Role models

I have been thinking . . .who were my role models when I was growing up? Like any good student I can rattle off the handful of names that the public school system offer to girls. Helen Keller, Clara Barton, Amelia Earhart, Betsy Ross. But as a young girl, none of them actually inspired me. I admired what they did, but rejected them as role models. I didn't want to fly a plane (and never return), I didn't want to be a nurse and care for wounded men, I never wanted to blind blind and deaf and hoped to never be so. I wasn't interested in sewing a flag, even one that symbolized our nation. I wanted to be Daniel Boone or Captain Kirk. I can think of many men and boys that I truly wanted to be, not because I wanted to be a boy, but because they did things that I wanted to do. In the movies, I wanted to be Katherine Hepburn in the African Queen but never wanted to be a princess or to spend my life searching for the perfect man to complete me. I think part of what I wanted was wrapped up in the casual strength of men. The role models for boys always show men of action, strength and integrity. Where is the female counterpart? As an adult, and with the changing times, I see many women who I admire. I am wondering how many of these strong, confident women are actually talked about in schools. I have racked my brain.
Taking another tack, I realize that part of what I enjoy about riding a horse is, on horseback I feel like I am strong. (As long as I focus on Gambler and work with him) Yes, horses also have a casual strength. I never actually thought I was capable of accomplishing even a minimal amount of confidence on horseback. Thanks to J and to the wonderful calmness of little Gambler, I did it! In a perfect world I guess I would ride off into the sunset (on Gambler) in the wilderness (even if it was just on a holo-deck) and having tamed my portion of it I would build myself a log cabin and write about my amazing life.

Serenity and cat boxes

There are many tasks that are viewed by most with distaste. Cleaning the cat boxes is one of these. Yet most onerous tasks will be made better or worse by your attitude towards it. I find that cleaning my cats boxes has actually become a time of serenity. While I clean I am focused on the task at hand. Bills, shoulds and shouldn'ts fade away and all thats left is what I am doing. Its not something that you ever receive thanks for doing but one that has its own rewards. My cats deserve a clean spot to do what they must do. I want a clean and healthy household and cats. It's satisfying to take care of them and makes me feel good. It's an abbreviated version of how good it feels to finish a good housecleaning. I am not a clean freak but when I have just finished sweeping and vacuuming and look around at a clean room it feels good. It gives me the freedom to relax. This last summer I learned about the joys of mucking out a stable. Once again not the typical activity for enjoyment. But mucking gives me the same sense of fulfillment. The horses are not going to thank me but taking care of such glorious creatures is a privilege and their health is reward enough. It was hard physical work sometimes, especially Sam's stall, but as I worked I usually felt that incredible sense of serenity. It was like a bubble of time that left the world behind. When I also got to ride it felt so right to have first taken care of the needs of the equine that would now carry me. Now, far away from horses and barn chores I focus on cat boxes.

Miss Horse

I have been mindlessly entering data on the computer and sorting mountains of photos. I decide to take a break and look through my books so I can put them up on Alibris. I randomly picked , Since You Went Away by Margaret Buell Wilder. Part of listing a book is to leaf through it and check its condition, read a bit so I can describe it and . . . that's when I read this passage:

I . . . got on Miss Horse. She felt limber and hot under the saddle, not the way she feels on cold winter mornings with a hump in her back, but pliable, bending this way and that with your knees. The soft little wind suddenly became taut against my face and the sun brighter. It was like sailing, settling down in the saddle, letting her out in great bounds across the flat polo field. Then we found some jumps behind the club and she went at them, snatching at the bit a little and not changing her stride, but just pouring over, as if she'd been tipped out of a jug. It was so smooth and light I didn't even feel when she took off or when she landed; it was lovelier rhythm than even flying could be . . .

It is a novel of a woman's letters to her husband during WWII. Its rough going and finances are hard but she decides she can't give up her horse, her sanity and her daughters dream. Well, now I'm going to have to read it before I sell it.