AUGUST ESSAYS, MUSES IN THE PASTURE

I have three (plus one) muses in the pasture. Each of them brings a gift to the stage. Apache's is healing, power, focus and great presence. When he stands next to you, you feel the world move in space and time stands at attention, waiting. He grounds himself and any other who visits, with his barrel shaped body, stout legs and heart, always great heart.

When I am with Apache I hear bells, huge, slow moving, powerful hosanna bells that ring with a clear base, telling me that change is natural, inevitable and easily faced as a herd. He's got my six.

Lucky, Mr. Hollywood, my tall, leggy, sorrel foxtrotter. He's the one who captures the hearts of all the little girls who come to visit. His conformation is nearly perfect, coat like red silk and he has huge, soft brown eyes that see you quietly, honestly. He is shy, an introvert who prefers to stand behind me, waiting to be introduced. He calls to me every day when I walk out to the barn, even from the back of the pasture. His voice is a lovely deep baritone, operatic, rich, expressive. And when we ride he carries me carefully, gently. Maybe his name should have been Sir Galahad. 

And never least of the three, there is Stone, my sturdy little American Mustang. His color was perfect for the environment he came from, speckled in brown and dark blue grey on a light creamy grey coat with dark prussian blue legs and haunches. He's my horse of a different color, with his slightly roman nose and large soulful eyes. He has endured great loss with a stoic presence, watchful, ever vigilant. The day that he connected with me, at last releasing some of the fear and pain he carries, I cried. It was an overwhelming wave of sadness, making me catch my breath with his honesty. He needs a herd, a partner. He shows it with his willingness to move with me gracefully, in sync and elegant. He gives his heart fully without regret, inspires me with his wildness and natural integration with the world he lives in, always adjusting to his present.

And then there is my "plus one", Willow. She came to me an orphan, much too small to be without her Mom. I took her without looking back, knowing very little about donkeys. She needed a "mom", I stepped up. I've been there before, learned along the way to be a "parent". We nearly lost her. She came back because I sat on the ground, holding her and calling her back. I've got her six, her back.

She brings laughter and attitude. When I am not there she is boss lady of the pasture, stomping her tiny hooves, shaking her head, pinning ears that are as long as she is. She pushes her bubble of energy out in front, moving everyone who gets in her way. No predators in our pastures! She sets the rules and trains all of the dogs who've lived with us to always respect her space and her herd. And she's so small she walks under Lucky, stopping to rub her head on his belly. We call them the alpha and the princess.

I keep a stack of barn books that record our days together. The games we've played, the events and accomplishments, the rides and worries are all there. Ideas for paintings, drawings, stories and essays pop in to my head when I least expect it. They're in the books too. I'm scooping poop and painting the light on the wall, seeing what brush I would use to capture the feeling it gives me when I'm there, breathing in the mysterious world of horses. 

I'm sweeping the floor or grooming a broad back and I "see" my next story, hear the voices telling me their woeful tales. Or a color from the light dancing off their back stops me, holding me still with the magic of living with horses.

I am obsessed. And I am entranced, captured, held by an image they give to me. They are the music in my days. 

I am an artist, a horseman, a story teller and prisoner of their hearts.

Horses!