White Horse Pilgrim

The season to hibernate.....and reflect a little

Yesterday the forecast promised a cloudy morning followed by a rainy afternoon. The forecast did not lie, although it was a little economical about the morning, which was not only cloudy but damp with a persistent drizzle. I rode, of course, because I was on holiday. I did wear a good raincoat and plenty of clothes, but returned nonetheless cold. By evening I was feverish, hot and uncomfortable with shivery legs, and retired to bed early only to spend the night tossing and turning. The three cats, who wanted to join me on the bed, must have found my turning this way and that disconcerting.

This is a season to hibernate. It's a season to catch up on the missed sleep of three brighter seasons of activity. A time to recuperate. The moment to find a nice warm comfortable place to rest. 

So it did not help that I needed to be up early for a trimming appointment. Oh well, keeping a horse is about sacrifice and commitment. Besides, what sleep I got did me good: I felt better in the morning, if not great.

To my surprise I have been asked to consider transferring to another project. It would be a parallel transfer, and to the most prestigious transport project in Britain. (From the second most prestigious, to put this into context.) I could do that job. It would be interesting. The catch is that the office is further away, requiring at least a couple more hours commuting daily. That would be enough to practically wipe out summer evening riding.

To me that is a big issue. Hip surgery and a broken vertebra during 2011 were wake-up calls. So was the prognosis that further hip surgery may be needed within a decade. I'm nearly fifty. So perhaps Brena will be my last riding horse? She's young so maybe I have another ten to fifteen years of riding to look forward to? Possibly less given the state of my body. This seems like the wrong time to lengthen my working day simply for the glory of working on a more important project. I want to make the most of being in fair physical shape. For now I am agile enough to ride easily. Riding hurts only for the first few minutes and then my body settles in.

Meanwhile it's time to sleep as much as I need. Winter provided that during exile in Transylvania. By October, at the end of another long and busy tourist season, I was worn out phyically and emotionally. A quiet life and sleep became necessary antidotes. They still are for the symptoms persist in different proportion, and I hope that two weeks off work prove sufficient.

A story

The grey sky shed its load of snow, whitening the upper slopes where a solitary horse grazed.

Life up there could be harsh, for it was cold, the wind blew and snow covered what little grass remained. But the horse was proud and liked to show off how hardy he was. the horse ran around to keep warm and generally kept himself active, frequently reminding himself that he lived in the best place, free to do as he wished.

Lower down the sheep grazed, moving as a group and eating just whatever appeared in front of them. Theirs was a dull life however the sheep kept plenty of flesh upon their bones, and that was good enough for them.

One day the horse discovered that he could survive no longer on the high slope. No grass remained and besides wolves howled from the dark woods as they searched for fresh prey. Of course the horse could run to flee them, however he was tired of running. Hungry and hunted, he descended.

The sheep's field contained plenty of grass, and the horse found that he was free to enter and eat. The surrounding fence kept out the wolves too, so he could sleep soundly. Of course the horse looked upon the sheep and found their existence pointless. He even seemed to hear the sheep whispering that he might become like them. Now that was an alarming prospect.

After a while, however, the horse thought a little more. He ate the same grass as the sheep, but he was still a horse nonetheless. He could run and gallop, jump and otherwise impress onlookers. Besides, he was a noble beast and had the power to carry a rider to places near and far.

So, the horse finally realised, he could enjoy the greener pasture as he grow older. New experiences might make him wiser, and he could both help and impress more people. Finally, through becoming familiar with the sheep, he became a nobler, more enlightened horse and even less like a sheep.

Christmas illuminated

Danielle has found an enterprising way to decorate the living room. (I could not resist that pun.) The old ox yoke on the wall bears some novel decorations, if not surprising in this household.

It's quite an amusing juxtaposition really - an ox cart is the transportation opposite to warp speed. One could cover an hour's ox journey in twenty minutes brisk walk.

I am fascinated by the layering of science fiction upon an object made in the last years of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Here's an artifact created in a vanished age supporting a fanciful vision of the future. The yoke was carved as Europe lurched into World War. Star Trek emerged as a hopeful vision during the Cold War. I saw the last pair of oxen work in the village of my Transylvanian exile, most often employed to lead a funeral cortege where their slow pace was appropriately dignified. How many sacramental processions were graced by that lovely old ornament, I wonder?

Texture

Today the hills exuded texture and atmosphere: in parts hard and soft; light and dark; clear and veiled.

Soft was plentiful, and slippery too, after a night of rain. Brena started out slithering but was soon walking more steadily. I'm sure that she learns out on a ride, moderates her pace and makes an effort to place her feet carefully. Proprioception kicks in. She begins to take advantage of not having pieces of steel nailed to her feet.

Nearby the ground was sharp: blades of grass; fragments of ice in the puddles; skeletal trees; thorn bushes jewelled with blood-red berries. More distanly waves of thinly-clad chalk receded into a soft milky mist nearly luminous in a bright low sun.

And it was cold, just a couple of degrees above freezing and with a stiff breeze. For the first time this year I wore gloves, and welcome they were too: for me who possesses naturally warm hands.

Almost we did not get here at all. A friend's horse declined to load, rearing and banging down onto the trailer ramp in an annoying tantrum. Why, I do not know, as he is usually a quiet and sensible horse. So I shall not complain about Brena's occasional reluctance to load. After all, she only needs a little tug on a line around her bottom to walk into the trailer and start to eat the hay thoughtfully placed there at her disposal. Even that, I thing betrays a little humour on her part: trying to make me think that her appetite is gone, perhaps? As if I could imagine such a thing!

Sharp and bright was the light in open spaces, cheering after days of grey and rain. At once the land seemed broad and fresh, a realm simply inviting exploration. Despite that, few were abroad: two riders and a hardy-looking lady walking her dogs. How strange: for a few hours amidst the bleakest season this land is at its best, spacious and quiet, exuding mystery.

Inky stand the thickets bordering tracks and trails. Rich is the soil, deep the shadows filling ruts and holes, dark the sunless lee of each great bank of trees. Contrasts are strong, and there is a beauty and completeness in the whole.

Behold a landscape ancient and full in the evidence of the hand of mankind. The trails and burial mounds, the field boundaries and plantations, all of these have been imposed upon raw rolling chalk. Yet these were made with thought, intuition and sometimes love besides. And today this place was abandoned to a handful of wanderers. People took and fashioned, lived and thrived, and their descendants withdrew to towns as if besieged. But a few of us have slipped through the walls and wander amongst the dreams of ancestors: old souls who let our dreams mingle with the fruits of theirs.

First snow

This morning the first snow fell, dusting the upper slopes of the hills. Below winter crops lay green and bright. Above a white stillness settled, rendering a sculptutal smoothness upon the dips and rises of the rolling chalk. Now, temporarily, the vegetation-shrouded hills are white within and without.

Little more snow is likely to fall. That's one benefit of living on a temperate island. The downside is mud. I'd rather that the ground were hard, however I'm glad that pipes in my home aren't at risk of freezing.

The hills are lonely in winter, traversed only by the occasional traveller and farmer. There is little reason to be up there beyond savouring solitude or checking fences. Last time I rode two farm workers were busy repairing a fence blown down by the bitter wind that penetrates every nook and cranny of this land.

There is bleakness, and there is mystery too. This morning each was abundant.

The bleakness I metamorphosed into an enlightening asceticism that gave my mind space and blank canvas for creative thought.

Mystery always is there when the crowds have gone: the gift of an old land tramped and tilled for a few millennia. Here we step upon the stories and dreams of ancestors who had a tale or two to tell and imagination besides.

Simply I don't have to wrest my existance from these windswept folds. Simply I find inspiration and solace here, both in generous measure.

More mud

Today is the first day of my Christmas holiday, so I took Brena out for a ride.

But first I had to fetch her. After days of rain the barn is awash with mud. We had a quarter mile to slip and slither through daily multiplying mud between the fields and the parking area.

My trailer has an auto-reverse brake system, as is the norm here. This has only one disadvantage: friction is needed between the wheels and the ground in order to release the brakes when backing.

The area around the barn is so muddy now that it took several attempts and some long skids to reverse the trailer in order to turn it. And winter is young yet. One can but hope for freezing weather.

In the teeth of a cold wind I drove Brena to the ridge, and there on the frigid heights cleaned the very worst of the mud from her.

Deer grazed boldly on the hill. Only a traveller and his horse gazed upon them, and they stared in return.

The ride was bitterly cold but scenic. I'd describe it as quiet save for the wind whistling past my ears: but we did have the trail to ourselves.

Sodden turf atop chalk will be slippery after rain. So we walked most of the way, hooves frequently slithering, me dreaming of spring and she spying vegetation to lunge at. her hope was more immediately rewarded than mine.

Using shelter

Rain lashed down, driven by a cold southerly wind. Tracks revert to mud. Brena splashed down the fence line to greet me. Tonight, I decided, she would eat in her expensive and underused field shelter. Readily she followed her food bowl inside.

As she ate in the dry, I listened to rain pattering on the roof. To the east distant flashes marked a thunderstorm inaudible over the wind. There, surrounded by assertive elements, I stroked Brena's muddy neck and mane. A little space, some quietness and a good horse: and life becomes pleasantly simple.

With a stove and a bed in there, a door and a window, I could live quite happily in that shelter. My neighbour would be welcome by anytime.

After busy and increasingly demanding work, evening trips to see Brena and Doru are so welcome. Out with the horses there is time. I can stay longer if I wish. I can watch distant lightning, gaze on the moon, listen to the rain and feel the wind. There is no next task to rush onto, the phone does not ring, and I do not have notes to write and actions to progress. For a little while time is my own. Out there exhaustion does not gnaw so deeply, though there have been evenings when I have leaned upon Brena as she ate and found myself beginning to doze.

Meanwhile the wild places call like some half-forgotten lover. How could I forget her bright eyes and the softness of her hair, a fresh complexion  and those beguiling words from inviting lips? Oh the rose-tinted view! But I walked because of her deeds and omissions, which were harsh enough to repel me yet not so terrible that a forgiving disposition cannot involuntarily veil the worst excesses. The mountains whisper a summons that I cannot answer, nor would they care for me should I stumble through the foothills and invite renewal of their stony embrace. A view does not pay the bills, nor wilderness restore compromised health.

There is no past to return to, no lost elysium. Ahead there is growth and the honest beckoning of wisdom. Over my shoulder there are happy memories, some of them, and a field of snares should I turn to retrace my steps.

I must remind Doru...

I must remind the big hairy chocolate-brown retiree that just four years ago life was quite different.

Exactly four years ago to the day Doru was busy hauling hay back to the stables, hot heavy work even on a cold grey day. Here he is, tired and sweaty. As soon as he stopped, a thick blanket was draped over his body to avoid a chill. All the farmers blanketed their draught horses when stopped, then after work put them into stables to dry off.

But the work was hard. I'm glad that he's retired in a nice large field. As a foal he'd have been tied up, and as a working horse too, stalled all the time that he wasn't working. I gave him a little turnout there, but now he has a big space to wander about freely.

Brena worked hard for a couple of seasons, but not as Doru had to. Logging could be tough, and so was dragging hay across snowy meadows. Carrying me around trail rides must have been easy in comparison.

Those were memorable days, working pairs of big draught horses. I loved working with those powerful yet kind creatures. But would In return to all that?

Would Doru return willingly to a life where, as on a bitterly cold 19 December 2007, moisture froze on his coat even before he started working?

Moonlight healing

Yesterday I set off for a folk music session at the delightful Tanners Hatch youth hostel. This required a two-hour train journey followed by an hour on foot, first along a main road then up a quiet lane.

When the lane gave out I tramped across silent moonlit fields before slipping beneath the eaves of an ancient wood. There lies Tanners Hatch cottage which, old records tell, was old in the year 1341. By now it is positively historic, with a half-timbered construction, low ceilings, small rooms and tiny windows. For a night this little old building would host a gathering of friends: musicians and a few (like me) who don't play or sing but enjoy listening. Many are the times that I have appreciated these music sessions, sundered only by exile.

I requested California Dreaming in remembrance of the departed Kelli. There, in a familiar place and amongst friends, I could offer a musical farewell. We need ceremony to mark significant events: gain and loss, change and renewal. At last I could mark the sadness of her passing with something other than church candles and blog posts. Against this background I could witness the tragedy of the events that unfolded so few years ago, remember the things that she taught me, and continue drawing a line beneath these things.

The song sung, I stepped outside to reflect. Aloft in stillness the bright moon cast a sharp halo. The beauty and rarity of that scene filled me with joy. Here was nature showing me gentle perfection: a quiet completeness that soothed my soul.

After all that has happened over the past couple of weeks, the news gathered and memories rudely awakened, I needed to gaze upon that simple yet wonderful scene.

Winter strips away to reveal fundamentals. Here nature showed me a fresh beauty different to that of the other seasons. My friends at Tanners Hatch gave me a gift of song and encouraged me with kind words, smiles and hugs.

It's not that I haven't received support at home and elsewhere. However that old building and the people who assemble there from time to time are a deep-rooted part of my identity. To be recognised there provides touching affirmation of human goodness. Now it's time to take another step.

I'm surprised to notice that my face blindness (or prosopagnosia) is lifting. Maybe not by much, however it has lessened. I'm told that this can happen as one develops a stronger sense of identity. That whole issue is a long-term hangover from adoption. But, against that background, simply being here represents a defeat of the odds. Knowing nothing lets me define much more about who I am. I am neither a subset of my adoptive parents nor representative of so-called relatives. I can decide upon my own role models, guides and mentors.

These represent release, a new freedom to move ahead, and a shaft of sunlight penetrating the mist creating a bright clear spot into which to step.

A little sun

A little sun, a degree of warmth, and it is a joy to stand out in the field watching Brena and Doru eat. Well, it's always a pleasure to be out there with them. But sun makes the experience happier on a broader level: icing on the cake.

Doru is a rich brown chocolate horse again. With such a thick winter coat he needs no rug. I'm not sure that Brena really needs a rug, however it is nice to have a half-clean horse when I want to ride.

I’ve been listening to Gillian Welch for hours. Imagine: a musician who I had not previously heard of, whose singing simply is beautiful, who is adopted and spent eight years in the wilderness between major albums: speaking to me, also adopted, who spent eight years in mountain exile.

Speaking to me or, rather, singing: I love her sparse bare style, words and music pared right down to leave a fine nearly sculptural minimum. The more one listens, the clearer the darkness exuded from certain songs: or, rather, the deeper recognition of the sadness and muted violence of small town and rural Kentucky and Tennessee. The broken lives, heartbreak and loss tell of a land sadder and more painfully raw than the one which I inhabit.

There at last is a clue into the disparity between Kelli and I. By virtue of my culture I expected light and happiness. Her rough backwoods upbringing might just have led her to expect fracture and tragedy. That became a self-fulfilling prophesy. Oh yes.

Now I am appreciating some of the music that she might have enjoyed. Gillian Welch is not so very far from Kelli’s musical tastes as I remember them. Indeed I do have a couple of CDs that she listened to: not the actual discs but new copies bought recently.  Listening is an expression of mourning and a wonderful form of understanding: of realising what she was and just how different the two of us were. In that case marriage was a brave act, at once hopeful and risky. In one sense it did not pay off. In another sense it did: for I was strengthened and emerged the wiser.

Now sad songs, brutally plain and yet wonderfully delivered, speak to me. I've lived enough life to begin to grasp their meaning: and to realise that I do.

Meanwhile I go back to work: and there is an obstacle. He's taken my chair. So, I have arrived at a good place. There is a cat on my chair, horses in the field, and all is quiet at last.

Suddenly creative people and my animals are announcing loud and clear that I have arrived.

As Mary Oliver wrote:
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Well, precisely speaking, one does not arrive: not on this threadbare garment of an Earth. To arrive at a physical place is an illusion. Life livedwell is a dynamic equilibrium. That is the place that I have reached, my place in the family of things. It's like riding in balance across varied ground: a skill and also a state of mind.