Month: January 2023

Kaleidoscope

We’ve rotated past the festive red of Christmas, through the New Year’s glittery golds and into January’s several shades of white. Our winter palette shifts from shimmering diamond ice on the brilliant blanket of the pristine pasture unsullied by hoofprint paths, to semi-gloss pewter patches of ice cemented in the shady spots, to the flat bone tone of plowed snow piles at the end of the driveway, dulled by road salt and sand.

Around the barn, we get a bit of cold-weather color from the green-flecked feeding spots, littered with bits of uneaten hay, and the rusty splotches that stop the heart of every first-time horse owner until they learn that it’s just a natural chemical reaction between snow and the natural equine response to a full bladder.

The trees surround the pasture with feathery, frost-covered limbs, a living palette of ivory, cotton, porcelain, and parchment.

The rhythm of my chores changes with the cold, but I still bundle up and trundle down to the barn several times a day. I channel my inner efficiency expert to get done what needs to be done before my hands get cold.

To combat Biskit and Chicago’s inclination to loiter by the water cooler under the shelter, I load my round snow saucer with flakes of hay and slide it around the pasture, scattering little piles everywhere. Much like their owner, the old ponies are easily enticed by the promise of a tasty treat and making them move around the field of food helps maintain some measure of muscle mass and keep the joint fluids fluid.

Though my barn time may be briefer, I mindfully run through a mental menu as I check in with the horses and cats to be sure they’re winter-fat and happy. Each of the once-overs includes at least a little eye contact, ear caress and easy conversation so we preserve the social connection that comes more readily during warmer weather. If I stay a little long and get a little cold, my woolly beasts are willing to share the wealth of warmth that radiates from the pleasantly plump hay bellies that function as their furnaces.

Rowdy and I keep moving too, and though our winter trails are shorter, I often come home sweaty from struggling to stay on my two feet while the Happy Hooligan trots easily over the unpacked paths. He is just as enthusiastic with winter’s snowballs on his belly as he is with summer’s insects on his ears, so my cursing is minimal, and my gratitude maximized for the ability and opportunity to stay active with such a cheerful companion.

Sunshine is a rare commodity these days, and even the few clear nights, with charcoal skies and silvery stars, generally morph into mornings of ash-colored clouds.

January is a month of mostly cloudy and the blue we miss in our sky sometimes seeps into our moods, but we manage to slog through with a little help from our friends.

We move in to chill out. We organize, downsize, sterilize, and modernize.

We realize we’re only weeks from pitchers and catchers reporting, and we fantasize about spring.

We socialize. We check in on each other to get out of our heads and off of our couches. We gather to eat and exercise, to spectate and participate, to gab and to get through this together.

The colors change, the chores change, the challenges change, but some things never change.

Kindness.

Checking on the Neighbors

Jottings

New year, new resolve to be a new me. Two and a half days with nearly 12 inches of snow gives a girl a ton of time to watch and wonder, and where better to find inspiration for improvement than the barn – my herd, my pride, my pack.

Biskit – eternal optimist and concise communicator, stares into the house to ensure I realize he’s done with his afternoon hay and expects I’ll be down shortly with the night ration. My pretty palomino snakes his pot-bellied self in through the guard ropes to demand his turn for grooming, then paws, poops, and pees in the barn aisle when he’s had enough.

Chicago – handsome but humble head of the herd, a low-key leader whose management style leans toward ear flicks, nose nudges, and strategic posterior positions. Calm and cooperative, unless we’re talking blackbirds taking flight from the forest floor or metal garbage cans taking space on the path of travel – he engages agreeably but also appreciates his alone time.

Fennel – facing his fears, rarely anymore does he beat a hasty retreat at the sound of the barn door opener, the voice of the hand that feeds him, or the panting of the rowdy golden retriever, opting instead to stay snuggled in one of his many his security spaces, or to stroll over for a casual scratch behind the ears. Seems he’s finally embraced the idea that while it’s neither Kansas nor Oz, there’s no place like Four Sticks Farm.

Mace – aging gracefully, surrendering the things of his youth. Content to pass the pest control baton to the teenage tabby, and to sometimes pass on the pieces of food on his plate, he now eats because he’s hungry, not because there is kibble in the cat dish, thus preventing the Big Squeeze that used to be his pet door problem.

Rowdy – glee in a golden fleece, always good to go – upstairs, downstairs, for a walk, for a ride, to the park, to the kitchen for a peanut butter bone, he’s happy to be there. And unless he’s lying in the living room with his family and his fleecy friends, Rowdy finds no greater pleasure than chasing squirrels into the trees and deer out of the pasture, ears flapping, lips fixed in his goofy golden grin.

There can be no better model than my animals to lead my quest for a better me. Think positive. Be clear and be kind. Speak your piece and make your peace. Sometimes be social, sometimes be solo. Try, even the scary stuff. Don’t eat if you’re not hungry. Get outside. Move. Play. Ponder. Everyday. Live simply.

Joy.

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