I woke up this morning simply unmotivated and lethargic, not due to anything physical. Slept a wonderful eight hours. It is a sublimely beautiful day.

And yet.

Here I am, sipping a cup of tea wondering why I feel so…defeated.

I crave a day alone. As an introvert (who can subsist for days without human contact), married to an extrovert desperate for social interaction, this quarantine has been rough.

There are things I can do to help. Writing always focuses my mind and takes me away from my problems. Except I feel stifled. When I sit down to the keyboard all the wonderful words float away. I could sit on a horse, something that always brings me joy. And then I don’t.

I have to force myself to do these things.

And I know I am not the only one. I am in tons of social groups on social media for writers and creative types and there are a good section of the population frozen in creative purgatory.

This morning, I perused the spines of my well-loved collection of fantasy books- the ones that survived burst pipes without smelling of mildew and rot. And something stirred.

Robert Holdstock’s Lavondyss. It is the second of a series. Mythago Wood being the first. It’s the story of Tallis, a young girl lost in a magical wood. But within that, Holdstock plays with the reason for the creation of the mythical atmosphere that ensnares Talis. Where did it come from?

He talks about the collective mythago- a subconscious energy that brings myths into creation and gives them life. The more people retell and imagine stories, the energy of the collective subconscious, the innate energy we give off, a huge collective imagination, that energy gives them power and a life of their own.

And it makes me wonder if maybe, I am caught up in the collective subconscious, the mythago, of current events.

We are all wearied and concerned with the pandemic. Many of us are beginning to take chances because of isolation fatigue.

My husband lived through a Civil War (Lebanon). He and his mother tell the stories of their experiences, how they began to take risks simply to have some semblance of normalcy, to savor the tiniest illusion that things were okay. She claims the pandemic isolation is worse.

And then there are politics, riots, racism, spotted lantern flies, murder hornets, police brutality, the virus is still out there, it’s all overwhelming.

If our collective unconscious were an image, I conjure up visions of a tempest, a miasma of ideals and conflict, sadness and uncertainty, rage holding tight to hope. It is grief. For our democracy, for our friends who are subjugated to discrimination, for our health and freedoms that we took for granted. It is fear. That all we have done and wish to do is not making enough of a difference. It is guilt. For all that we feel we could do.

Like with my life these days, I am not sure where I am headed with this. But I do think we, as humans, like to think of ourselves as individuals. And we are, but we are also parts and pieces of a complex whole. And that majority is not restful.

The Ryhope Wood in Holdstock’s novels is not a place of peace and trees. It is full of all the terrors and monsters we can imagine. It is a place where we interact with all the beauty and ugliness humans embody.

Our world is a place of wonder and horror. I can choose to focus on the beauty. The perfect day, a breeze blowing, my horses grazing, my dogs happy and relaxed around me. But I can’t ignore the ugly truths that hover outside my little bubble.

I can only add my bit of subconscious, my energy and thoughts to the storm, add my hope and faith in humanity, and riding it out in the hope of a better world.

In the interest of saving my friends and family from the daily onslaught of my various musings, I decided to try my hand at blogging again. I also hope that this site will be a platform for my future writing endeavors–maybe some samples or chapter teases, who knows?

So here we go.

Hang on. It might be a bumpy ride.

Caught Between the Sun and Moon

The cold earth would not remember him. That was left to me.

Alone, I sat on his grave; bewilderment and anger filtered through packed soil. A dirt fractured voice, I heard, betrayed by flesh and desire. His one true love lay between us solid and silent, encased in steel and satin. They were forever. He would never abandon her, though she died without him. Their decades together stretched through molecules of silica, clay, and carbon. I was always outside—a part, but not really. I was simply an idyll, an occasional intrusion, to be cherished or ignored, when what I wanted was to be the rift in the continent of their love.

It started before I could remember. It always was: my world between his Sun and her Moon. I became a tide. High and low, pulled and released between orbits.

When I was with the Moon, she was cold and remote. Phases were her moods. She was full when we went to the movies. She held my hand as I leapt from bench to bench in the park while we waited for the Sun. After I pushed her away to cross the gaps unaided, she nursed my sprained wrist.
The night was her time. She sang: “La-le-lu nur der Mann im Mond schaut zu, wenn die kleinen Babies schlafen, drum schlaf auch zu.” She sang in a language she swore she did not speak, if you asked in daytime. As I dreamt, alone in her twin bed, she disappeared. The days were waning.

The dark Moon wandered the house. She searched. Things went missing, photographs and money put in drawers and beneath cushions. She forgot where she was and who we were. Over and over, she would sit with me and tell me of her childhood: of riding next to her father in a carriage on a crisp winter day, of teeth, lost when she was fourteen. Her dentures smiled from a jar each night.

He was the day. Hot and commanding, though his love was winter-cold. I could not touch his adoration of the Moon. I became a release from his vigilance. The Sun could be kind. He bought me gifts, listened to my stories, my loud music. He drove me places. I was special. There was something within me that was needed. He ignored the others. But, his need and anger scalded.

In my absence, they had each other. Only each other. The routine of their days diminished as they cycled through ages. Without me, they ate breakfast at the small table. He had his bran, she sometimes gummed toast. They wandered through the remaining hours with crossword puzzles and television. At night he slept while she wandered. He cared for her, nurtured her, made sure the doors were locked before dark. The Moon was locked inside at night.

I learned to stay away. I grew old enough to shun her chill and deny his heat. I imagined a life far from their gravity, a place where I could command my own Sun and become a new Moon. There was a day when I revealed my wounds, laid bare the invisible puckers of scar and charred flesh. Flaunting my damage, I longed for escape. It was a dream. Once caught within their orbit, I was always drawn back.

Later, I visited when forced, gibbous with adolescent righteousness, pretending to be a tepid stranger, unscarred and whole. Never again, would I linger on the edge of breakfast at the small table. I was too big for the Moon to rock to sleep. I freely spoke the language she forgot. The Sun no longer listened to my stories or brought me gifts. I could drive myself.

Still, he burned. Occasionally, across the crowded dining table, I met his eye. Sometimes I was defiance, he was the question. Or vice versa. He sat at the head, I at the foot. The Moon sat between, an arrangement as natural as rain.

Gradually, the Moon forgot the day. A night-time world embraced her as she drifted through the dark. The Sun learned to cook. He coaxed her to eat. When she wandered, he watched. When she finally slept, he retired to his room. She asked for nothing, locked in her own nocturnal orbit. He gave her what she needed.

The day they said the Sun was fading, I laughed. His defective heart sputtered. The others were angered and disgusted; they left me alone with my guilt. No matter how scarred, I was required to care. I knew he would shine once more. He would fight against his traitorous heart for each beat, if only, to be able to lock the doors before dark. For his Moon, who needed him.

In his absence, the Moon escaped; half-dressed, she roamed, lost in the driveway. I sat with her through the night, listened to her speak of carriages and snow, spoke to her in the language she forgot. I tucked her into the small bed as the Sunless day dawned. She slept while I locked the doors.

When the Sun left forever, the Moon waned and followed. He was buried first and deeper. In death, she guarded him, locked between him and the sky.

My wounds severed me from their world. As I sat on the unforgiving ground, I offered only tears to the earth that now kept them, leaving my scars to rot beneath the dirt.

In a room inside a government building in Waterbury, CT, members of my family and I once again faced the man responsible for the deaths of my mother and aunt. We sat on a side of the room, perpendicular to the long table where the three members of the parole board sat. At the front of the room a large flat-screen TV held the image of the inmate. We could see him, but he could only hear us.

I know emotions were high for my sister, my niece, and my brother-in-law. For myself, I held on to the numbness that had steadily grown inside me since that awful morning of early-morning knocking at my door. I had wanted to come. I felt it was important. But I no longer knew why. Nothing said or done on this day would change anything. Though I often joke about them- my tough, sarcastic, driven mother and my crazy, hoarder of an aunt- there remains a deep hole full of “what-ifs” and longing that can never be healed.

I should still be angry. But I am not. I am numb.

I watched the screen and waited, witholding my judgement, holding on to the only scant scrap of hope I could imagine from this scenario. Was he truly sorry? Had prison changed this young man for the better? Can you look at an image on a television screen, listen to a voice, see into the soul of another human being and ome away with the assurance that all this loss was not for nought? No, but that was the fantasy I held to. I wanted a crystal ball.

It had been five years and I noted the changes.

He sat patiently, his hands folded against the front of his beige jumpsuit. His dark hair was cropped close, his goatee well-trimmed; it was easy to tell he had added muscle to his tall frame. He had aged. I waited to see if he had matured.

His daughter was now seven.

The parole chairwoman called the session to order. She listed all the things he’d done while in prison: he’d enrolled in drug and alcohol counseling, taken college courses. On paper, he was on the road to rehabilitation. He had jobs lined up for after release and he planned to live with his parents.

He spoke about what he’d done and what he’d learned. The board asked questions. He answered them with a quiet, humble voice.

In turn, my sister read a statement she had prepared, citing all the damage done to our family, letting him know of our continued pain, but also of our hope that he could find his way to a better life, learn to be a better father, and a productive, not destructive member of society.

My niece read an essay she had composed shortly after the Incident and followed it up with how that resonated now. She articulated her sadness, her anger, and her belief that his sentence was too lenient, that an early release would diminish the fact that he had killed two innocent women.

He was permitted to speak again. He wiped a tear as he expressed his sorrow, his guilt, and how he had a “life-sentence” knowing he had caused the deaths of our mother and aunt. The chairwoman called for a decision and we filed out of the room while the panel deliberated.

In our waiting area, we deliberated, too. Did we believe him? Could we dare?

It came down to one, simple thing. The words of remose, his apology to us, the family, those words should have been the first words out of his mouth as the hearing began, uttered because he believed them, not because he suddenly realized we were there and watching.

We were called back in and the verdict was read: parole denied, probation lengthened from three to five years. The board had not believed him, either.

And here I am, safe in my home, figuratively surrounded by friends and family, thinking about the advice I gave my niece before we went in to the hearing. Advice I learned after a different lesson. It has served me well. Like me, she thirsted for revenge, she wanted him to pay and pay for his crimes and the hurt she still feels; she was afraid they would let him go.(Though her words were what kept him in prison.) “It doesn’t really matter.” I told her. “In the end, we all have to live with what he did. And the only person you can control is yourself. You need to live your life. It will never intersect his again, whatever the outcome of today, unless you let your anger at him destroy you. Don’t give him that power over you.”

Am I following my own advice? I try. I am still numb. I am still conflicted. I wanted to believe him, wanted to see the positive, have faith in the changes, faith in his love for his daughter. I know I am naive. My anger and sorrow will return. I will again want him punished and will feel justified in denying him early freedom. Either way, I will continue with living my own life the best way I can. What he does and who he becomes is irrelevant.

But, deep inside, I hang on to the hope that it will sink in, that he will learn to feel remorse, that he will rehabilitate himself…that some shred of good will come out of this tragedy.

It’s a new year and I felt it was the perfect time for a new start. So what is my intention with this revised platform? Well, I have to admit, after lots of soul-searching, self-depreciating thought, where I questioned my purpose, my desire to write, and fought with my inner narcissist, I decided to let go a little. What does this mean? Probably nothing. But instead of detailing the minutae of my day or my rides or my writing progress, I thought I would share the things that chase that fading dark cloud farther away or post some creative writing instead of talking about the difficulties I encounter. Of course, the road to Hell… well, you know. So what do you say? Let’s give it another go.

After much thought and consideration, I have finally concluded that the recent issue between Tucker and I is entirely his fault.

Was it only scant months ago, when the sun was warm and the days were long, that I laughingly mentioned my “racehorse’s” lack of motivation? I made fun of the fact that a Morgan mare outwalked him? Yes, yes, that was true.

Well, welcome to the change of season.

I must add that Tucker has been great (after a little convincing to get on the trailer) when I have shipped him over to my friend Sheryl’s for lessons. Everything I have asked of him, he has done willingly, with me flopping around and trying to find my balance. (For some reason-age, perhaps?-my ankles don’t flex and absorb the motion, forcing me to brace over fences. Added to my tendency to snap back too quickly on the downside right onto Tucker’s sensitive back.)

I really felt like I was getting somewhere.

So as a reward, I figured a few trail rides were in order. The first one started out fine. The late afternoon light was beautiful. Unseasonally warm, it was the quintessential autumn day. We meandered through the harvested cornfields, fallen leaves crunched under hooves, and those trees that had not shed their summer finery rustled in the slight breeze.

It was one of those rides that reignites my deep love for horses. Until we headed for home…

Suddenly, I was riding a plunging idiot. He bounced, he yanked, and cantered in place. I tried to bend him, turn him around, play with the reins, talk to him, remind myself to keep breathing, all of the things I have been told to do with a naughty horse. Except kick. I couldn’t bring myself to boot him forward. When I lightened my contact, Tucker took the bit and ran. All of those times I could not get him to gallop, he was saving them for now. I pulled him up into another round of bouncing and yanking. I turned around and sent him away from home. It worked until I turned for home again. And time was not on my side.

As it got darker and his bounces gained altitude, I made the decision to walk the rest of the way. Once I dismounted, Tucker quieted. At least I got my exercise.

Fast forward to the next day. I was on a mission. We left earlier and I chose a route that offered a plethora of options. Same thing. Nice ride out. Turn for home and off to the rodeo!

I stayed with him longer, chose alternate routes to confuse him, but he knew which way meant home. And again, I was running out of daylight. And guts. There is something about being on a plunging beast alone in the woods to make you remember you are not immortal. There is the everpresent possiblity of bodily harm-especially on a rock-strewn, windy, undulating trail.

I gave it a good fight, battling between the leaping and galloping sideways, but in the end, I dismounted and did the long walk of shame back to the barn.

I have since overanalyzed what happened, what I could have done differently, and why my placid pony has become a fire-breathing demon. It all boils down to less turnout, more food(too much high-test), and, most of all, a severe need for some serious damage control. We’re going to stay in the ring, reduce his grain intake and increase his turnout (hello, darkness my old friend).

At least now I know he has it in him- and maybe he just wanted me to eat my “non-racehorsey” words.

Fifteen minutes. That is the extent of my “spare” time this morning. I’ve been busy. And I have written some blog posts, but…I haven’t posted them.
They are horrible.

I don’t like them. Not at all. I was trying to be funny and fell flat on my literary face.
A little bumped and bruised in the ego department. I’ll get over it.

Meanwhile, my other writing projects are swimming along like happy little fishes. I can’t have everything, I guess.

Now, I’m off to the barn to play with the ponies. (Well, lets be real. I’m going to clean up after them.)And then it is time to sit my butt in the chair and let the words flow. Hopefully, some of the more witty ones will find their way to this page.
I’m confident they will. Soon.

Her name is Velvet. She is 14.3hands(or 59 inches at the shoulder), a lovely deep brown- so deep it should be called black, with a long flowing mane and tail; she is an excellent example of her breed: the Morgan Horse.
You know…Justin Morgan had a horse. Yeah I drank too much of the Kool-Aid in Vermont, but they are incredible horses. Imagine, a breed of horse supposedly traced back to a single sire. Even the noble Thoroughbreds were developed from three stallions.

But I don’t want to give a lesson on equine history. Velvet lives in the here and now. And she lives in my barn.

Velvet is here for Mr. W. to ride, but since he works during the week(I didn’t put the quotations around work- I am evolving)my friend Anne offered to ride with me. She used to ride Cosmo the Good Doober, until his passing last year (yes, I still miss him.) Nevermind that Anne now has her own “pony” – a 15 hand large boned Haflinger who lives in our sheep pasture until her barn is built. Oh and the “pony” has never been ridden- another small detail that needs attending.

Anne is tall, Velvet is not. No matter, Velvet is a Morgan. They are mighty. It finally stopped raining. So Anne and I saddled up and headed out. I mounted first and Tucker bounced a bit in excited anticipation. Anne swung her leg over Velvet’s back…and away they went.

Let me make it clear that Velvet never did anything wrong; she never even broke out of a walk.

Tucker and I followed at a nice, brisk, forward walk. But Velvet was gone. She was fading into the distance, tail bouncing back and forth, head in the air, mane flowing in the breeze created by her speed. Tucker broke in to a jog to close the distance. Anne pulled back on the reins and Velvet slowed, turning around and chomping the bit in…anticipation? frustration?

Anne laughed and made like a train: “Choo choo. We’ve left the station!” And it’s an express. Tucker and I caught up and off we went. Tucker gave his speedwalking all to no avail.

Velvet faded into the distance and we trotted to keep up. It was not a ride for conversing much, unless you count shouting. Mainly stuff like, “We’re coming!” or “We’ll get there!” or “Trotting up on your right!”

We passed the Hunt Kennels, the hounds were bellowing at two ladies walking their two dogs.

“Are your horses used to dogs? They’re so pretty!”

I glanced at the cacophany of foxhounds, howling and barking. Um, yeah, they’re used to dogs. Though Velvet was doing her best to imitate a giraffe as she surveyed her domain…

The one loose dog, a Lab, bounced around the horses’ legs and wanted to follow, but he got tired an gave up once Velvet turned on the afterburners. Anne pulled her up a ways down the road and waited. Tucker sighed as I pressed my legs against his side and asked him to catch up.

Tucker pulled alongside and Velvet jumped slightly. I think she fell asleep while waiting. Either that or the large boulder on the side of the road was harboring a saber-toothed chipmunk, but Tucker usually finds those.

To get home, we had to climb a hill. Now, I use this particular stretch to condition Tucker- it’s a great butt workout for him. I thought maybe, just maybe, it would slow Velvet down a tad.

Choo-choo!

I called out the turns as Velvet flew up the incline- still walking- while Tucker cantered, yes, cantered to keep up. With her walk! Did I mention that Velvet is 14.3 hands and Tucker is 5 inches (mostly leg length) taller? And Tucker has been ridden at least five times a week (when the weather is good); he’s in fairly good shape. Velvet gets ridden…whenever someone has time.

We got closer to home and I was a little worried that Velvet, with her excessive speed and dense coat, would be overheating. Nah. She was a little sweaty, but her eyes were bright and eager. Anne and I could almost hear her saying “Well, that was a good warm-up, where to, now?” (Gotta love Morgans)

Tucker, however, was definitely looking forward to getting off that train.