First Flight

 

It's always a relief when the first osprey offspring of the season flies from the nest. It's always a joy to watch their awkwardness in the air, to hear their cries as they flap their wings and figure out what to do with their legs, to see them land for the first time somewhere other than the edge of the nest.
We spent much of Sunday with this lovely one sitting above the back deck in the spruce tree.

And I just happened to be in the right place at the right with the right focus when one of the parents buzzed by the youngster after he'd been sitting in the tree for a couple of hours.

We are indeed blessed to have as neighbours these ospreys, to be so closely aligned with their comings and goings. As I type this, in through my office window comes the sudden onset of chirping -- it's the ospreys food-arriving call. As each young osprey learns to fly, their fishing lessons commence as well. By the end of August, only one, the youngest, will be in the nest calling for food.

A Rural Fashion Show

The day before the dinner party we'd planned for our tenth wedding anniversary, I realized we needed some kind of entertainment in between the meal and dessert. Something that would aid digestion -- laughter works, right? So I wrote a fashion show highlighting the last ten years of city girl/country girl style!
My friend Jane, who can always be called upon at a moment's notice to perform some outrageous task on my behalf, read the commentary. 
My mother seems to think it was brilliant and must go on the road; I think it would be perfect for the book launch if there is a Field Notes 2 so I don't want to give anything away. Instead of showing the final showstopper ensemble (yes, there was camouflage), here is a sample from mid-way through the show:

"Sara has swapped those glorious hot pink mules for a sturdy pair of Muck boots highlighted with hot pink. As clunky and rubbery as these boots are, they are perfectly suited for mucking around the yard and walking around the field with her dog.

Unfortunately, there are a few hazards associated with living in the country surrounded by woods.There isn’t much we can do about bears and coyotes, but we do have the solution for the problem of TICKS. Sara is enjoying her hemp hat with its soft-cottony feel, and wide, tick-deflecting brim." 

It was surprisingly easy to come up with a "city girl/country girl fashion show", and even work my Nova Scotia country boy into it (he looked alarmed when Jane told him to stand up!). Maybe I should turn it into a show -- although Dwayne tells me I can't take a REAL gun on stage with me...

Celebrating Ten Years Today

How joyful to be together, alone

as when we first were joined

in our little house by the river

long ago, except that now we know

each other, as we did not then;

and now instead of two stories fumbling

to meet, we belong to one story

that the two, joining, made. And now

we touch each other with the tenderness 

of mortals, who know themselves...

~ Wendell Berry,

from "The Blue Robe"

I suspect we are the “unlikely couple” – the city girl from Ontario and the Nova Scotia country boy – who got together on a blind date then married a year later.

The marriage is doomed! There’s no way those two can stay together.

We are lucky to have found happiness the second time around. Dwayne found fidelity and respect, and I found compatibility and reliability. We found true love, and we are grateful for that every day. That love, that gratitude is what gets us through the challenges.

Doomed, were we? Not built to last, you say?

Sure, there are the good morning and goodnight kisses, there is open communication – even when it’s hard to talk about it – and there is the sticking-it-out-because-what’s-the-alternative, but for us, the secret to a long and happy marriage would be the gratitude.

We know why we are together, and our ‘why’ goes beyond the chickens and the gardens, the day trips and the inside jokes, even beyond the rib-crushing hugs and the belly laughs at bedtime. Our 'why" has everything to do with heart and home. Our ‘why’ means nothing and no one can come between us.

Not even the dog sleeping in the middle of the bed. 

Summer of the Horse: The Saddle Is No Place For A Wimp

Today's high praise from my riding instructor, Dawn Helm, was "Good for you. You're not being a wimp."

I hadn't expected to write anything about my latest riding lesson because we're just working on the fundamentals and practicing them over and over, but as I wrote about in my last post, learning to ride is as much learning about yourself as it is about tacking up and posting and stopping.
Today Dawn called me out on a lifetime habit of not pushing myself hard enough.

"Don't stop. You've got to learn to listen as you ride. You've got to learn to adjust your feet in the stirrups as you ride. Every time you stop in the middle of your learning moment, you lose momentum."

As I write that, I notice that moment is the beginning of momentum. There is a moment, which becomes a bigger moment, which becomes that -- whether it's courage or confidence or ambition or stubbornness or maybe even ego -- which propels you forward into doing more and doing better.

So I had to "suck it up, buttercup", as my friend Jane would say, and not stop to regroup or rest or think things through. I had to keep riding and figure out how to get my shit together whilst in motion.

Dawn also realizes I am a perfectionist and my stopping was as much about my frustration with not getting the rhythm of the posting trot. She understands how I learn, that I need to take in information and work through it, picture it, even, before I can learn by doing it. After that, though, she wants to me think in my stirrups and not give up so easily.

Hence the high praise today when I just kept bouncing in the saddle, trying to find the post, and adjusting my feet in the stirrups when I was using my knees instead of my weight to stay in the saddle, and closing my eyes to feel the trot -- feel it -- feel it --

"Yes, you're doing it! Keep going!"

Leap of Fate

Any day now, the first young osprey will take the leap.
The ospreys hatched out another three eggs this spring and we have reached that time of the summer, always around our wedding anniversary, when we wait for the babies to become fledglings -- to take that brave and amazing leap off the side of the nest, and become what they are born to be: flyers and fishers.
All three babies are flapping their wings but we have yet to see the hopping from side to side in the nest that implies one is ready to go, ready to hop right into that beautiful blue sky.

 

The Raccoon Came Back - Sort Of

Now it's really broken.

"Where did the raccoon go?"
"What raccoon?"
"The one in the garden shed."
"The broken one."
"The one the squirrels were nesting in. Where is it?"
"I threw it out."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because it was broken."
"But the squirrels were living in it."


I'm sure you can guess who the city girl raised on Disney movies is in this conversation and who is the Nova Scotia country boy. 

"It's in a big pile out back that I'm going to burn in the fall."
"So you can bring the raccoon back?"
"Yeah, I can bring the raccoon back."

The broken garden ornament in the shed was a perfect nest for squirrels.

Summer of the Horse: Shit Happens

I look at this picture and I imagine what my teenaged self would be doing: goofing around, feeling self-conscious, and exclaiming, "Ew!" and "Do I have to?" That very young, privileged young woman would not have appreciated this moment and this opportunity.
On the other hand, my forty-ish self practically ran for the shovel, hollering, "I'll do it! I'll do it!". This photo is my version of a victory fist pump in the air, shouting, "Yes!"
Just like having a chicken coop full of hens was a symbol of sophistication for me when I first moved to Nova Scotia, so too is this shovel full of fresh horse poop. It also means I'm exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I've always wanted to do.

Yes, shovelling shit has been one of this city girl's aspirations. And, like riding, it's not as easy as it looks. There's a way to flick the shovel when you're scooping that allows you to pick up more and make fewer trips to the wheelbarrow, or directly to the manure pile outside the doors. Dawn, the lifelong horse woman who is my riding instructor, can do it in two scoops; I made six trips to the manure pile.
Grinning the entire time.

My sixth riding lesson was all about working on and building on the basics I've learned so far: turning the horse, halting him, posting in a trot, and stopping a horse that has bolted (this is the most important skill for me, in particular, to know since I panic first, think second, if I remember to think at all). The rest of my lessons will go like this, round and round the ring, walking and trotting and stopping over and over. That's the only way to learn.
There's this idea that after 10,000 hours of doing something, it becomes muscle memory and you never forget. I can see how this would work for horseback riding, especially when I consider how many muscles are involved in riding, even in the basic riding I'm doing.
Last week's posting lesson gave me an acute awareness of my inner front thigh muscles!

New revelation: You use the entire body when you ride a horse, yet you are using each part individually. For example, to make a horse go, squeeze your calves BUT to stop the horse, squeeze your thighs (while doing three other things as well). Your hands hold the reigns but your elbows do the work. Cripes, even the ears, which do nothing, are involved: Ears, shoulders, and hips are to be in alignment when you're sitting in the saddle. Maybe the heels, too, but I can't remember.
So many details.
Not only do I need to be aware of every part of my body, as I gain a skill, there's a way to build on it. I was using the outside leg and inside reign to turn when Dawn said, "It's actually more about the outside reign" so that was an add-on. Later she instructed, "You're leaning into your turns. Just turn your shoulders. Don't lean." That's an add-on to the "Turn your head in the direction you want to go."
There isn't a part of the body that doesn't do something in riding. And there are four or five things to think about when doing something even as simple as turning. I was paused at one point, gathering myself, and Dawn told me to get going.
"I'm going over everything I have to do before I start moving," I told her. "There's so much to remember."
She laughed. "I don't remember what it's like to know nothing about riding."
At 15, I wouldn't have had the confidence to say that to her, to do what I needed to do; at 47, I know how I need to approach things and I'll no longer let anyone tell me what is best for me.

Some habits are hard to break, though, and I'm not talking about my propensity for leaning.
"I'm not coordinated enough for this," I said later as we trotted in a circle around Dawn. I was feeling awkward and bouncy, like I'd never figure it out, and I wanted an excuse for not getting it.
My usual self-conscious horseshit.
"You must be coordinated if you're posting," Dawn answered. "Some people never master this."
Knowing how unathletic I am and how many times I've said "I can't" about trying something new, that comment hit my heart like a powerful kick from a pair of hind legs. I can do it. I AM doing it.

My friend, Gail, one of the women who inspired this Summer of the Horse, arrived at the stables in Linden during yesterday's lesson. This morning, she sent me a text: "Good to see you riding so well. You looked confident."