, passed us, moving slowly yet much faster than the rest of us. Her long, long legs stretched out on and on as her strides let her fly over the track, her head and ears high in pure sheer joy, the sun breaking around her like a halo. She was all dappled dark bay hide, all lean muscle and flying tail. Her jockey clung to her back like a turquoise gem, his arms moving with her neck, body and whip tucked away tight. She was so long that she seemed to pass us forever, her stride hanging just-so, her hooves perfectly poised long enough for us all to see her.
And then she was gone and the roar of the crowd and the thunder of the hooves and my horse's strength within my hands and arms returned. My horse was as strong as ever, my horse flew through the gap and ahead of the field, but a part of her faltered at the sight of Zenyatta flying before us, pulling further and further away.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Empathy
It has been so long since I've posted here. I won't get into why.
empathy.
1.the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.
The other day, I wondered if I was too nice. The question is not unfamiliar to me; I will stumble across it from time to time.
Don't get me wrong. I am not afraid to fight for my loved ones, or for my life--this fact have been proven to me. I am stubborn and strong-willed, and like a tired old plow horse, I know that no matter what I encounter, I will trudge on. When I lived in Chicago, I was one of those fools that would go running through Humboldt Park after dark. The worse the weather, the more alone I was and the better the run. I have a sweet memory of my feet treading fresh lonely tracks through fallen snow and the steam of my hard breaths shooting out of my mouth as if I were a locomotive. And indeed, I felt as strong as one. I know I can be as strong as one.
But...
I am empathetic, maybe to a fault. I love to listen to the problems of others, and will rack my brain for any possible solutions to these problems. One part of me expects the same kindness from others while another, larger, part of me expects disappointment. I do not trust. I do not want to burden. I am always ready to help, but you won't see me asking for it in return. Despite my armor, I will decide to trust again at random moments, naively expecting to see the same sort of empathy and kindness that I believe in. It rarely ever happens.
Society is ever-cynical. I just can't follow along.
I realized the other day that those who work with the deaf are typically more empathetic than the general population. I had interpreters for high school and college classes. My college has a strong American Sign Language degree program and a small but fierce group of deaf culture supporters. The majority of these supporters are not deaf. Since I was close in age to my interpreters, I became friends with a few of them. I found them to be passionate about, and for, the rights and equality of deaf people.
I was a Fiction Writing major. My classes each had about a dozen or so students and, per the so-called story workshop method, we would sit in a semi-circle around the teacher. I was almost always on one end, near the interpreter (who sat next to the teacher). Each student was supposed to make a copy of his or her work, or give his or her work to the teacher so copies could be made.
Like English to Chinese, exact translation from English to American Sign Language is impossible. In order to properly follow the language and voice of a story, I needed my own copy to read from while the author was reading aloud. Other than unintentionally reading pages and pages ahead of the author and being stricken with panic when the teacher asked me about a certain part of the story, a section that had unfortunately faded from memory immediately after being read ten moments prior (“Heidi! What do you think was clear about Bobby meeting Sue?” When Bobby met Sue? Shit, that was…5 pages ago! Think Heidi, think…THINK!”Um, the uh, emotion of the moment was, um, clear?”), the method worked well.
But even artsy-fartsy liberal arts professors are resistant to changing old ways. A few teachers forgot, or even balked at, the idea of making photocopies for me to read. They could not wrap their strictly right brains around the fact that, as anyone who has visited Engrish.com knows, one language being translated to another can results in goofs or miscommunication, especially when done on the fly by hardworking, tired interpreters.
I was upset. The interpreters were even more upset. It was not their place to let the teacher know but at times, they did. I never faulted them for doing so.
These same people were often animal lovers. Despite living in big Chicago, they took pleasure in the simple, beautiful things in life. They were friendly and sympathetic—not just towards the deaf, but people in general. They all had many friends. They were empathetic.
Is it because, more so than other people, they knew that the deaf—considered by many to be a voiceless bunch—actually had a lot to say? Were they empathetic to start with? I think so. I have found that my closest friends are more empathetic and more open to new ideas and experiences than others. I do not have close friends that are cold and uncaring simply because I find them intolerable—it’s because these people don’t think I am worth getting to know.
At one time, the deaf were considered quite stupid—no smarter than a bag of rocks. No hearing devices and no sign language meant a totally silent, mute world. No effort was made to communicate with or educate the deaf. As a result we have the lovely phrase of “deaf and dumb”. As a child, I often had doors—both literal and figurative—slammed in my face because I was inferior to the other children, or so they believed. I was quickly taught that I was not fit for normal society.
And what did I do?
When I was born, my parents had three cats. One of them, an orange tabby named Tiger, was my best friend. Even before I lost my hearing, I was rarely apart from him. My first word was his name, and my one of my first memories is of following him around at a crawl. Before I ever knew what the words (or very many words, for that matter) meant, I recognized the old, wise soul within Tiger.
Shut away from human playmates, Tiger turned out to be the only friend I needed. He was patient and kind. He would follow me, and I followed him. I would talk to him and deep inside, I felt he knew what I was saying. When I cried, I would lay my head on his soft, dusky orange belly and sob into his fur. He would lay there, patient as ever, and quietly wait. Tiger was a vicious slayer of rabbits and would kill adults and babies alike. Tiger would chase any dog that entered our property. He would fight with neighboring cats (with the exception of a black and white tuxedo named Mittens). Yet he was so kind to me that he allowed me to put my pet mice on his back with nary a twitched whisker.
I didn’t just love him. I was in awe of him. He was my soul mate. He was a teacher—an educator of the ways of animals, of the workings of nature. He was voiceless yet he had so much to say. From him, I learned kindness and patience towards animals. I learned that a quiet movement spoke volumes to an attuned observer. When Tiger died a few days before his 17th birthday, a part of me died with him.
I still think about him. I still cry for him. He was such a large, special part of my juvenile life and frankly, I don’t know what I would have done without him.
It’s important to realize that just because animals do not speak the language of humans (nor should they have to), that they do not have anything to say. Take time to listen. Observe. Be empathetic.
empathy.
1.the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.
2.the imaginative ascribing to an object, as a natural object or work of art, feelings or attitudes present in oneself: By means of empathy, a great painting becomes a mirror of the self.
The other day, I wondered if I was too nice. The question is not unfamiliar to me; I will stumble across it from time to time.
Don't get me wrong. I am not afraid to fight for my loved ones, or for my life--this fact have been proven to me. I am stubborn and strong-willed, and like a tired old plow horse, I know that no matter what I encounter, I will trudge on. When I lived in Chicago, I was one of those fools that would go running through Humboldt Park after dark. The worse the weather, the more alone I was and the better the run. I have a sweet memory of my feet treading fresh lonely tracks through fallen snow and the steam of my hard breaths shooting out of my mouth as if I were a locomotive. And indeed, I felt as strong as one. I know I can be as strong as one.
But...
I am empathetic, maybe to a fault. I love to listen to the problems of others, and will rack my brain for any possible solutions to these problems. One part of me expects the same kindness from others while another, larger, part of me expects disappointment. I do not trust. I do not want to burden. I am always ready to help, but you won't see me asking for it in return. Despite my armor, I will decide to trust again at random moments, naively expecting to see the same sort of empathy and kindness that I believe in. It rarely ever happens.
Society is ever-cynical. I just can't follow along.
I realized the other day that those who work with the deaf are typically more empathetic than the general population. I had interpreters for high school and college classes. My college has a strong American Sign Language degree program and a small but fierce group of deaf culture supporters. The majority of these supporters are not deaf. Since I was close in age to my interpreters, I became friends with a few of them. I found them to be passionate about, and for, the rights and equality of deaf people.
I was a Fiction Writing major. My classes each had about a dozen or so students and, per the so-called story workshop method, we would sit in a semi-circle around the teacher. I was almost always on one end, near the interpreter (who sat next to the teacher). Each student was supposed to make a copy of his or her work, or give his or her work to the teacher so copies could be made.
Like English to Chinese, exact translation from English to American Sign Language is impossible. In order to properly follow the language and voice of a story, I needed my own copy to read from while the author was reading aloud. Other than unintentionally reading pages and pages ahead of the author and being stricken with panic when the teacher asked me about a certain part of the story, a section that had unfortunately faded from memory immediately after being read ten moments prior (“Heidi! What do you think was clear about Bobby meeting Sue?” When Bobby met Sue? Shit, that was…5 pages ago! Think Heidi, think…THINK!”Um, the uh, emotion of the moment was, um, clear?”), the method worked well.
But even artsy-fartsy liberal arts professors are resistant to changing old ways. A few teachers forgot, or even balked at, the idea of making photocopies for me to read. They could not wrap their strictly right brains around the fact that, as anyone who has visited Engrish.com knows, one language being translated to another can results in goofs or miscommunication, especially when done on the fly by hardworking, tired interpreters.
I was upset. The interpreters were even more upset. It was not their place to let the teacher know but at times, they did. I never faulted them for doing so.
These same people were often animal lovers. Despite living in big Chicago, they took pleasure in the simple, beautiful things in life. They were friendly and sympathetic—not just towards the deaf, but people in general. They all had many friends. They were empathetic.
Is it because, more so than other people, they knew that the deaf—considered by many to be a voiceless bunch—actually had a lot to say? Were they empathetic to start with? I think so. I have found that my closest friends are more empathetic and more open to new ideas and experiences than others. I do not have close friends that are cold and uncaring simply because I find them intolerable—it’s because these people don’t think I am worth getting to know.
At one time, the deaf were considered quite stupid—no smarter than a bag of rocks. No hearing devices and no sign language meant a totally silent, mute world. No effort was made to communicate with or educate the deaf. As a result we have the lovely phrase of “deaf and dumb”. As a child, I often had doors—both literal and figurative—slammed in my face because I was inferior to the other children, or so they believed. I was quickly taught that I was not fit for normal society.
And what did I do?
When I was born, my parents had three cats. One of them, an orange tabby named Tiger, was my best friend. Even before I lost my hearing, I was rarely apart from him. My first word was his name, and my one of my first memories is of following him around at a crawl. Before I ever knew what the words (or very many words, for that matter) meant, I recognized the old, wise soul within Tiger.
Shut away from human playmates, Tiger turned out to be the only friend I needed. He was patient and kind. He would follow me, and I followed him. I would talk to him and deep inside, I felt he knew what I was saying. When I cried, I would lay my head on his soft, dusky orange belly and sob into his fur. He would lay there, patient as ever, and quietly wait. Tiger was a vicious slayer of rabbits and would kill adults and babies alike. Tiger would chase any dog that entered our property. He would fight with neighboring cats (with the exception of a black and white tuxedo named Mittens). Yet he was so kind to me that he allowed me to put my pet mice on his back with nary a twitched whisker.
I didn’t just love him. I was in awe of him. He was my soul mate. He was a teacher—an educator of the ways of animals, of the workings of nature. He was voiceless yet he had so much to say. From him, I learned kindness and patience towards animals. I learned that a quiet movement spoke volumes to an attuned observer. When Tiger died a few days before his 17th birthday, a part of me died with him.
I still think about him. I still cry for him. He was such a large, special part of my juvenile life and frankly, I don’t know what I would have done without him.
It’s important to realize that just because animals do not speak the language of humans (nor should they have to), that they do not have anything to say. Take time to listen. Observe. Be empathetic.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Two ponds
It's always on the perimeter of my consciousness. I can look at it directly if I want but usually, I choose not to.
The sensation that in some ways, life is passing me by. Missed plans, unavailable opportunities, DVDs returned unwatched.
We went fishing yesterday. A couple dozen feet from the pond we fished was another, indentical pond. The same type of fish and water weeds populated both ponds. The long skinny branches of weeping willows hung low over the still waters of each pond.
"I wonder if the fish in this pond realize that there is a world exactly like their own only thirty feet away?" I asked my husband.
"There's a little channel connecting the two down the road," he answered. "But I am sure there are fish that don't know that channel exists."
"What if that's Earth?" I said. "What if there's been another world exactly like ours right underneath our noses all along?"
But thinking some more, I realize there's another analogy here. I feel like a fish that knows about the other pond but can't access the channel that leads to it. I can try and try but I never quite get there. Fish returning from the other pond can offer me their interpretations if they wish, but it's never the same.
I am sometimes told that I'm lucky that I can't hear this or that. Well...not quite. If it's daytime (the hearing aid comes out at night!), then I probably hear the same annoyances that you do. However, when it comes to human voices, they are muddled 99.99% of the time. So perhaps in some cases, ignorance is bliss. But really, I'd rather be on the inside looking out, rather than the outside looking in.
I'd rather be a fish that can swim through the channel to the other pond.
The sensation that in some ways, life is passing me by. Missed plans, unavailable opportunities, DVDs returned unwatched.
We went fishing yesterday. A couple dozen feet from the pond we fished was another, indentical pond. The same type of fish and water weeds populated both ponds. The long skinny branches of weeping willows hung low over the still waters of each pond.
"I wonder if the fish in this pond realize that there is a world exactly like their own only thirty feet away?" I asked my husband.
"There's a little channel connecting the two down the road," he answered. "But I am sure there are fish that don't know that channel exists."
"What if that's Earth?" I said. "What if there's been another world exactly like ours right underneath our noses all along?"
But thinking some more, I realize there's another analogy here. I feel like a fish that knows about the other pond but can't access the channel that leads to it. I can try and try but I never quite get there. Fish returning from the other pond can offer me their interpretations if they wish, but it's never the same.
I am sometimes told that I'm lucky that I can't hear this or that. Well...not quite. If it's daytime (the hearing aid comes out at night!), then I probably hear the same annoyances that you do. However, when it comes to human voices, they are muddled 99.99% of the time. So perhaps in some cases, ignorance is bliss. But really, I'd rather be on the inside looking out, rather than the outside looking in.
I'd rather be a fish that can swim through the channel to the other pond.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
A day at the races (or OTB)
Yesterday hosted a superstar lineup of Thoroughbred champions all across America. Of course we weren't going to miss it!
(Yes, we...my husband is falling further in love with the Sport of Kings every week. But unlike me, he prefers to bet. I, for the most part, just like watching the parade of gorgeous horseflesh!)
There was Mauralakana, the French winner of the Beverly D. on Arlington Million Day, running in the Flower Bowl. Mauralakana's elated owner gave my farrier the jockey-helmet cuff links off his shirt after the dark bay filly flew under the finish line in front.
There was Ginger Punch, the fabulous chestnut mare, running in the Beldame Stakes.
Curlin sought to break the great Cigar's earnings record in the Jockey Club Gold Cup.
Then last, but not least, the undefeated Zenyatta was running in the Lady's Secret.
The results?
Mauralakana and Ginger Punch ran second in their respective races.
Curlin won the Gold Cup and became the first Thoroughbred to surpass $10 million in earnings. It was a bittersweet moment. On one hand, we saw what may be one of the truly great horses of the new century make history.
But on the other hand, Cigar, the prior record-holder, was the first great horse I watched in the 90's. Many of you, whether you are horse people or not, probably remember the big bay horse with the thick gray-tipped tail, Jerry Bailey clad in red, white, and blue silks atop his back. Few moments in racing can surpass Cigar's explosive surge of power around the turn for home in the 1995 Breeder's Cup Classic. I remember the flesh on my arms prickling, I remember my eyes stinging with tears of amazement and joy.
The great Cigar
(Kentucky Horse Park, '08)
But Curlin is an amazing horse, and if any horse were to surpass Cigar's record, he would be the right one.
And Zenyatta?
I have a soft spot in my heart for the fillies. My favorite racehorse of all time is Ruffian, and if you asked, I would admit that I think she is the greatest, period. Secretariat may have given us the 1973 Belmont Stakes but he was not without his flaws. In 1999, Man o' War was crowned the Horse of the Century by the Blood-Horse and he had many high points in his favor.
But show me another horse that has never allowed him or herself to be headed, and was in front at every pole, every call, of every race. Show me another horse that broke or equaled stakes or track records in every race but one. Show me another horse that was only shown the whip in two races--and one because the jockey just "wanted to see what she would do." (And what did she do? She won the race by 13 lengths). Show me another horse that ran times so fast, so blistering, that later, handicappers studying her times would realize that not only did she run some of the fastest times of the day, or the month, or the year, but of the past century, all with the floating ease of an earthly recinarnation of Pegasus.
Heywood Hale Brown said it best...
I have always considered Personal Ensign to be the second-greatest filly. Undefeated in 13 starts, she capped off her brilliant career with a narrow win by a nose in the 1988 Breeder's Cup Distaff. (Personal Ensign also shares a grandsire with Limerick--Damascus--which I guess makes them distant cousins of some sort! Not very relevant in the world of horses, I know, but still an interesting little fact.)
But...
Zenyatta is quickly becoming one of the all-time top fillies, and in my heart she just may surpass Personal Ensign. Her style is to lag behind then slingshot far around the turn for home, sweep past the field and cruise to the wire as if the race was nothing more than a morning gallop, ears up, tail loose, rival horses running their hearts out in her wake. I won't say any more, lest I jinx her undefeated run (8 for 8), but I'll let you decide for yourself.
And yes, she is big and dark and breathtaking, just like Ruffian was.
(Yes, we...my husband is falling further in love with the Sport of Kings every week. But unlike me, he prefers to bet. I, for the most part, just like watching the parade of gorgeous horseflesh!)
There was Mauralakana, the French winner of the Beverly D. on Arlington Million Day, running in the Flower Bowl. Mauralakana's elated owner gave my farrier the jockey-helmet cuff links off his shirt after the dark bay filly flew under the finish line in front.
There was Ginger Punch, the fabulous chestnut mare, running in the Beldame Stakes.
Curlin sought to break the great Cigar's earnings record in the Jockey Club Gold Cup.
Then last, but not least, the undefeated Zenyatta was running in the Lady's Secret.
The results?
Mauralakana and Ginger Punch ran second in their respective races.
Curlin won the Gold Cup and became the first Thoroughbred to surpass $10 million in earnings. It was a bittersweet moment. On one hand, we saw what may be one of the truly great horses of the new century make history.
But on the other hand, Cigar, the prior record-holder, was the first great horse I watched in the 90's. Many of you, whether you are horse people or not, probably remember the big bay horse with the thick gray-tipped tail, Jerry Bailey clad in red, white, and blue silks atop his back. Few moments in racing can surpass Cigar's explosive surge of power around the turn for home in the 1995 Breeder's Cup Classic. I remember the flesh on my arms prickling, I remember my eyes stinging with tears of amazement and joy.
The great Cigar(Kentucky Horse Park, '08)
But Curlin is an amazing horse, and if any horse were to surpass Cigar's record, he would be the right one.
And Zenyatta?
I have a soft spot in my heart for the fillies. My favorite racehorse of all time is Ruffian, and if you asked, I would admit that I think she is the greatest, period. Secretariat may have given us the 1973 Belmont Stakes but he was not without his flaws. In 1999, Man o' War was crowned the Horse of the Century by the Blood-Horse and he had many high points in his favor.
But show me another horse that has never allowed him or herself to be headed, and was in front at every pole, every call, of every race. Show me another horse that broke or equaled stakes or track records in every race but one. Show me another horse that was only shown the whip in two races--and one because the jockey just "wanted to see what she would do." (And what did she do? She won the race by 13 lengths). Show me another horse that ran times so fast, so blistering, that later, handicappers studying her times would realize that not only did she run some of the fastest times of the day, or the month, or the year, but of the past century, all with the floating ease of an earthly recinarnation of Pegasus.
Heywood Hale Brown said it best...
"With each of her tremendous gulps of ground, Ruffian seems determined to out-stride each stride just taken. And the idea of fatigue seems as alien to her as to those mythical beings who gathered strength each time they touched the Earth. So in every race, her margin suddenly and magically grows, as those behind her disappear into an awe-stricken wake, while alone and as yet unchallenged, she makes midair seem her proper home."
I have always considered Personal Ensign to be the second-greatest filly. Undefeated in 13 starts, she capped off her brilliant career with a narrow win by a nose in the 1988 Breeder's Cup Distaff. (Personal Ensign also shares a grandsire with Limerick--Damascus--which I guess makes them distant cousins of some sort! Not very relevant in the world of horses, I know, but still an interesting little fact.)
But...
Zenyatta is quickly becoming one of the all-time top fillies, and in my heart she just may surpass Personal Ensign. Her style is to lag behind then slingshot far around the turn for home, sweep past the field and cruise to the wire as if the race was nothing more than a morning gallop, ears up, tail loose, rival horses running their hearts out in her wake. I won't say any more, lest I jinx her undefeated run (8 for 8), but I'll let you decide for yourself.
And yes, she is big and dark and breathtaking, just like Ruffian was.
Friday, September 26, 2008
A move?
It has been three weeks and a day since Limerick got kicked. She is still lame at the trot. I’ve decided to have a vet take a look at her. However, due to the issues I’ve been having with my vet’s new secretary (not to mention the enormous bills that always follow in her wake), I may use someone else.
Last night I hand-walked Lim in the indoor arena. She probably doesn’t need it but I felt like spending some time alone with her. As it gets darker earlier, there are less people at the barn in the evening.
At one point, she heard something outside. She stopped and stood still. Head high, ears forward, nostrils flared—it was a classic Limerick pose, one I had been swayed by countless times. But this time, as I admired her, my throat locked up and waves of water overtook my vision.
Sometimes life is too much. Sometimes you have the shit piled on and on and on until you can’t take any more—not just little things, but big things, too. And when your one true salvation from the harshness of life is hurting and you’re helpless to stop it, it’s enough to push you over the edge.
I worry about the day that Limerick needs to be declared pasture-sound only and retired from riding. I don’t feel like she is ready for this but the day may be closer than I believe. I have spent far more weeks out of the saddle than in it this year and I’m not sure if that trend will reverse itself next year.
Meanwhile, board is expensive. I am not happy with how the stable is managed. I am not happy with how my apartment is managed. It is all so expensive. Why are we staying here? My husband wants to find a new job. My job is quite close.
I have been told about a stable in Minooka. It sounds wonderful. I’m guessing that apartments in Minooka are much cheaper, and according to Google Maps, Minooka is a 38-minute drive away from where I work. Granted, it’s probably more like an hour with the traffic but I can do it—I’ve done it before.
Oh but what of my poor old car, my Sonja? At least I’d be able to afford a new car if the commute accelerates (no pun intended) her aging.
Another option is to rent horse property. But we’ll see, we have a few months yet before our current lease expires.
Last night I hand-walked Lim in the indoor arena. She probably doesn’t need it but I felt like spending some time alone with her. As it gets darker earlier, there are less people at the barn in the evening.
At one point, she heard something outside. She stopped and stood still. Head high, ears forward, nostrils flared—it was a classic Limerick pose, one I had been swayed by countless times. But this time, as I admired her, my throat locked up and waves of water overtook my vision.
Sometimes life is too much. Sometimes you have the shit piled on and on and on until you can’t take any more—not just little things, but big things, too. And when your one true salvation from the harshness of life is hurting and you’re helpless to stop it, it’s enough to push you over the edge.
I worry about the day that Limerick needs to be declared pasture-sound only and retired from riding. I don’t feel like she is ready for this but the day may be closer than I believe. I have spent far more weeks out of the saddle than in it this year and I’m not sure if that trend will reverse itself next year.
Meanwhile, board is expensive. I am not happy with how the stable is managed. I am not happy with how my apartment is managed. It is all so expensive. Why are we staying here? My husband wants to find a new job. My job is quite close.
I have been told about a stable in Minooka. It sounds wonderful. I’m guessing that apartments in Minooka are much cheaper, and according to Google Maps, Minooka is a 38-minute drive away from where I work. Granted, it’s probably more like an hour with the traffic but I can do it—I’ve done it before.
Oh but what of my poor old car, my Sonja? At least I’d be able to afford a new car if the commute accelerates (no pun intended) her aging.
Another option is to rent horse property. But we’ll see, we have a few months yet before our current lease expires.
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