Well, something went "click" anyway.

I've been working and working on the canter in my riding lessons. Both my falls (and the rather embarrassing half-fall of which we do not speak) happened at the canter, and a few weeks ago I asked to go back on a lunge line and start over. Since then I've been working on strength and flexibility and position and the elusive "quiet hands." (I love that phrase: it's one of those lovely and evocative expressions that you understand perfectly even though it really doesn't make any sense.)

My teacher's been telling me that one day it would all come together - all the things I've been working on would mesh with the movement of the horse, and it would just click.

And it finally did.

But I still can't do this, though.

Waltzing's for Dreamers and Losers in Love

Some strange and wonderful (or odd, depends how you look at it) things:

1. My new riding helmet arrived. Fits perfectly. If you accuse me of having worried about it, I will deny it.

2. When my dog follows me around, insisting that she is most at home in whatever room I am in, I find it comforting and sweet. When my son does it, I find it extremely irritating.

3. There is a cold spot right between my shoulder blades. No matter what I do, it's cold... right... there. Last night I woke up in a sweat, except for that one spot on my back that feels like a cold draft is going down it.

4. My friend Holly says that people who don't like the smell of horses just aren't her kind of people. I find that I agree, completely.

5. I had my last first date six years ago today. I bet you that guy (another engineer - I just don't learn) is now happily married with 2.5 kids and a dog of his own. I bet he finds it annoying when the dog follows him around, and sweet when his son does.

Saturday Not a Poem

Because I can, that's why.

Worry, Worry, Worry

The other day I was driving to get my taxes done and heard this song on the radio  - I almost drove off the road, because apparently Rick Fines lives in my head:

You were born in the house of guilt
You’ve been worried all your time
You stay worried all the time
I wish there were some way
That I could ease your mind

You can barely get to sleep at night
Over some little thing you said
Some little thing you said
You worry was misread
But it keeps racin’
Round and round your head

The song ("Half-full Cup") now lives on my iPod, where hopefully I will learn to go a bit easier on myself while listening to it.

So I had that wonderful customer service moment the other day about my broken riding helmet (I didn't  land on my head or anything - a screw came loose on the inside, where the strap is attached to the shell of the helmet, I'm thinking it was a manufacturing defect) and now my new helmet is in the mail. But what if I told them to send size Large instead of Medium? I have a freakishly large head, the size isn't on the label, and I can't remember... What if I have to return it cause it's too big? Will that be a hassle, or what?

These, oh faithful readers, are the thoughts that go round and round my head. Scintillating, no?

On the plus side, I went to the doctor today and got some lovely medicine for the sinus infection that has been bugging me all week (Hello! I'm on vacation! Come on in, nasty infections!), and I still have more time off. To do my marking, you know.  Also, I have a good friend coming to visit over the weekend, and plans with other friends too.

So the cup is, I suppose, half full after all.

Spring Break - return of the marking

It's a teacher's horror movie!

Although, to be honest, I haven't done any marking yet. I've gone to the library, and I've dropped off my taxes, and now I'm worrying. It's odd that I would worry about my taxes - I'm a law-abiding person, except for that one stop-sign incident with the cute Mountie, but I'm always convinced that the Canadian version of Big Brother is just waiting for me to make a mistake so he can pounce. Is there a word for that feeling, when you've done nothing wrong but you still feel guilty?

In other news, my riding helmet broke, and IRH is replacing it, no muss, no fuss. There are no words for how much I love good customer service.

AND, today the boy-child rode his bike to school. First time ever. Completely alone and unsupervised. I want to cry, and I'm so proud.

Back with a poem

Advice to the Young
Miriam Waddington

1
Keep bees and
grow asparagus,
watch the tides
and listen to the
wind instead of
the politicians
make up your own
stories and believe
them if you want to
live the good life.

2
All rituals
are instincts
never fully
trust them but
study to im-
prove biology
with reason.

3
Digging trenches
for asparagus
is good for the
muscles and
waiting for the
plants to settle
teaches patience
to those who are
usually in too
much of a hurry.

4
There is morality
in bee-keeping
it teaches how
not to be afraid
of the bee swarm
it teaches how
not to be afraid of
finding new places
and building in them
all over again.

Also, you should not look one in the mouth.

Gift Horses

BY JACK GILBERT

He lives in the barrens, in dying neighborhoods   

and negligible countries. None with an address.   

But still the Devil finds him. Kills the wife   

or spoils the marriage. Publishes each place   

and makes it popular, makes it better, makes it   

unusable. Brings news of friends, all defeated,   

most sick or sad without reasons. Shows him   

photographs of the beautiful women in old movies   

whose luminous faces sixteen feet tall looked out   

at the boy in the dark where he grew his heart.   

Brings pictures of what they look like now.

Says how lively they are, and brave despite their age.   

Taking away everything. For the Devil is commissioned   

to harm, to keelhaul us with loss, with knowledge   

of how all things splendid are disfigured by small   

and small. Yet he allows us to eat roast goat   

on the mountain above Parakia. Lets us stumble   

for the first time, unprepared, onto the buildings   

of Palladio in moonlight. Maybe because he is not   

good at his job. I believe he loves us against   

his will. Because of the women and how the men   

struggle to hear inside them. Because we construe   

something important from trees and locomotives,

smell weeds on a hot July afternoon and are augmented.