Category Archives: Writing
I have spent the last few mornings opening and perusing my many uplifting emails from others. Always easily deleting the off-key nonessential ones that always contribute to my ability to choose what I allow into my mind. For me to find myself opening an email from another like to my blog which has been lying dormant, as the new seeds of certainty slowly spring to life. Opening up the husk of long held close reverence to the confidence that I have been fanning from a tiny old spark, to this consistent rising flame of life!
Life from beneath the ashes where I once quelled, lying shaken and afraid from my allowing a well-known critic (in my circle) to slash my last book attempt to fragments for “My Way” of connecting to others from my learnings with people and their horses. Allowing another’s power of “their” opinion to have any say whether I was good, or not…
So I retreated…
Deep inside to the murky waters of doubt that seemed to be so warm, safe, comforting…
Only to discover they were only concealing the truth of how truly powerful and awesome I was to those who needed and understood the view “I” was coming from. They are the ones whom I write and share for. There are many who might critique, complain and condemn my ways… But they are not of importance to me, except for how they remind me to look forward at my ability. Never back to the old ruts of OPO (other people’s opinion) that use to be the trap I so easily fell into.
This morning’s email being the third time this week that I have received thanks and likes about blogs that I had previously written months and years ago. Before I finally was caught in the deep old waters of fear that so easily encourage me back to their depths for the false safety of doing without movement forward, just resting in the their dark, murky depths…
No… I choose to rise!
Just this last week I went from just riding, interacting, and socializing fully with my horses, especially “Charlie” and my students. I am fully embracing, loving all of life again with biking 2 miles and walking 1 mile every day. Now finding myself, feeling amazingly alive because I choose to believe in myself, in my ability and right to do things my way in everything I do. Knowing and trusting those who need what and how I write, will find this to be blessed, encouraged or just amused at how easy it is to just “breathe”, take “baby steps” and the world will support you being fully true to Yourself! It is always Time!
The last few days have found me in a remarkable feat of truly cleaning house, barn and office. Espying things I so desire to now have, as I look around at what is here that I can change in a very concrete steps of movement forward, and all the while with an ear turned inward listening to the latest conversations going on in my head. Which less and less lately have been arguments between my old insistence of holding on to parts of my past that truly no longer serve me anymore and the truth of just letting go of them. I am realizing many of the items were things I was talked into and then have been clinging so hard to the imagined importance they have in my life.
The entire time my body has been orchestrating so many of the decisions by twinges of discomfort when I pick up an item to dispose of, then change my mind and put it back. Only to be met by a dull ache, which within minutes easily escalates to a full pain of “no, go it must”, after finding, pulling, stretching, massaging, even aspirin are not letting me off the hook.
Today finding me loads lighter, after several trips to sell, donate, or throw away various pieces and piles of memories I know needed to be looked at in a new light. Appreciated for their time in service to me and applauded for their holding out till I was ready to see… I truly can have my life, anyway that I desire. When I line up my outside world view with the way the inner me guides me to embrace my truly heart felt decisions. Guided by this whole body (heart, mind and spirit) which has been talking to me all along, just my understanding of right, wrong, rules, and long held decisions proclaimed to me from others as their truths. Really were “their” truths, they just didn’t and don’t fit me.
From my 29 x 38-40 inch inseams, to my size 8 ½ D men’s shoe size (that translates to about a 10 ½ to 11 in women’s) with my broad size large shoulders, to have to take up to a medium/small waste. My taste of cowboy boots, Wrangler blue jeans, and mostly cotton, soft to the touch, colorful sleeveless shirts, which I buy for the way they feel and fit. The sleeves are usually not long enough to get to my wrist, so I cut the sleeves off, redesign them into the pockets I prefer on shirts to hold my chapstick when I am out with the horses.
I am aware of my body’s guidance even now as I type for the words which just flow across the page, except for the feeling of stop, look again, maybe… then an aha as the right words fill in the pause of… hmmm, no not that… Yep that is perfect, as I smile aware of me finally getting me right. Topped off by the last few days of amazing, wonderful incidents of after each situation occurred and I calmly addressed the “that’s not what I had planned” with the words and the feelings of “this or something better” which resonated completely through all parts of me.
Last night’s clients choosing to wait two weeks to pay at the actual next lesson, instead of their usual pre-paying before the start of each new series. I breathed, smiled, said sure, while changing my plans for a meal out to what could be thrown together without going to town. As my youngest walked in, asked where we were going for supper, and before I could even get my thoughts together, said “my treat”, so off we went for a simple together supper. Where he then informed me he has been using my “thank you box” for himself. Hmm imagine that.
With this morning’s lesson a no show, I relished the cool weather and great ground after last night’s shower for me and my horses to utilize and enjoy. Followed by a quick trip to the feed and grocery store with a compelling urge to stop and buy some scratch off tickets. Which after all feed and groceries were put up, revealed 3 purchased tickets, 3 winners, $37.00 to the plus. All by listening to the inner guidance of my feeling good, my confidence with the quick impulses and my trusting my body for the distinct yes’s when I feel fine and the aches signaling I am out of sorts thinking and living from someone else’s beliefs or ideas of what is best for me.
Finding a peaceful, truly open feeling at my place as I discarded all of the stuff other’s, in their attempt to make my life comfortable to their beliefs and ideas of who I was expected to be. Now opens up and expands as I live for me, loving, caring and listening to all parts of me, guided by my every breath to know what is best and right for me to be the best me, listening to the Source within me!
The section is entitled:
My Evolving, Revolving, Expanding and Ever Changing Cast of Players
KC (MISS PRISS aslo known as **##**)
There has been so much thought put into what I should write about… I know so little about so much, at least as far as a survey of other peoples opinion might bring one to understand. So I thought about the many poems, and stories I have written in the past. Some of them to be found in my dream book, several shared with another in camaraderie, still yet to be returned and a whole lot of others locked up in the yet to be repaired computer. Which sit’s there in full sight, reminding me of the value of backing up to disc’s a habit I have still integrate into my affairs.
So with all of these thoughts, happenings and ideas roaming constantly in my mind, I have managed to do several parts of the book(s) in layers. Encouraged by my morning experiences, thoughts and driving vistas. This morning’s presentation starts with my being bushwhacked as I got up, crossed in front of my bed headed to the bathroom to start my day. When, whack… a set of needle sharp claws found the tender skin of my shin bone and before I could take another full step, I feel this wicked paw, reach up pulling off my sock as her other foot’s unsheathed claw, missed its target to get stuck in my sock. Almost, but not quite tripping me, as I am used to this occasional tirade of protest of hers because she is no longer in charge, not being tended to as fast, or exactly how she desires.
I marvel at her skill, persistence, and ability to know when I do or don’t take the water spray bottle to bed with me. My latest attempt at re-directing her demanding, bitchy, I’m queen attitude. To my preferred alternative; you are my youngest son’s cat, you will behave, I pay the bills and you can wait till it’s your turn. Which my current tactics, trainer skills, persistence and patience with her and myself, are actually beginning to bear fruit. My mind this morning aware of and reminded of how much her coloring of tabby gold, greys, browns, and white mingled stripes, so fits her skills and abilities to sneak around. Skulking like a commando in the bed sheets, under the curtains, barely distinguishable in between the tan and brown chairs, on the multi colored carpets. Stealthily sneaking, slapping, slashing, and assaulting any and all unsuspecting passerby’s who dare to come into her territory, her domain.
Made even more amazing when she dawns to clean herself up, walking auspiciously around unsuspecting victims, who she fawns, rubs and weaves in and out of their legs. Sweetly asking for the assumed, “pretty kitty, need some loving?” Just waiting for her target to venture a hand down anywhere near her fangs and claws, to be ripped and shredded for another’s gullibility into her cunning trap. Many have fallen prey to her clever manipulations of what appears to be a very pretty little lady in need of attention. She has just yet decided how to be anything other than the miniature missile of destruction, the boys created in her growing up years.
She came into our home when the youngest was in first grade. Desired a cat of his own, and after the required, “you do good in school and we will get you a kitty”, he did and the search began. By living in a small town, finding kittens that need homes is a pretty easy task, when one scans the local newspaper, feed store bulletin boards and the local vets outdoor display signs. Signifying give away’s, adoptions, and critters for sale or in need of a good home. The corner vet’s sign was spotted with the appropriate “barn kitties for free” on the morning trip to school, so when he got out later that day. We swung in to take a look see. There on the table in the center of the vet’s waiting room sat a cage with one small, dark, waif of a kitty. My son, so excited “a kitty, momma, one just for me”, so I asked the assistant about it. Male or female, how old, where did it come from, and what kind of cat’s were its parents? It was a girl, she was 5 weeks old, her mom a certified mouser, from a farm out in the country. I signed for her, signifying at the proper age she would be neutered, got her out of the cage, into my six year olds waiting hands.She seemed timid, tiny, and alone, glad to be cuddled up to, snug in this warm feeling, nurturing embrace. Drove the short distance to the house to take her inside and introduce her to my cat Minxy, who has learned to allow and tolerate the constant stream of new coming animals which involves living in the country at a horse facility.
Minxy extended a slow inquiring soft pink nose, and little miss spitfire, reached up to slap her squarely with her extended claws. I passed it off as the ritual of each learning about the other, and the baby attempting to establish her right to be there. Little knowing what vixen had come to stay with us. She proved to be healthy, fast, playful and with a profoundly strange love of my youngest son’s dirty socks. Taken each and every time he took them off, as she would drag them to her established place on the corner of his bed. To be guarded, growled over, and massively defended every time Minxy walked past the room, much less to even look inside. This was soon to set the stage for how strong was this little one’s desire to rule her kingdom with an iron paw. K C named by my son for the initials of kitty cat.
My habit of writing while the kids were away at school, usually found her curled up around my feet as I sat in my rolling chair. One day as I maneuvered from the desk to the filing cabinet, I heard this sudden squall, felt the teeth and claws from the terror of pure pain from her, because I had just rolled over the end of her tiny tail. The next thing I knew, around the corner comes my cat to see what the commotion was all about. KC ripped into Minxy, and the fighting monster became the new terrorist who owned, ran and was in charge of entire house. This kitten took the whole scenario to heart, and seemed to blame what had happened on my cat, plus any and everybody or critter that crossed her path. Within three weeks, my cat looked like she was visited by a pair of trimming shears on the loose. Every time Kc spotted Minxy, she attacked, clawed, bit and chewed her, should she stand still, instead of making a break for it to any vantage point the protected all of her but her front to keep the little she devil at a safe slashing claws distance. As Minxy began making it a habit to beeline outside anytime there was an open door. I decided for the health and safety of my cat, she might just be better outside. She seemed to agree by moving in under the house and only coming up to be petted or fed if the door was closed and secured, because KC would come charging out after her when she saw her.
So now I had an indoor and outdoor cat. The indoor queen’s personality really began to take on characteristics I would have never thought imaginable for an animal in my care. She demanded to be fed and cared for from whoever was closest. Jumping up on my oldest son in the middle of the night and biting his nose, should she decide she had not been fed enough. Eventually irking him off with her demanding habit of 2 or 3 extra feedings a day, to the point of him unceremoniously throwing her off of the bed and out of his room. This regal, determined, haughty feline deemed when she would be fed, or have her box cleaned. Raking any and all with claws who attempted to pet, play with, or love on her in a more normal cat fashion. She defied anyone to make her do, be or act like the barn kitty persona originally expected. Actually seen several different times, lying stretched out across a pillow or couch, watching a mouse cross the open living room floor. The boys took to teasing and tormenting her, as her new found ability at tripping sneak attacks, drew blood from the scratches, or bruises from sustained when her tripping technique was perfectly executed, amongst interesting names now assigned to her highness. The war became so extreme between the two forces, amidst, thrown tennis shoes, she was eventually run off from their side of the house to take up residence on mine.
A decision I took seriously to heart, in my mistake of feeling sorry for her pretty forlorn expression, when she started curling up on the corner of my bed.” Poor kitty” I mistakenly stated, “Are they mean to you?” A sucker caught unaware, she started slowly sleeping with me. Finding me at my desk, nudging for a pat, to a move over, can I share your lap phase. All of which lasted about a month, before the biting started anytime she caught me either not petting her, as she lay there, or because I was petting her too much. I finally decided she could use some manners, as I began to pay attention to some of her more defining quirks. Especially the delight she had in stealing small, creatures, tiny toys which were rubbery, flexible and would slide easy across the hard painted floors. Her habit of batting them around and then chasing them in burst of athletic enthusiasm, around and up to my feet, reminded me of training dogs to fetch.
So I began only paying attention, if the preferred object touched my feet. Then I would reach down, snatch it from her and hurl it through the door, into the next room and watch her run, dive and slide with it caught up in her teeth, and then waiting till she batted, or chased it back to my feet, to do it all over again. After about a week, I started holding the toy in the throw position till she started to turn and head in the direction my arm was cocked. Once she was in the right place, I would throw, she would go get it, play with it directly back to me and we would begin again. Another week or so of her continued interest of playing with me that way, I decided to up the stakes. I now would get her in the headed, waiting on me to throw position, say sit, and wait till she did. She caught on to that so fast, with so much interest, I started waiting on her to sit after she would bat it back to me, or occasionally carry it back. Being an observer by nature, I made note of her occasionally carrying it back and added that to the program. Eventually in about a month I had her finding, bringing, sitting and giving me the toy. Then she would move to the start direction, sit, and wait on the throw, to slide, chase, somersault pick it up and bring it back to me. Many times only stopping when she was panting, tired, and in need of a break.
It took almost another month to show or share this with anyone else, cause she still insisted being the stalking huntress of any other who dared come in her domain. Once the boys caught on to her ability, they tried to tempt, trick or torment her into compliance, but she didn’t like, trust, or believe in them. Occasionally someone would come into the office she actually liked and she would perform for them, till I would notice her tail starting to slash back and forth, knowing the next retrieve would probably draw blood. So I would stop the fun, and explain if she comes up to love on you, it would be wise to keep your fingers and hands out of her sudden change in disposition.
I began to notice her gaining weight, about the same time I was becoming aware and increasingly annoyed about her demanding when to be fed all the time. She had begun walking on me at all hours of the night, whining, begging, squalling, and then biting any exposed piece of flesh if I didn’t get up and tend to her immediately. I remembered reading about cats and water pistols for getting them off of counters and wondered how I could use this new tool to my advantage.
I grabbed one of the big 32 ounce bug spray bottles, filled it with water, and kept it close to me within easy reach whenever I was in the house. Deciding at the same time, her manners were going to improve when she was fed. The routine was to now be twice a day, once in the morning as I was getting ready for my day, once at night about supper time. My setting of these new hours was immediately met with sabotage, if I were sleeping and she walked on me, I would upend the covers to get her back on the floor. She would immediately dive under the bed, wait for me to doze, then grab the first piece of exposed flesh she could find, bite hard enough to draw blood and escaper to her hidey hole. I had to learn to sleep aware of any movement on my bed, and to keep well covered, nothing dangling off the sides of my bed. I had to up my accuracy with the sprayer to include, under the bed and across the room at a moment’s movement. It took a little more than a month, before she realized there was a new boss in town.
Her next attempt to win back her position of “poor little princess” was to start whining, and mewing pitifully every time anyone walked into the house. Then running frantically back and forth from the cat food container to her bowl pleading, quickly weaving back and forth between someone’s legs in the throes of deprived, mistreated, so starving animal. Since I have given up feeling guilty for well fed, tended, and taken care of animals, I informed people of the spray bottle right inside the door, and to protect the body at all cost should they fall prey to her pleading and offer to pick her up and console her. I explained bloody nubs would be at their owners own risk. But since she still seemed so “needy” I upped the stakes to include no feeding her till she sat for her supper.
This required more patience than when she was previously taught to sit, as now she was older use to her way of behaving when she was fed, and mad at her change in stature now having to wait till it was time to be fed. The first week, she balked, screamed, tried biting, all to no avail as I just stood there, patiently holding her bowl, till her bottom found the floor. This went on for about a month, before she began to get the bigger picture of me and my determination for peace would now include a cat with as good of manners as my horses and dogs already did possess.
Of course my youngest son, who she belonged to, and would barely tolerate his holding her, but did not rate for her to listen to. Finally decided to ask if he could learn how to get the same respect from her, and get her to mind, be quiet and sit for him to feed her. Instead of running off to hide, for a sneak attack the minute he stopped hunting for her and turned his back. It’s taken about a month, first because his impatience would cause him to throw the food back and quit, saying it was too hard. Till like with her, I refused to come do or fix it for him, I just patiently sat, giving directions, praise, and reminders of how long that the two of them have been tormenting each other. Cat training is a whole other way of learning “the time it takes….is the time it takes!