Post and Pre Limitations

What? Well, I've a theory. I believe that in life, we are only limited by our own efforts. Pre Limitations, as I see it, are what we see, and say to ourselves, "I can't do that." Or, "someone will figure out who I am, so I'm not going to do that."

Post Limitations are those that once we've done something, we see it as being done, and don't have to do anything outstanding again. Just to have done the one thing, to some people, is enough. It is where they say I did that, and I'm done trying.

I just read the blog of someone so dear to my life, that I've taken every word she says to me, to heart. Sometimes, to my detriment. Sometimes, I've not taken her advice, and been the sorrier for it. Sometimes, her opinions come off as so much psychological edicta, that I am lessened by hearing it. Because it means, by her measure, that what I've always thought of myself, is more or less true.

She was brave in her latest blog. Very nakedly brave. I'm proud of her for trying something so out of her comfort zone. She overcame her pre-limitations, to triumph over her pre-conceptions. She now can go on to do other more harsh things, knowing that this last thing could very well have been the hardest thing she ever did, or may ever do. While I don't think it is, she might.

I have a tendency to sequester my thoughts, when things or people attack me. I've sent my thoughts to a nunnery, more or less, and they come back healed. Or, more to true, as able to offer me a moments worth of healing. Truth is like that. Those that attack you may indeed offer you something you can learn from. No matter how much it hurts, sometimes, there is something you learn that you can take from it. Then you can let it go. There is no sense in dwelling on things and events you no longer have control over.

So, my thoughts go on a journey of discovery after the onslaught of someone's anger. The nunnery is a stark inner place, where I send my thoughts to dwell on the spoken, and unspoken of the attack. I'm not saying this is always a dictatorial 'Christian' nunnery; sometimes I send my thoughts to Buddha. He sits down with Jesus, and they talk about meditation. Buddha seems more practiced at it than Jesus, but Jesus gives me so much great advice, that it doesn't matter. I just don't know how to do it properly. I may not be doing it right at this point, but I will come to that apex of knowledge, and be able to meditate with the best of them. Practice.

There is weight loss. For some people, it is pre limiting. They have dieted all their lives, back and forth, then they give up. Some people limit their diet to things they already love, without giving other diets, life changes, a single chance. Take me for instance. I gained so much weight this past 18 months, that I could not wear anything that would tent me enough. I was a vegetarian, so eating vegetables was something I was already doing. But I was also eating cheese, and eggs. I did not lose weight, but with my addiction to cheese and eggs, I was gaining it. No solution.

I always thought going fully vegan, was too hard, and something I could not do. One day, last December, I decided that I would just do it. For me, eliminating cheese, my biggest addiction, was necessary. I do not ever want to be known as being addicted to anything other than love and laughter.

I also did it for the animals. There is no humane way to kill another Being and eat it, that made sense. And since so many prominent scientists have signed an accord that states animals have consciousness, how can I possibly be responsible for the eating of another conscious being? One that feels the same way I do? That wants to mother its young the same way I would? Who loves, has friends, habits, ticks, and other heretofore "human" traits? There is no way I could drink the milk of cows, while their calves were taken from them, and held in confinement, and killed so young, so people could eat their tender baby meat. Gross. Babies, who would play and frolic! To me, it is sick.

I've heard all the excuses for eating meat, and for staying on a meat based diet, that are just that. They are excuses for staying the same, for not trying something different, for not giving up something that tastes good, even if it would save my life to eliminate it from my diet. This is a pre limitation that will keep me fat. I gave up cheese, and eggs, for the first time in my life. But for the last time.

To substitute for the taste, I began to read recipe books. My God, and thank you, Jesus! but the recipes are good! I don't tend to take directions very well. I am hard wired to rebel against almost anyone telling me what to do, use, work, or how to cut food in a certain way. I've got to stop doing this! But there it is, my limitations.

My pre-limitation is to not follow the direction of the recipe the exact way in which it is supposed to be done. My thinking leads me to add more of this, use this instead of that, dash a little more of this because it smells good. Truly, it is hit or miss. But now that I am vegan, I must really try to use the recipes as they are written. First. If they don't taste good then, I will remember next time to change that ingredient combo, and shake it about and come up with something better. Or, write that recipe off, and move on.

It is hard to mess up the use of plant based foods, but as with so many things, someone came up with a winning recipe, and I sure as hell should give their efforts a chance, it is only fair.

Pre-limitations are the voice in your head that says, I can never give up that, I could never go there, I will never do that. Pre-limitations is the voice in your head that stops you before you ever begin. It is the devil on your shoulder, and it is always telling you, you can't, you will never, you shouldn't even try.  What the hell? Knock that bastard off your shoulder, and give something different a try. For Pete's sake, you only have the universe at your fingertips. Why not explore something foreign, like music, foods, places. It is all on you, baby...

So far? Being vegan has lost me some 33 lbs. I could not ask for more than that, this giving up something bad for me, so I can wear clothes I love to wear. I'm in my fifties, and I've run out of time to waste moping about losing weight. I've done that for far too long. I'm doing what I want, and I like riding bicycles, and I like the feel of my thinner body. So I link cheese to bloat. I link eggs to gas. Do I miss gas and being bloated? HELL NO!

So it is not that hard to change my attitude, therefore I am happy to be vegan. Don't let your little bastard sit on your shoulder and nag you into defeat before you even begin. "I can't" is the most defeated place I've ever been. 'I am' is lovely, and healing. See you there! Where? In the land of successes, that's where 'I am', and yes, that is where I am building my house.

Fighter

I found part of a body one day, walking along the shore of the Mediterranean Sea in Nice, France. Not the whole body, mind you. Not a hand, or a foot, ulna or femur; I don't even know if it is human. But I found it, and I became ecstatic when I realized that it was very old. It was so old, that it was becoming fossilized. If not becoming, then was. I put it in my pocket, and carried it around with me throughout Europe.

Ok, I did not have it in my pocket the whole time, but I brought it out for my uncle to see. My Uncle Paul is my hero. He was the Big Tall Stranger Who Was My Uncle, whatever those words meant to me when I was five. I know the whole trip in his MG, I did not speak. I was in awe of him. He was tall and handsome, and looked like Abraham Lincoln. For all I knew at that age, he WAS Abraham Lincoln. Except he was in the Navy at the time, and wore his pea coat.

Uncle Paul became excited about it, didn't know what it was from, but agreed with me it was something. It is not a whole bone. It is a joint bone piece.

For some reason I can't explain, talking about this bone now, makes me feel naked. If it is a human piece, then it looks like my pieces. My bones. It is my shadow form, a puzzle I could have been. Any one of us could have been this. It makes me wonder at all the things that brought this piece to me.

The trip to France was the trip of a lifetime. But it was not the nicest time I could have had. So, in my mind, I will turn it into just that. I will frame this trip into the greatest thing that it could have been, and if my husband, my traveling companion wants to make it into what he called the worst time of his life, then it is his worst time. I was in Europe, and I had a blast.

It started in Paris. Oh, Paris, the world of difference, the cantilevered city of love and light; poverty and wealth, struggle, and ease. I loved Paris.

I arrived there on a Wednesday, from an over night flight the previous Tuesday. I took a car to the airport, had my passport, my overstuffed back pack, and all the wrong clothes. But I was on the plane, in the seat, on the tarmac, and in Charles De Gualle airport, going through customs. What a thing!

I was not overwhelmed, as I always thought I would be. I was so excited, and happy. I was alone. I made it through the airport following a map Chuck had emailed me from Afghanistan, but really, it was unnecessary. All the signs were French, English, and other languages, and all the people, at all the help kiosks spoke English, and pointed me to the Customs agent passport people. That was the first person I gauged Europe by, and so he was the "first" person I spoke to.

He must have had a very long and boring day. "Passport, please," he said in perfect English. "How are you?" I asked perhaps a little too excitedly. "I'm tired," he said flatly. Then, as if he remembered something, he said, "How are you?" "I'm great! I'm in France, and I am happy to be here! I hope your day gets better!" I said, with a very broad smile on my face. I must have looked a bit goofy, because it elicited a smile from him. "Merci," he handed my passport back, and smiled, almost laughing. "Enjoy your stay in Paris." "Thank-Merci! Bonsoir!" My French was what I had learned on line, and that did not take very well, now that I was here.

I made my way to the subway, I forget what they call the trains there, but they are so spectacular for transportation! They are clean, they are fast, they are quiet, and they are nice. Maybe I think this because I've not been on one in the US, or that the ones in the US are portrayed in movies as dark, dangerous, crime labs, growing in this moving petri dish a strain of merciless, knife wielding punks, ready to kill for anything. Maybe. At any rate, they were great in Paris.

I got off near to Notre Dame, and made my way up to the street level. I was wearing jeans. I was over weight at this point. Depression does that. But I didn't care, I was going to meet my husband IN PARIS, FRANCE, EUROPE... my weight could not possibly matter at this juncture in our lives. Oh, contraire, mon frer.

I saw the steeples of Notre Dame, and I almost cried. Here, I was here. I walked along the Seine for several blocks, along the Seine with Parisiennes, beside the traffic in foreign cars, small, lightweight cars, past restaurants just setting up for the morning crowds. Bonjour slipped out of my mouth at every person I passed. I kid you not, EVERY PERSON WALKING IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION I PASSED ON THE STREET, I said Bonjour! And everyone knew I was a tourist. SO WHAT. I was.

My hotel was along the Seine across from the L'Ouvre. It was also an historical site, having housed a great many artists and writers. Our first room was on the 3rd floor, over looking the river and the sidewalks. Damn, I was in Paris! And I was alone. Nice.

I loved the hotel. Absolutely loved it. If I ever go back, and I will, I will stay there, in that hotel, with those people. Their food was ridiculously expensive, but it was good to be in Paris. I ate a croissant, for which I gained a love of, quickly. Most especially the chocolate ones. But now that I am vegan, well, no more of THAT until I find a good substitute. Hmm. I might do that myself, thanks to my unfounded belief in my abilities...

My camera was a part of me that never came off. I took so many photos of the people, and the places we visited, and frankly, I've not seen many of them. At any rate, I took photos of doorways, of windows, of the L'Ouvre, the boats on the Seine, the lights from the boats on the Seine, and people's feet.

I've not looked at all the photos yet. My darling husband and I had a "tiff" and I guess it is my dealing with it that precludes me from exploring the thousands of photos I took. OK! I'll get to it.

I remember one that I particularly liked, of a woman at one of the beautiful parks in Paris, who was elderly. I took a photo of balloons and children, and she exclaimed delightedly about the joy. I didn't understand her words, but her emotions were unmistakeable. It was a good photograph, but a better one was of her back. Yes, her back. This woman was elderly, but chic. Old fashioned beauty, elegance, and dignity. She was only about 4'11", but she was regal, and I have a need to paint this woman. It was of her back, but her head was turned to the side. It will be good, just wait.

My joy in Europe cannot be taken away by an emotional juggernaut. Whatever anger or disappointment was shown, I've decided to let go, and never revisit. It is his problem and not mine. That is the problem with expectations, you seldom get the picture perfect Thanksgiving dinner, or the perfect party. Not in my experience, anyway.

So I really enjoyed my time in Europe. Believe me, it took me a long time to come to this conclusion, after the pain, after the anger. But I'm there now. And I told him so. "I can't control how you see the trip. I can't control your expectations of what this trip should have looked like, what I should have worn, or weighed. But I can control how I feel about it, and Baby, I had a good time. I'll ignore your anger, and you deal with that. I had a great time, in retrospect. Letting the anger go..." Truly, it is the only way to see what I really saw.

I am a fighter. Whether I go about it with correct, straight on facts, or blunder through in high emotional pique, I will fight for everything I have. It is just the way I've been constructed. Love me or dislike me, "I yam what I yam, and that's all that I yam!" to quote a wise non-man.

Honesty, By Golly

Ever had one of those days where you wake up and the first email message is of your daughter telling you what a loser you are? No? Oh. Well. Let me go into it, then.

My daughter is an incredible person. She is one of those rare people who watched the way she was raised, and said to no one in particular, I will not be like that. My kids will not do what I did to my mother, and if they do, my kids will not get away with it. And she sticks with it. She is strong, where I was not. She has the backbone to tell anyone and everyone how she feels about anything you've done that bothers her. I did not, and kept it in. But to everyone else, she takes her time, is diplomatic, and caring, compassionate.

But with a mom, with me, there is only straight up honesty. Bam! Smack dab in your face honesty. I like that about her, except that I don't. Not when it is aimed at me, which is where all that compassion is removed from our conversations so that she will have enough for other people. I know how it works. It is the people you are comfortable with, so comfortable with you don't think that anything you say, and you think you can say anything, will ultimately hurt deeply. It is the family dynamic all people share, and for most people, it works well.

If I step back, and let it wash over, and away, it will be fine. I must remember to cry in private at her cutting words, and let it go. But who does that?!? Ok, most people who are really good parents do that. Ha! All I did was love my kids, I did not raise them "correctly". That is why some of them, ok, honestly, all of them, had times of alcoholism and drug abuse to deal with. And again, honestly? I should have been hard as hell on them. But I wasn't. I made excuses for them, and helped them the best I knew how. I knew nothing.

So, now you understand if I tell you that I asked my sister to tell her about my struggling marriage. I also have to tell you that I adore my daughter. There is no other woman I hold up as someone I could look up to. There are so many reasons she is my hero. But her inability to get along with me, to not accuse me of so many wrongs, even though she is right, is not one of them.

I believe I am too sensitive. I would pitter-pat around a delicate topic, over launching it at a person. I would use kinder words. I would search their faces to see if they get what I'm talking about. But now I am almost fifty five fucking years old. Fifty five! All my years to attract another man are behind me. All my sexy youth frittered away. I am now me. Me. I don't even yet know what that means.

My husband asked me what is wrong. I told him I don't want to discuss it with him, and later broached the topic broadly. And by broadly, I said it is the mother daughter dynamic that is so common, as he can look at his own family and understand, where a daughter will feel free to tell the mother what she did so wrong, only in his family, it is a reversed dynamic, also a common occurrence in some families.

NOW, I know it is not all me that is wrong in this marriage. Finally! (even though I already knew that, my pathetic self needed to hear it)

I said in the car on the way to drop him off at work that it is the mother daughter dynamic. Then I asked him to look into what time, what day, he is taking his trip to Dubai. My goodness, he is not looking forward to that. Now I know it is stress that has taken his affection away from me. And other things that  do relate to me, but mostly stress. Oh, hell no, we are definitely going to change the way we deal with THAT in the future!

My taking on all that is wrong in this marriage, was due to confusion on my part, and a lack of discussion in depth on his. He claims to discuss thoroughly his problems, but it is not so. Sometimes, honesty needs time to bloom, and take shape. It was always a seed in the soil of our conversations, but becomes a known once it sprouts and begins to show what it is. What color it is intended to be, and what the fragrance is. Now, I know, and now, I can work.

So, I've become a better organizer in the house. I've gotten rid of knick-knacks that were only boxed up, memories from a past that I need to let go of.

As to my wonderful daughter, well, I've asked her not to speak to me for one week, so that I could catch my breath from the kick in the gut she is so good at delivering. We'll be fine. She has vented, I've gone after the source of her anger, (*her brother) and I've let him have the new part of mine.

My husband even put his arms out to embrace me of his own accord this morning. That was a new development. So, honesty, yes it works. It is the best policy. But it is like getting slapped in the face with a sausage. It is messy, ugly, and it hurts. And more often than not, it is humbling, and that sits right next to humiliating. I think they stumble over each other, often. It just takes time to take it all in. Of course, I am not going to say she is always right, but her insights are pretty sharp, and a good many times she is right.

Even so, even though I would like to have the words softer, the violins playing in the background when she is ready to launch at me, my face fuzzy in the right light...reality, baby. I've become very appreciative of her correctness. I lit a fire under her brother, I sat back and looked at the scenery going by on the way to drop Chuck off at work, I did introspective thinking. I can't change what I did, but what I did, give my son $400 of my personal money, (*it sucks being less than the 1%, when my personal money is $500 I had in a checking account. How long it will take to rebuild to the $500, well, that will be years.*) helped him to stay afloat when his life was falling apart. Should I have allowed him to fall? Maybe. But I am his mother, and I don't have it in me to watch someone suffer, especially since I brought him into the world. I gave him money, he is doing better, he is sober, and I will not be doing that again. I won't have to.

Neither will I give my daughter any more money, because they need it, or my youngest son, because he needs it. I don't have to, they are doing well. It must be middle child syndrome. He'll get his act together, and in the meantime, I am secure in the knowledge that he is. She is. They are, doing better. At least well enough to tell me I am so wrong to help out the other one, and I guess that is ok.

Family does that. They stand up for one another, and tear each other down, support each other, and call each other on the carpet. I love my family, even though perfection is not something I'm familiar with. Even perfectionists continue to struggle with their view of that. But honesty, and the pain it brings, clears the air of secrets and pretenses. But that sausage leaves a greasy stain, and it takes scrubbing to get it off. I'll be hearing from my son next, as he deals with my anger. Right or wrong, it will get muddled through. Such is life in a family that loves so deeply.

The Noble Horse

I had a dream as a kid, that I could be a horse, and then as an adult,  I would own one. Well, I tried really hard to be a horse, and thank God I did not become one. I did own several with my ex husband, though. So that dream was accomplished in spades.

Like the dolphin, horses encapsulate a noble, and beautiful image. Bella, the horse pictured above, could have been a mythological unicorn, or a pegasus, she looks so poised. She was a percheron, a  draft horse, that was bred and raised to be a hard working, and gentle horse.

There are not many stories, or historical facts in human history that do not involve the use of a horse, in one form or another. From Native Americans, who gained a knowledge of horses that embedded them firmly into their tribal memory. To the fields of war in WWI, war horses, whose proud visage, looked with the rider toward the end, whatever that would be, they were for the same thundering end, feeling the same pulses of excitement, and the same rush of fear. More than one can say, the horse did what he did, because he relied upon the rider to be strong.

Around some 900,000 horses went to war in WWI, from the US. Only a handful returned. See the film "War Horse", which I have not, if you want to see the emotional bond through all the horror, this horse went through. Because they trust, they love, they are loyal.

I've seen this in person. I trained a horse to ride, with the gentle method of repetition, rubbing, touching,  knowing I would ask of my horse, this animal whose hide is so sensitive that it can feel a fly land on it's butt, or a mosquito on its back, to carry me around, with all kinds of equipment, and for him to do it willingly. I would ask him to open his mouth for a large piece of metal, that I would place between his teeth, and over his tongue, that would put pressure on his gums, and he would know which way I wanted to go. I would strap a saddle over his sensitive back, often rubbing his sensitive withers, run straps around his belly, and sometimes under his tail. I would cinch it tight, walk him around so he would breathe, then cinch it tighter, because he held his breath. And he took it! He did everything.

Then, to add insult to injury, I would step into and out of the stirrup, that first day of asking him to carry my weight. Up, down, up, down, over and over again, until it was nothing to him. The miracle of all of this, is that this horse, was my very first colt. My very first training a horse to ride. The miracle is, this horse, never, never, bucked anyone off of his back. To this day, he is a great horse under saddle. He will do anything you want, you have to tell him what you want. That is how good this training was. I didn't come up with it, but I read a book, I watched videos, and I took the time to gain his trust.

I'm not talking about Bella, above, but her pasture mate. I got Ishi when he was six months old. When a woman who was either a breeder came onto the property, I fell in love with this little guy. I began to work with him immediately, and touch him. I didn't do much else until he was two and a half. Then we began to just lead him. I didn't do too much with him but that.

Ishi had the personality of a teenage boy. He was a little pushy on the ground, but under saddle he will do anything for you. Which is my point. One day, my then husband took him up the trails on the mountain across the street, in Issaquah, WA, from where we boarded our horses. Ray was with someone else, and apparently wasn't paying much attention to the trail, but Ishi almost kept going straight, when the trail turned right. Our belief of that moment, was not that Ishi was stupid, but that he trusted us to know what was good for him. He trusted us enough to believe in our ability to decide where was good to go, trail or not. I loved that horse, and still do. He was the coolest horse. He still lives with the ex, happy and well cared for.

Which brings me to the present. There is a woman, who could be a character in a Stephen King novel. In fact, I will picture her next time one comes up that resembles her. Representative of Wyoming, Sue Wallis, is a cruel, heartless woman when it comes to animals. It is said she does not own horses, but she really wants to kill them. She wants to open a horse slaughterhouse in the US, and is doing everything she can to make it happen.

Being a representative, Republican, by the by, she knows all the ins and outs of the way legislating works, all the secret deal making, all the ways to slip out and in legislation to get what she wants. When this slimy woman talks about this issue, she refers to horses as livestock. It never meant anything before to refer to horses that way, but it does now. By referring to horses as livestock, she distances them from us as pets, and companion animals.

More than 80% of Americans polled do not want horse slaughterhouses for our horses. More than 80%! This woman has the audacity to continue, using phrasing like "humane slaughter" for horses that are starving, and mistreated. Oh, this slaughter house will process the horse meat for human consumption over seas, where it can fetch (currently) $20.00 per pound! I am certain that no starving horse will go through this processing plant.

We need to sign this petition- <div id="change_BottomBar"><span id="change_Powered"><a href="http://www.change.org/" target="_blank">Change.org</a></span><a>|</a><span id="change_Start"><a href='http://www.change.org/start-a-petition'>Make Your Own Petition</a></span></div>
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  Please copy and paste this into your address bar,

and contact your congressmen, senators, governors, to let them know this is unacceptable.  It is not a jobs creator that anyone but Hispanic workers will be employed at, it will bring down the economic status of an area, we will see more stolen horses, more equipment theft, our homes will lose value, and the rivers of blood will have no where to go, but into our local water supplies, or into holding ponds. The stench will be unbearable. 

Over 100,000 horses go through the horror that is listed above, every year since Slaughterhouse Sue began her quest to open United Equine, LLC. Bouvry of Canada is trying to put one in somewhere in the state of WA, Slaughterhouse Sue wanted Rockport, MO, and a guy named Ducquette is seeking approval for getting one put in Hermiston, OR. He is soliciting a group out of CA, an equipment rental group, to buy the acreage, which they have done, to tie up the land so Ducquette can get it operational. Ducquette's group is known as United Horsemen, LLC. Really? He must have tortured little animals as a child, for he has no concern for life, or morals. I am not sure of the group that wants to put one in New Mexico, but there is one. 

Horse meat is a delicacy in many foreign countries. That is the one and only reason to open a slaughter house, to feed China, Kazakhstan, Russia, France, Belgium, Japan...I am not sure where else, but there are more. As we are fed lies, they will be fed our horses. 

But horse meat is laden with drugs known to be carcinogenic to humans. Bute is oft used to alleviate joint pain in horses. Cyproheptadine (I think that was it) for Cushings, and a host of others. Why would you lode a livestock animal with drugs, if you intend to kill him? Because you didn't intend for him to go to slaughter. 

But our pets are not the only ones to suffer. They, with the BLM, are clearing our public lands of the horses we love, for money. 

The BLM has even gone so far as to kill the wild horses on private land, those that don't go to slaughter in Mexico, or Canada, and enough is enough. There are many enemies here. The cattle rancher who demands that the horse get off of land he could run his cattle or sheep. The BLM, who is only too willing to do their bidding for money, and the individuals who keep breeding horses, that feed into the whole horse over population conversation. This is a travesty, pure and simple, and one with thousands of screaming voices.

Please stand with me, DARCY AND MOM, EVERYONE...and sign the petition above. Time is of the essence, and the horses are suffering, from both greedy, heartless people, and from our inaction. This has to stop.

UPDATE: I've been told the link didn't work, so I went in and tried to copy and paste it from the site again. Please try again! Thank you.

A Story of Exhausting Behavior

Sometimes you wake up and question your worth. Everyone does it, I'm sure. Sometimes, you just can't be sure you aren't taking someone else's place here on this earth, and that person might have been the one to figure out world peace.

Me, all I've done is screw up everything I've landed on. No self pity, here, just the facts, ma'am. Well, three marriages, and this one on the skids already, only three years into it. Funny, now I realize that the length of each marriage has been a shorter and shorter stint, until I am fairly sure I'm not up to commit to another one, if this one's done, I'm done. Damn, but I love this guy.

I woke up one day, maybe in the womb, and said, I think I'll float through this life like a cliche, not becoming anything or anyone of note, I'll not be intelligent enough to get through one course of college level math, will suck at writing papers, and I think I'll call it good.

Everyone wants the big time; that fame, or brass ring, or the gold at the end of the rainbow. Or maybe they want to be known for being a champion for a cause. Me? It was animals, and by extension, people. Yeah, I was gonna stop people from consuming too much meat, which would stop farmers from killing more animals, which would cause the corn that would have been fed to the animals, to be shipped to the Sudan, feeding those starving little kids. Yeah. That was me.

But I'm one of those people who jumps into the river head first, only to break my neck because it is only three feet deep. So, how do you be a part of a movement? You mingle with people at conferences? Get their email addresses, go to their house to plan the next shelter protest? Pass out flyers? Or just shoot the breeze because they are just as gung ho as you are, but just as lost?

I'm one of those persons who believed I was a leader of rebels. But I'm not. I need direction, and I'll weigh it against my to-do list, and see what comes of it. I've been a rebel all my life. From the first time I got drunk and jeered at my father, who whipped me for being drunk, which infuriated him. He whipped me again, and like the cliches I've read so many of since the eighth grade, I said, "is that all you've got?" He had been whipping me with his belt, which didn't carry the same impact as other tools of this particular punishment. He liked the end of fishing poles, they whipped about nicely, made that cool whirring sound as they cut the air, before they cut my flesh. But this night, all he had was what was holding up his pants. Three times, each time harder than the last. I bit my lip trying not to cry. I scarred my lip, I think, trying to hold it in. "Is that good enough for ya?" he yelled. The last bit of sass I laid on him was, "yes, that will do." He yelled some more, fumed some more, but I was upstairs, across the landing and in my room by this time.

Seems one of the cops at the combined Fire and Police station saw me and my sister staggering home, after finding the case of beer Kelly ditched near my house by the bridge, ditched because the cops were watching him, following as they do a souped up car driven by a teenager with five other kids in it with him. That mix just causes trouble, ignites it, or draws it.

They knew my father well, a good ol' boy fireman, good at his job, and quick with a great story and a joke. He could charm the slither out of a snake. Good looking, quick to help anyone, great with motorcycles. Won us from my mother, who lost the custody battle. He made sure to groom us for many things, but the most work he put into us was to disparage my mother. Which created rebellion. Which made me.

Since I was one of the teenage kids in the car the previous night, Dad was at work, I talked my sister into finding the beer with me, breaking the necks off on rocks and drinking it down. Yeah, I know, pretty foolish, huh? I did cut my lip on one jagged neck, but you learn quick to just open your mouth and pour.

I am not a lush, but I was trying to be then. I liked the taste of beer, just not too much of it. All the adults drank the stuff at all the dirt bike rally's, rides and camp outs. Man, it was fun to ride into the hills, just go, for miles, and come back when your gas was low. We three had bikes, my brother, sister, and me. We'd go camping at the coal piles, mountains of slag that slow burned for all the years we went. I'm sure it is still burning, no one tries to put it out, or anything. But I heard they fenced it off from the general public.

After we drank most all of the 10 or so unbroken beers between us, we staggered along the road, and across the field, to home. But we were seen. It wasn't long before Dad's truck was stirring up the dirt driveway and sliding to a stop at the house. It took no time before my little sister was crying even before she was hit. She was sensitive like that. But it was my fault. And it was just part and parcel of the crap I did for attention. I didn't know it was for attention then, but all the books say it was, and I suppose they are right.

I tried to be loved from the git go, I'm sure, like everyone else. But I took all the examples, the movies, the men in my house, the women around me, my lecherous grabby-feely grandad, to heart, but most especially the porn my Dad made available for me to read, as the Oldest Child, and Special, and learned the value of a woman. Now, you just try and not live the lessons you were raised with as a child. Go on, try. Sure, you might beat the lessons at first, but not always. Because you don't recognize them always.

I say this, because my third marriage is struggling. My. Third. Marriage. Dear God, three marriages! I only ever wanted to be attached once, because that is how it is done. Or, was done. In the old days, that is. Still, it sucks to be made to recognize how wrong you are as a person, how many mistakes you make daily.

I am a product of my upbringing. Now, mind you, I dearly love my mother. She made more mistakes than anyone, but she too is a product of her upbringing. As a woman child, she suffered at the hand of her father. She suffered mightily. She came to mother hood a very damaged young woman. She was sixteen when she gave birth to me. My dad was 17, and drunk. But there I was the baby of two kids, who would go on to have three of us.

Is it her fault? Is it my dads? The answer is yes, and no. Yes, he formed my rebellious nature, where I would rebel at any request, any assignment, any good thing that came into my life. Yes, because he destroyed my childhood, like a terrible nightmare, taking my innocence and shaking my security for years and years later. I'm still dealing with that, with how I am to be with a man, what a man wants from me. My mother sabotaged every good relationship that came her way, because she didn't know who else to be with a man. I didn't think I took that one in, but apparently, that was the main thing I learned, was that to be safe, sabotage. If you're secure, sabotage. Oh, my goodness, thirsty? Forget water, have a drink! Sabotage. Clean your house? Sabotage, and this last one is the most insidious.

Why that would be such a problem, I don't know. But it is. I've not cleaned the house in all three of my marriages. I've sabotaged myself, my home, by not cleaning it for far too long. But suddenly, after thinking that my current husband doesn't love me, I realized that he does. But the state of the house is torturing him. I am not a hoarder, nothing that bad, but there is disarray everywhere. Until now.

You know that feeling of waking up while you're talking to someone? The conversation is suddenly in focus, the room richer colored, and your purpose made clear. It was at this moment in our conversation, the moment when his frustration led him to tell me he disliked me, that I knew how to clean my house. How does this happen? From the point of not seeing what is in front of me, to finding places for every bit of stuff, and letting go of everything else? I am an adult, and just learning this? How sad for me; how ignorant and sad. Man, I've a lot of apologizing to do.

I don't care; I don't care where the awareness came from, or that it might be just a bit too late. I know how to fix it and what to do.  The only drawback to this plan is will he give me just one more chance? I sincerely hope so. I tell you, in my life, I've never loved someone so much, or felt so loved, as by him. Until his frustration boxed him up, and crumpled him. Hmmm. I've seen this before.

In his frustration, that nasty bit of unfiltered emotion, and truth, I knew all the damage I had done over the years. Depression will do that. I was depressed most of my life. Though that answers most of the issue, it doesn't fix the current situation. That is my next big prayer, and hope. That we are not too late.

It doesn't help that I pestered him to apologize for his part in the argument that strained the relationship between him and our neighbor. Nor that the neighbor didn't own his part in it, just said that he appreciated it. It didn't help that he came away from it not feeling like the bigger person, but that he had been humiliated. All of this, then the animal rights conference, on top of the No Kill Conference that he really wanted to go to, drove to DC an hour and a half away, couldn't find parking, and came home. With another defeat, and with our stumbling to understand each other, it seems typical of us, to him. Depression doesn't cover what he is going through today.

But hey, I cleaned the house. After the horse left this barn, I cleaned it. I've always had great timing.  

Who, Why?

I'm at it again. I'm trying not to believe I am less than I have the potential to be. I am an artist. I am a writer. I write fine and good poetry; easily understood, easily relatable poetry. So, what's the problem?

Let me see...I am in love, head over heels. But I have not accomplished a goal for me, by me, of me, in my whole life. But the expectations of the "other" in my life, I am expected to accomplish, as we become a "team". My man, love, heart, has placed upon me a set of expectations that I set out to do. Each one of his expectations I took as my own. But they are not mine. They are not what I want in my life, but they are his desires, and dreams. I have tendencies, and I must not allow these tendencies to continue, at risk of my own health, if not my life.

I was born to children having children. I was created by a man who was vengeful, and poisonous, who took my innocence. I believe he did this out of revenge, to get at my mother, because she left him, she defied his will, she made her own life, and she was successful at it. Since she was molested by her father, it would be a most painful thing to her, so he did it to me, and my sister. Of course I cannot prove it, and there is no reason to, as it was so many years ago. I say this not to cast aspersions on my father. It is what it is. Life goes on, if it can. But damn, it sure shapes the way you are to anyone you come across. And baby, I am one damaged individual.

I wanted my father to be proud of me. I wanted him to love me, and smile at me, for doing something. Being someone he could be proud of. The second and maybe the last time I put stock in this dynamic, was when I wanted to be a stewardess, the terminology of the day. "I'll believe it when I see it, " he said.

My thoughts on this now are, really? You would say this to a child who only wanted your approval? The first man in my life, and he crushed me. I didn't know at that time that this was not the first time. The first time was the abuse.

So, I decided there was nothing I could do. I already knew what a woman was to a man, didn't I? Wasn't it what he could get sexually? Of course it was. For years I was allowed to read the manuals, expected to read the manuals, the porn novels, the pornographic art, that he gave to me, telling the others that I was old enough. Special. I don't know what he told my sister when he groomed her, but man, what a prick.

I say all of this to preface the now of my life. My expectations, my desires. I thought that they were simple, and easily attained. I believed that all I wanted in this life was to be loved by a man, and that would be that. But it was never so, no more now than with the first one, but now the difference is, I recognize it. I see that my needs are not trivial, nor are my goals, and desires, any less important than his. They parallel each other, really. I want cruelty to animals to end. I want to set up no kill shelters where I can. I want to teach people the benefits of a vegan diet, not only for themselves, but the benefits for the planet. I want all of this, but I want it my way, through my own direction.

No, I don't know exactly what that direction is. I'm beginning to think it is being by myself, riding my bicycle some 2500 miles from Boyce, VA, to Puyallup, WA, where my family is. I'm beginning to think that no matter how long this takes, I can do it. I'm beginning to think that I must learn how to change a bicycle tire, how to fix a flat with a patch kit, how to gain stamina, and ultimately, I'm beginning to think that I need to ride at least 80 to 100 miles per day to do my goal.

My. Goal. I can't even sleep on the floor with the dogs. I guess I have to start training myself to do that, too. I haven't told my husband my plan. I haven't even hinted at it. For all he knows, my only goal is to ride a bike from Brunswick, MD to Pittsburgh, PA, the end of the Chesapeake Ohio Canal Tow Path (National Park) and Great Allegheny Passage.

But as I look at the C O Canal and GAP, I see that this would be almost 400 miles. That it would be near enough to I-90, which is a straight across the top highway that goes all the way to Seattle. The more I look, the more it puts me close.

My marriage is on the rocks. We have separate rooms, though he still says he loves me. What he doesn't understand is that by the time I train myself out of needing to be loved, I may have restrictions of my own that don't coincide with his needs. To say you love someone, then don't touch them, don't allow for hugs, hand holding, you have changed that love to a friendship. That problem, which he created, becomes my pain. My pain is a problem for me of awareness of my own internal issues, my own personal demons.

What he has to know is that the closer I get to conquering my own demons, the further away from the woman I was to him, the closer I am to being the woman I always wanted to be. I have a feeling that the demands I put on him will have to be addressed by him, or it will create its own set of problems.

The closer I get to my dream of independence, the further away I am from the horrors of my childhood.  I become a whole new 'who' with a brand new 'why'. Life will not be sweeter than that, than losing the shackles of loss, and rape. No, life will not be sweeter.

The War On Life

I've been warned. I am a downer. I am so engaged in my love of animals that I've forgotten who my audience is. I'm sorry, Darcy, you are quite right. But I've a fight now against the slaughter of horses. I think all gentle people will be against that. Don't you? This is, as you know, really, really one I can get behind, and I hope you do.

It doesn't matter if you love animals, or if you don't. The way they are being treated under the guise of "food" or for "humane" purposes, slaughtering animals the way we, and I way "we" loosely, do is one of the most accepted forms of animal cruelty there is.

All of the photos PETA, Mercy For Animals, Compassion Over Killing, United Poultry Concerns, Farm Animal Rights Movement, Gentle Giants, or a hundred other movements post about any animal that is being abominably treated by humans, are horrific. What they are meant to do is to spur everyone who sees them into getting out of their comfort zones, and doing something to alleviate the pain of another living being.

Who are we to say what is cruel or what is humane? If an animal is cognizant of what is happening, is in abject terror, is suffering unspeakable pain, and is absolutely suffering prior to death, that is cruel. The same goes for an animal that is used for its skin. If you wear fur, you are a partaker in its suffering.

The point of this is to change that. There is a bill in the House, still sitting there, that allows horse slaughter houses to be reintroduced into the US. Through an organization called Gentle Giants, a draft horse rescue, I read about this, where the words, "humane slaughter" are being used to make sense of the over population of horses, through backyard breeders, the horse racing industry, and hoarders, who either cannot afford to keep the horses any more, or they don't make money any more, or the good intention was over run by a psychological need to be the caretaker of too many animals, the horse slaughter houses are as inhumane as it gets.

I won't go into detail, but it does not 'down' the horse into instant death, as we would like to or have been led to believe. Often the bolt gun is ineffectual, and only agonizingly injures the still standing horse, or you have the infamous "meat men" of Mexico, who mercilessly stab the horse until they are in pain, disabled, and down, but not out, and then the slaughter begins.

We are supposedly an evolving species. I would beg you to write your congressman, your senators, to ban horse slaughter in this country, ban the transport of horses to Canada or Mexico, for slaughter, and stop the trade in horse meat that France, Belgium, and Japan, eat. But even there, in Europe, there is the struggle to stop the slaughter of horses.

This is a breeding problem. This slaughter is on horses you could have owned, could have loved, and ridden, and taught your kids to ride on. This is on horses that could have loved you.

This bill, HR2112 was quietly passed in November of this year, that takes out a provision that bans government funding for USDA inspections on horse meat slated for export. Please contact your government official and write them a respectful letter stating why you are against horse slaughter in the US.http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/, find your representative, all of them, and write them a letter.  Gentle Giants (http://www.gentlegiantsdrafthorserescue.com/horseslaughter.html)  is the website where you can find a template letter you can personalize to send to your representative and help all of us stop this from going through when they come back in session. It might take a while, but by then, and by God, maybe there will be an overwhelming amount of letters to stop it, that they cannot ignore. By God, then maybe we will win one, for the horses. I will thank you all. Darcy...and Mom! I guess that is you, all. All you.

By the by, I've not put pictures of horses in this blog post, because you expect it. Or maybe, because I cannot find the great one of my draft horse, Bella to put up. Either way, sometimes, the peace of a landscape can do more to engender a sense of beauty and calm, than the picture of the topic, which is in so much need of our help.