THOUGHTS ON MEMOIRS (OR HOW HAVING HORSES KEEPS YOU HONEST)

I've noticed New York Times Bestsellers fall into one of two categories: Literary art or fodder shoveled toward the enormous appetite for whatever is the current fad. Often the latter is comprised of knock-offs of a bestseller whose theme/topic continues, ad naseum. An example of deserved NY Times best selling status is Khalid Hosseini's, The Kite Runner. This fictional tale accomplished what a great book is meant to do--it transforms the reader. I've rarely been so devastated, so enlightened, by a work of fiction. Hosseini's passion resulted in a tale that transported me into a culture I'd sadly (and smugly) disregarded entirely. It changed my perception permanently.

On the other end of the spectrum is the overwhelming hit, Twilight, the YA debut by author Stephanie Meyer. I will resist the urge to be snarky and dismantle the hysteria surrounding this title. Other (better) connoisseurs of good writing have already done this. Meyer had an intriguing premise, no doubt, but she broke some kind of record for usage of cliched adverbs and adjectives. I put this Harlequin romance for teens down about 3/4 of the way through.

On my recent vacation in Maui, I had the opportunity to read several books or parts of books (Reading in paradise--what could be better?) and discovered something about pairing horses and writing. Horse keeping lends itself to authenticity, an essential trait in good writing. Horse people tend to be down-to-earth sorts. Perhaps this is because we wrestle with the concept of "down-to-the-earth" more than most and this keeps us humble and honest. Helps us avoid taking ourselves too seriously. Allow me to compare two recently read memoirs--a favorite genre: Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert and Chosen Forever, by Susan Richards.

When it comes to reading I am an omnivore and enjoy buffet style nourishment. I'm not stuck on fiction, non-fiction, or any particular author. I love to be surprised by something new, different, and delicious. Trying a strange "dish" is good; you can't always tell by description or appearance what you'll like. This is how I became a fan of hummus and olive tapenade. Conversely, some things that look/sound yummy can give you a stomachache. This was the case for me with the wildly successful, Eat, Pray, Love. Firstly, let me say Elizabeth Gilbert is a fine writer. She has a good handle on clever technique and turn-a-phrase and uses a personal style of writing I like. There was a reason she was paid, in advance, for a book based on her experiences "finding herself" in Italy, India, and Indonesia. This one fact is at the root of the problem, for me. Payment in advance for a work of fiction is one thing, payment in advance for something meant to be inspirational, "spiritual," is quite another. Let's just say I could come up with something spiritual, too, if I was paid in advance to find it while traveling the world. Not a bad gig for a freelancer. Also flawed for me is Gilbert's premise. Feeling vaguely, yet deeply, dissatisfied with her marriage, the possibility of having children, and a dull suburban life she has a messy affair and, soon after, a messy divorce. I had a hard time dredging up empathy for this woman; a problem in memoir. Good memoir has, at its core, authenticity. While Gilbert's voice was engaging and often entertaining she lacked a certain honesty. Her new agey obsession with self wore thin and by the time she was kissing trees and divulging details about her sex life (with herself and a new lover who-obviously-helped her along her newly discovered spiritual path) I was ready for the Peptobismal. So why did Eat, Pray, Love hit the NY Times bestseller list? It feeds the wildly popular notion that anything goes in the elusive search for self-You're worth it Baby. Spiritually the book is also comfortably vague. Perfect. Look for the movie coming out with Julia Roberts. I'll probably watch it, along with a bag of cotton candy and the Pepto.

In contrast Susan Richards, Chosen Forever, is rich and satisfying. This sequel to her NY Times bestseller, Chosen By A Horse, continues a theme of redemption that began in Richards life with the unassuming love of a discarded Standardbred mare named Lay Me Down. Chosen By A Horse brought tears to my eyes. It reminded me that the experiences and individuals that touch us and change us the most are not the ones orchestrated and paid for in advance. They come as a surprise; involve our deepest emotions; even give us a broken heart. They don't always make sense at first sight. Do yourself a favor and read Chosen By A Horse. The sequel, Chosen Forever, is the story that unfolds in the authors life after the surprise success of her literary labor of love. I was ready to be disappointed but enjoyed it nearly as much as the first book.

Here's to finding oneself--on the back of a horse.

THE ZEN OF SPORTS (OR WHAT HORSEBACK RIDING AND BODY SURFING HAVE IN COMMON)

I am home. Mostly sobered up from a lovely Maui "buzz" and back to the land of regular routine (sniff, sniff). I did miss my horses terribly and by the second week an island equine sighting made me homesick. In celebration of my time in Paradise, I must digress somewhat and share something I discovered while learning to body surf.

It was evident early in my life that I would not be an athlete. The fact that I didn't walk until two years of age said something about future athletic ability. My mother says I knew how to walk long before I actually began doing so. Apparently I was content to watch, consider the options, and firmly hold onto the security of the furniture longer then most children. This tendency to spectate far too long seems stamped into my DNA. I hadn't improved much by elementary and high school. With the major exception of horseback riding, I didn't participate in sports. I remember longing to be a gymnast, a dancer, a runner. It didn't help that I was tall and lean. For some reason people assumed this meant I was also coordinated and athletic. I wish I had a dollar for every time I got this observation: "You're tall; you must play basketball/volleyball." Um, not so much. Except on my horse, I felt like an awkward klutz for most of my adolescent years. I avoided anything that would put my lack of coordination on display and made an art form out of observation and spectatorship.

Introverts--particularly writers--can be a rather boring lot. We're content taking in the experiences of others, turning them over in our minds incessantly and looking for truth, drama, human interest. This is all fine and good for writing but its a poor substitute for experiencing life and new things for oneself--getting sweaty/dirty/exhausted.

On our first full day in Maui we ventured to the beach. My hot-blooded, suck-the-marrow from life Portuguese husband insisted we all go body surfing. Um, excuse me; I do not body surf. I immediately decided this was yet another activity to sit out and observe. No doubt I wouldn't be able to do it anyway, plus getting all sandy.....

After watching everybody else dive bomb the surf and putting my toes into that amazing turquoise, 78 degree water I began to change my mind. I felt disgusted. I'm in Maui, for God's sake. I did not come to Paradise to sit and watch. For an hour or more I swallowed salt water, got sand up my suit, AND caught a couple gnarly waves--Cha! On the walk back to the condo I found a toasty warm hill of sand, fine as sugar, and sunk my feet in up to the ankles (I wanted to transport that beautiful heap of sand back to the Pacific Northwest for future rainy days when my very soul needs a warm-up). Salty, sandy, and exhausted I was reminded that throwing oneself into sports and other physical activities fully engages the five senses. I don't have to be a stellar athlete to reap the benefits of sports. As I think of my horses, I realize that one reason I love them so much is they pull me out of my tendency to spectate and give me a means to experience life more fully.

Besides body surfing, I also learned to snorkel while on vacation. On Maui, the Pacific Ocean is a thing of intoxicating beauty and I found myself drawn to it like never before. For fun, here are a few things I did not know about Maui and one vision I will remember always:

1. The ocean really is that color; the island really is that beautiful.

2. Even chickens love paradise. Chickens are everywhere on Maui. My favorite chicken sighting was outside the Maui Dive Shop in a busy strip mall, downtown Kihei. Two chickens perched atop somebodies snazzy SUV (oops).

3. Hawaiians consider Spam a desirable food choice. This was proven by a significant portion of aisle dedicated to Spam products in Costco. Did you know Spam also makes a hotdog? Double "Eeewwwwwww!"

4. It truly is the Land of Aloha. My favorite aloha sighting was hearing an older Hawaiian grocery store clerk address a white male tourist as, "My brother."

5. Maui is a great place to ogle walking art--tattoos. If you have a slight fetish for them as I do, you'll never lack for interest while people watching. I was quite tempted to get another one myself but decided instead to get a temporary henna. However, when I have my midlife crisis I'll return to Maui and get a tatt. Or three. Maybe a belly button ring, too. Never hurts to plan ahead for these things.

Maui Memory

Driving back from Lahaina one evening I suddenly caught sight of the full moon through the sun roof. The road south there hugs the shoreline, winding a slow descent into Kihei and "condo country." But at that moment, all one could see was the inky Pacific, stretching to a midnight sky and disappearing into infinity. The silver light of the moon gilded the surface of the water into rippling pools of liquid platinum. I felt small and insignificant. At the same time I had a sense of being deeply loved by the Creator who spread out His hands and worked together such beauty."...Darkness was on the face of the deep and the Spirit of God hovered over the surface of the waters."

Aloha

HERD HYSTERIA

Chance with his other herd boss.




Mom, how do I look?

Fine.

Are you sure--this shirt's not too baggy?

Looks great.

Are you just saying that....did you even look?

Life with a teenager is never dull. Besides amusing and frustrating, parenting a teen can be quite enlightening. It's given me opportunity to reflect on my own teenage years (much of which I've tried to forget, actually). In my son I remember my own battle with insecurity and self-esteem at a time when my body seemed to betray me (I would learn this was only the first time; more betrayal was to come). While I have grown out of much of the youthful angst and drama the deep need to be accepted, to be thought well of, follows me into adulthood--"Herd dynamics."

As I've mentioned before, horses are never apathetic about The Herd. They live and die obsessed with this social structure. It's really more necessary to their health than food and water. In the wild the safety of a horse hinges on his place in a herd situation. This makes perfect sense. An attacking cougar, say, is best fended off with the help of a few friends. Especially when one is lower on the food chain. But domestic horses have a different reality, right? It is the faithful Master who feeds, waters, blankets in cold, fly sprays in heat, tends to tender tootsies, trains, loves, and otherwise is obsessed, exhausted, or bankrupt on any given day. But enough about me. This fact should have some relevance for even the most dim-witted equid, right? Wrong. Herd dynamics are no less critical for a backyard pony then they are for a Mustang surviving on the plains. At least from the horse's point of view.

I have found the greatest satisfaction as a trainer when I can affect this equine trait on a deep level; change the horses natural tendency. When the horse and I reach a place where we are first, last, and always our own herd of two. Regardless of whether I ride past a field of attractive horses nickering for attention, ask my horse to leave his best buddy for a few hours, or even trailer to a strange location. The horse remains okay--ixnay on the whinnying hysterically. My horse Tango is this way. He seems to understand, at some level, that I "have his back." This is quite literally true--how could I forget about him when I'm sitting on him! Eli is also coming along nicely in this respect. We aren't totally there yet but he looks to me more and more for direction. In time I feel his trust in me will be complete. Chance is another story. Life with human beings has taken its toll on him. For all the progress we have made this horse's trust remains fragile. And that's on a good day. On a bad day forget about it. His bond to the rider disappears like dust in the wind. In short, the herd--what "they" think and are doing at any particular moment--is a near constant obsession for this horse. When Chance is in this place mentally he can be dangerous. An example of this last occurred last weekend when I took him on a trail ride in the hills near my home. I knew the ride might be interesting but decided it would be good for him.

I was pleased that after some initial whinnying and postering amidst the 30 or so other horses milling around, Chance settled down--Look at me; I'm the man; You like me?; Check this out; Hey, nobody cares.....We left with the first large group and I put Chance in the back, behind a big Tennessee Walker. He was a tad nervous--I wonder what that horse thinks of me; Am I dominant here?--but willing to walk. Then he began hearing the sounds of the other group, just out of sight in the trees behind us. He began to get jiggy, pulling on the bit, jumping in the bushes and mostly ignoring the fact that there was a rider on his back. I waited until the single track trail opened onto a wider road and pulled him out of the ride. At that moment I believe I saw his small brain sprout wings and fly off into the blazing sun overhead. We entered full meltdown as he watched his new "best friends" disappear into the trees again. I wondered how it was that so quickly he could forget entirely about me--his rider and faithful buyer of premium hay, veterinary care and horse treats. Did he recall the hours I spent working on his trailer loading so he could become confidant and not utterly terrified? Did he remember how I quite literally plucked him out of a field neglected and starving? Not a chance, for this Chance.

Summoning what was left of my last nerve, I focused on regaining his attention. Eventually (with much sweat on both our parts) I got obedience and a bit of his brain back. We were able to rejoin a party of riders and finish the ride without further tantrums.

Being herd bound, or herd "sour," is not just annoying it potentially life-threatening for the horse and/or rider. A good friend found this out recently when her herd bound gelding tore out of the trailer she was attempting to load him into, nearly running over her. On his mad dash to get back to his "friends" he ran down a busy highway. Fortunately, nobody was hurt.

A person can live their entire life a slave to herd dynamics--hoping to gain favor, respect, acceptance, self-esteem and purpose solely from other human beings. Personally, I'd like to find all that with the Master. A herd of two is security enough for me.

A note to followers and lurkers (I appreciate each and every one of you that bother to read my random ramblings): I am leaving for Maui and will happily neglect this blog for the next two weeks. After which I'll be back, fresh with Aloha and(hopefully) tales of horse culture in Hawaii.

ON LYING

I am an honest person; I like to tell the truth. As a writer this isn't simply a good idea, it's absolutely necessary. Oh sure, I am guilty of social lying--who isn't? By social lying I mean something like this:

Friend at church: Hi, how are you?
Me: I'm fine.
Translation: My latte just spilled on my sweater, I have a headache and just yelled at my husband and kids. I am in no mood to see or talk to anybody, much less worship the Lord--why am I here?!

After seeing the movie, The Italian Job, I now think of Fine as an acronym: Freaked out, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional. Turns out alot of people are F.I.N.E.

But other than that very typical scenario, I like to think of myself as an honest gal. Transparent even. It took two of my horses this week to show me that, in fact, I am a dirty little liar (even a Big, Fat Liar).

On Monday I loaded up Eli and took him to a local arena all by himself. I love this horse. He continues to prove his incredible intelligence and trainability, even under the added stress of being a young stallion with no shortage of hormones. Every stud should be as kind and level headed as this one. But I'm getting ahead of myself.......

I proceeded to warm Eli up and put him through his paces as two friends and their horses rode around, sharing the space. We rode for about 30 minutes with no incidence. I thought it an opportune time to brag about my outstanding equine when my friend made the mistake of asking,"So, how's he doing Catherine?" This was sort of like asking a new grandparent to tell you about their precious grandchild.

"This horse is the finest horse I've ever had," I gushed without shame. "I have never had to discipline him. Seriously. He has such a trainable mind."

I went on and on (the exact details escape me right now). Eli indeed proved his very trainable mind. Able to train his human to be very, very careful about the words that come out of her mouth. It wasn't fifteen minutes later that I moved Eli into a trot, then a canter. He took about two strides before all hell broke loose. Bolting across the arena Eli decided to show off his complete and utter "obedience." He jumped and pitched and while no words came out of his mouth I knew what he was thinking: This is a good time for you to bail off. Remember, pride comes before a fall.

I'm happy to report that I didn't fall off. Instead, I was able to get back the control and change Eli's attitude using a highly effective four letter word--WORK. We ended things on a good note and I, the big fat liar, went home a more humble individual.

I was still assembling my pride that week when, once again, I was proved dishonest in front of an audience. This time Chance decided to teach me a lesson. I can't prove it but I think Eli discussed this with him one night in the barn.

Chance has been struggling with respiratory problems for the better part of two months. I held out as long as I could but finally gave in and signed him up for what I knew would be an expensive veterinary exam. Just to be sure he was really sick, I worked Chance three days before the exam. Yep, he coughed and showed some distress during canter work. Something was definately wrong. I patted myself on the back for being a responsible horse owner and put all other plans on hold the day of his scheduled visit.

We arrived bright and early at the veterinary hospital, a large, clean facility with a charming collection of antique carriages on display out front. My horse would be in good hands. I explained the past couple of months, how Chance was hardly being worked and our worry he had a blockage of sorts in his airways. I was anxious to see his symptoms and how the vet would diagnose it.

"Let's free lunge him in the round pen," the vet said. "See whats going on."

An assistant got a whip and moved Chance around at the trot, then the canter. The day had dawned warm and it didn't take Chance long to break into a sweat as the air thickened with humidity. Additionally, deep sand in the round pen made his going that much more work. I knew it was simply a matter of time before he began coughing.

Twenty minutes later, the only sight to behold was the near perfect form of Chance, easily cantering the circumference of the round pen. Over and over again.

"He's in beautiful condition; what a mover," remarked the vet.

Mover my eye! This horse can hardly keep his leads straight some days. My mood darkened.

"Well, I'm not seeing anything. Let's put a bag over his nose and see what we hear."

We stopped Chance, put a bag over his nose and let him breath out the oxygen. Then the bag was removed and the vet carefully listened to his lungs while he inhaled deeply. Nothing but a tiny wheeze or two showed anything out of order.

"He tolerates exercise very well," said the vet.

"Listen, I know there is something wrong with this horse. I guarantee if I ride him he will show some distress." I fought frustration as I led Chance to the trailer and swung a saddle over his back. Time for a little horsey chat.

"Listen Pal," I pulled Chance's head around to make sure he was listening. "I just think you should know that if you prove me a liar today your work load is going to explode. No more lounging in my paddock over a pile of alfalfa. Got it?"

Chance chewed thoughtfully. Let's see, less work or enjoy making a fool of my owner? No contest.

Sure enough, we lope in beautiful circles in the sandy round pen. Over and over. Chance is a dressage horse, his frame round and athletic, his endurance supreme.

"If this was a prepurchase exam I'd tell you to buy this horse," the vet offers.

Gee, thanks. I'm going to kill this horse when I get home.....

Five hundred dollars later, I am sure of one thing: Horses were created to keep human beings humble (not to mention drive them crazy).

Yet, all is not lost. A new training method has come out of my recent experiences. It is actually not new but one I've used often and with success on my children. It is especially effective on toddlers and teenagers--reverse psycology.

This week I'll chant a new mantra to my beasts: Chance, you are sick ALL the time; Eli, my man, you are the worst horse to work with!

I'll let you know how it works for me.

BLESSING OR CURSE

Once there was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although poor, he was envied by all because he owned a beautiful white horse. Even the king coveted his treasure. A horse like this had never been seen before--such was its splendor, majesty, and strength. People offered fabulous prices for the horse but the old man always refused. "This horse is a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend?" The man was poor and the temptation great but he never sold the horse.

One morning, the horse was not in the stable. All the village came to see him. "You old fool," they scoffed, "we told you someone would steal your fine horse." You are poor, it would have been better to have sold him and kept the money. Now the horse is gone and you have been cursed with misfortune." The old man responded, "Don't speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable. That is all we know; the rest is judgement. If I've been cursed or not, how can you know?" The people contested, "Don't make us to be fools! Great philosophy is not needed. The simple fact that your horse is gone is a curse." The man spoke again, "All I know is that the horse is gone. Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I cannot say. All we see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?"

After fifteen days, the horse returned. He hadn't been stolen but had run into the forest. He brought a dozen wild horses with him. Once again the villagers gathered around the old man. "Old man, you were right. What we thought was a curse was a blessing." The old man responded, "Again you go too far. Say only that the horse has returned with a dozen horses with him. How do you know if this is a blessing? Do not judge, you see only a fragment. You read only one page of a book and can you now judge the whole book on that one page? Can you understand it? Life is so vast, no one knows when all there is is a fragment. I am content with what I know and not anxious about what I do not."

"Maybe the old man is right," the villagers thought. So they said little. But down deep, they knew he was wrong. They knew it was a blessing. The twelve wild horses could be trained and sold for a profit. A profit the old man desperately needed.

The old man had only one child, a son. The young man began to break the wild horses. After a few days he fell from one of them and broke both his legs. Once again the villagers gathered around. "You were right," they said. "The horses were not a blessing but a curse. Your only son has broken his legs and now cannot help you in your old age. You will be poorer than ever." The old man spoke again, "You people cannot stop judging and go too far. Say only that my son has broken his legs. Who knows if that is a blessing or a curse? Life comes in fragments. Nobody knows."

It so happened that a few weeks later the country engaged in war. All the young men of the village were called to fight the war. Only the son of the old man was excluded because of his broken legs. Once again the villagers gathered around the man, crying out for their sons who had been taken. There was little chance they would see them again. "You were right old man," they wept. "Your son's accident was a blessing for because of his broken legs he is with you now. Our sons are gone forever."

The old man once again spoke, "It is impossible to talk with you. You always draw conclusions. No one knows. Say only that your sons have gone to war and mine did not. No one is wise enough to know if this is a blessing or a curse. Only God knows."

This parable, from Max Lucado's Eye of the Storm, is so appropriate in my life these days. When I "grow up" I hope to finally and fully grasp this one thing: I am small; God is big. To hold this tightly when something is a blessing; even tighter when it looks like a curse. For I do not know. Life is so many broken, misshapen shards that God is fashioning into a glittering mosaic.

Chance has not been performing well the last two months. And not for lack of trying on his part. Though not distressed when he is at rest in the paddock, he is plagued with a mysterious cough and what appears to be a blockage of sorts in his throat. He can only perform light work and often cranes his neck and does a series of jaw gyrations as if trying to dislodge something. He has an appointment with the vet for a full exam and internal scope. This visit won't be cheap (What am I talking about--they never are!!). I alternate between fear and resignation as my horse girlfriends and I laugh about the "free" horse. Yeah, free comes with a ball and chain--his name is Murphy. Of course all horses are expensive. I know 10,000 dollar animals that can hardly be kept sound. But I can't help worrying about a possible tumor/cancer/outrageously expensive terminal illness. What will we do with an unusable proud little pinto who is deeply loved by a ten-year-old girl? My mind jumps ahead, manipulating circumstances that haven't come to pass. I am cursed.

The above parable came to mind on Tuesday of this week as I lounged in the sun and watched Haley guide my gelding Tango through his gaits at her lesson. He is her horse while Chance is down. The horse I've said isn't suitable for a child. Though highly trained and well seasoned, I've feared Tango's knack for finding trouble and having a laugh (at your expense) would frustrate Haley. I felt protective of them both. But now they are having fun. He is responsive and obedient; she is relaxed and smiling. She wants to take him to a fun show this weekend.

Could all this somehow be....A blessing??

Perhaps I should stick to the facts I know and be content. Because I do not know; I do not see the complete picture in the shards of circumstance.

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.--1 cor. 13:12

AN ANNOINTING

Ever notice how experiences that once seemed gross or unpleasant can turn out to be beautiful? Kissing a boy comes to mind (they used to be cooty carriers) and giving birth.

A few weeks ago my pastor was teaching about Jesus healing the man blind from birth (John chapter 9). Whether his eyes were freaky white orbs--think supernatural horror movie, or shriveled like raisins we don't know for sure. Maybe they looked normal. According to scripture the man didn't ask Jesus for healing. Jesus simply notices his dilemma, approaches and....puts mud in his eyes. To be technical, he spits in some dirt. Think about that for a minute: "Hey, sorry about your blindness. Let me spit in the dirt and put mud on your eyes." Yeah, I know he was the Son of God but even divine spit has an eew factor. I like to dig into the specifics in scripture. Not only that, you can't touch a much more vulnerable place then an eyeball. I have a hard time putting mascara on, much less allowing a stranger to put something yucky there. It amazes me that this man (who can't see Jesus at all remember), stands still for this scenario. He had some kind of trust. I'd probably be swinging at the Lord.

Sitting in church I zoned out a tad and flipped to some of the other miracles Jesus performed. Really, this was a guy who could work a miracle with simply a word--or a thought! Like turning water into wine. On these recent hot days I wish I could do something similar. Turn a glass of tap water into yummy Mikes Hard Lemonade, for instance. Then there's the woman who sees Jesus in a large crowd. She has this major medical issue but doesn't want to make a scene. She thinks, "If only I could just touch his clothes I'll be healed." I so relate to this woman. I hate being put on the spot. If I'm suffering in a public situation forget asking for help. I'll just die in the corner quietly, thank you. Jesus would have put his hands on this woman, anointed her with his joy, his healing, in a moment. But she's shy and her problem is embarrassing. Despite her reticence, her faith makes her well and while Jesus publicly makes known his awareness of her needs, he doesn't touch her. The healing is quiet and clean.

So, why the mud for the blind guy? I really don't know. There was nothing magical about that middle eastern dirt. All I can figure is the physical act of anointing did something for that man. Jesus loves to be a hands on kind of guy. The blind man must have had a heart that yearned for a personal touch.

The act of being anointed suggests special favor. It is an act of love and recognition. In the Bible being anointed was closely linked with holiness. The substance of choice was a fragrant oil but perfume and mud were also used. The specific substance wasn't as important as the act itself. So, what does this have to do with horses (you knew I'd eventually get around to it)? Well, these days I have my own nightly "anointing" ritual with Eli.

It started back in May when I noticed he was rubbing his mane and tail off. Literally. Eli is a beautiful animal. To see his chestnut locks frizzled into oblivion killed me. An Arabian with a mohawk? I don't think so. The source of Eli's skin problem is elusive and complicated. Like all individuals, he isn't perfect. Reactive, sensitive skin seems to be his "thorn in the flesh." I began by augmenting his diet. The first step in Operation Don't-Hate-Me-Because-I'm-Beautiful mane hair fit for a Revlon commercial. The flax seed helps with growth, condition, and essential omega 3s. I added garlic to keep the bugs away. They find Eli's smell particularly sweet and drive him crazy. Both dietary things helped but Eli kept itching. A close up inspection of the crest of his neck and tail head revealed skin that was rough, irritated, and excessively dry and flaky--Something Yucky (the technical term). I tried a couple different products before finding my miracle (drum roll please).....Shapley's MTG.http://www.shapleys.com/ Oh my gosh, this product actually works. Owners of sensitive skinned horses rejoice. The active ingredient? Sulfur. Yep, sulfur in oil. It's messy, its smelly, but it stops itching.

At night, usually while Eli is eating, I schlep out my oily sulfur and another great oil, Calm Coathttp://www.calmcoat.com/, for his daily anointing ritual. Calm Coat is a much better smelling concoction of eucalyptus, lavender, and tea tree oil. I use it on his belly to soothe any irritation from noseeums--a major problem in this part of the country--or other insect bites.

As I've written before, Eli is a horse intensely careful about his personal space. When I got him he wouldn't eat if I stood next to him. He also got uncomfortable if I entered his stall when he was closed inside. Basically, he was always worried about how his body might be harmed if I got too close. An introvert, Eli doesn't want anybody making a scene. It's taken several months to get him to the point where he enjoys my attention up close. I can now stand by his side, arm over his barrel, and he doesn't flinch. He even gives me horse hugs now and then when I rub his neck and chest--his big arched neck turned my way as he simply hangs his head by my side.

When I first started my oiling up routine though he was less then thrilled. I'd have to halter him so he didn't walk away--Oh boy, here she comes again with that smelly goo. I had to tell him, "You know, not every stallion has a woman anointing them with oil every night for their personal comfort and beauty. You should be so lucky!" He wasn't impressed. But over the last couple of months I dare to say that he often seems to enjoy it. I no longer have to halter him. One night he even stopped eating altogether and simply hung his head in pleasure. As I stood by his neck, my hands rubbing MTG into the roots of his mane, he gave me a nice horsey hug. I began rubbing the soft place between his jaw bones. My fingers found a couple bumpy mosquito bites. As I rubbed Eli bobbed his head, happy as could be I was itching this most vulnerable place he was unable to do anything about. I put a dab of Calm Coat on my sooty looking fingers and rubbed the soothing oil on the bites. He bobbed even more enthusiastically--yeah, put some there! Interesting that it is a problem that gives me the opportunity to bond with this horse in a way he needs. He's learning to trust even if he doesn't understand what I'm doing to him, even if I'm touching a sensitive place.

I'd like to be more that way--"Lord, please touch me where I need healing; oil, mud, I'll take whatever you've got."

WINDOW TO THE SOUL

A strange stillness dwells in my eye,

a composure that appears to regard the world

from a measured distance.

It is the gaze from the depths of a desert dream.

(Horses of the Sun--Robert Vavra)