Every year during April my Dads cherry trees start their luminescent blooming...and while they always inspire me to smile, the last few years I cannot help but ponder Ms. Reeve, a lady who made it her habit to come and sit at the end of the driveway for hours on end and seemingly stare at those cherry trees.
I first met Ms. Reeve when I was no more than 5 or 6, alone in the house. There was a knock on the door, and when I opened up I was completely unprepared for what was in front of me. A little lady with a shock of white hair, wearing a skirt in the dead of winter, boots with trash bags for socks, the socks on her hands, three or four jackets in varying states of disrepair piled on top of one another...and a lone tea bag dangling from one hand. 'May I make a cup of tea?' she inquired. Stupefied and utterly speechless, I could do no more than open the door and step aside. She said no more, walked in the to kitchen and put the pot on. A few minutes later, the water boiled, and since I was hiding in a different room, the next thing I heard without seeing of course, was a glass breaking...this was enough to bring me out of seclusion, and what I saw was Ms. Reeve, again holding her tea bag, though now dripping with hot water on the kitchen floor above the broken glass...she had poured the water into a glass, not a mug. Without changing expression, she politely asked if I would boil more water for her. Apparently she decided she wasn't going to move while I did this for her, so for the next five minutes she stood there waiting for the next pot to boil, unwavering in her desire to remain stock still. I suppose she thought more tea would stay in the bag if she didn't move. Luckily for me I was aware of the benefits of using a mug, so she succeeded in having her cup of tea. Never said more than thank you, either,and left as quietly as she came. Naturally, when Mom and Dad came in the house, I had some questions for them...and soon learned Ms. Reeve was our neighbor. My parents aren't exactly legendary story tellers in their own right, so I was left to imagine her riding around on a broomstick in her spare time...that is, until the first snow came, and Dad went to plow her out, with me in tow. Her house was secluded, and by house I mean a building with a roof on it. No electricity, windows boarded up, not even a fire burning. For a 5 year old this was living proof we had witches in our midst. And then she came down to offer Dad compensation for plowing her out...of course, Dad wouldn't dream of accepting, but when I saw the rolled up pile of money in her hand, even I knew he was loony for not taking such an amount. I think it could have paid for my college tuition.
As the years went by, her story came out in bits and pieces. After many years I learned she grew up in Runnymede, the nicest farm in Chester County. I was flabbergasted to see her living in such abject poverty, and made it a personal quest to find out her story in greater detail. All I could really discover were stories that cemented her place as community freak. Driving around with a dead dog in her back seat for weeks, during summer!, until a few folks could trick her out of her car long enough to extract the remains...she never had much, if anything to say when we passed her out riding. All we ever seemed to get was this vacant stare. One day I was down in Greenville at my favorite bookstore when I was about 22, and walking around a corner I ran head first in to a pile of books being held by someone behind them. Luckily I avoided knocking the pile down, but not without grabbing the pile of books. The person behind them must have thought I was trying to abscond with them, for a struggle ensued to reclaim ownership...and though I was merely trying to avoid spilling them, that is exactly what happened. Lo and behold, it was Ms. Reeve on the other side of the books. Needless to say, I was dumbfounded yet again. From seeing her in a bookstore, or away from her house, or having so many books in her possession, I'm not quite sure, but nary a word escaped my mouth as I bent down to scoop them up...until she peered at me in her singular way and inquired, 'you're Bruce's son aren't you?' I fessed up, and we then proceeded to exchange pleasantries like the oldest of family friends. She knew I had started riding races, that my sister was doing great winning as Dad was.
I asked her about the load of books she was buying, and she told me she knew every person the books were about. Personally knew them. Ms. Reeve hadn't changed in appearance even slightly over the fifteen or so years since my first encounter, nor had her choice of clothing. Skirt, trash bags for socks, socks on hands, jacket upon jacket...
I'm always reminded of Ms. Reeve when those cherry trees blossom every spring. I wonder if I'll ever hear the real story, the whole story. But now what I find myself thinking is, when I'm old and gray, wrinkled and shriveled, will I scare the bejesus out of some unsuspecting little 5 year old by asking for a cup of tea?

I keep wondering about spiritual enlightenment...in fact, I imagined these 30 days to draw me closer to finding what exactly ticks inside of me, free from the fog and trance of distractions, practices from almost 20 years of a driving desire to ride races and a singular focus to be able to ride and train that eroded bit by bit the past 10 years, succumbing to losses and hurts, a suffering brought on only by me and the stories weaved so cleverly by an ever vigilant ego. I've come to realize the seeker in me is alive and well, the part of myself craving answers and clarity once directed to understanding life and others who have been a part of it. Answers have indeed come, some blinding in their clarity, still others rising to my consciousness slowly like a lazy summer morning sunrise. I've arrived at a place which brings me tremendous comfort and also something approaching paralyzing understanding. I'm grateful for the process, for whatever it was in me that decided I needed this journey, and particularly for whatever it is in me which reached for the books I've read, the podcasts I listen to every morning, the part of me which finds me arriving at Sunday morning meeting to sit with Quakers, to look within again and again.
Most of what I have found is humbling. I still need to be right. I still allow myself to wallow in indecisioin about future steps...I've found some grace about riding no longer being the primary impetus of who and what I am, though letting go entirely eludes my grasp. Friends in my life have come and gone, some of them going still leaves my heart aching, for I know I could have fought harder to keep them, while others arrive and stay thanks to the person I've become. For years having women as true friends was beyond me, now I count myself lucky to have at least as many as men among my friends. I yearn to find the one true love of my life, and question how and why it is this still so damn difficult. There have been so many contradictions in me and my life, most of them leaving a scar. As this 30 day journey has unfolded I have come to understand aligning what matters in my heart with what I do with my life, these contradictions will fade as healthy practices replace the old ones. Now I can go to the bar, drink water and spend time with friends with only a minimun of angst about drinking, though the urge to drink is still with me it is one I can allow to be without it being in charge. Inviting Mara to tea is a lesson I dearly hope to practice daily, a buddhist lesson as important as any I've come to know. This journey has opened me in a way, reminded me the power of Landmark is alive and well inside. Expressing honesty without judgment is a work in progress, but I'm able to admit one that is going well...while knowing I'm still closer to the beginning than the end.
It's a funny thing, this idea of practice. In yoga this is a simple, yet all-powerful, part of life. Sharing this with others has become a commitment for me. Working on being present has always been one of my greatest attribute while on a horse, though now it's moved on to being present from minute to minute, regardless of where I am. One of the great ironies of being present is being open to those moments of doubt and hurt, not shutting down or reverting to those old practices of self-medicating or judging others, and how this may be even more important than the times of love and happiness. To acknowledge the moments where the storm is raging within is the first step in allowing the moment to pass, and this was a huge re-discovery for me the past few weeks. Just last Saturday I helped a friend deal with her own storm, and yet talking with her tonight I realized I didn't follow up the next day, or the day after that. I learned to keep your friends close, remind them I'm still here, still open to listening and sharing, but first I have to remember. Fingers crossed I will.
Jack Kornfield wrote what I think will turn out to be an all-time favorite book for me, and in it he shares a meditation every chapter. The book is called A Path With Heart, and the meditation I put in my car goes like this;
May I be filled with loving kindness.
May I be well.
May I be peaceful and at ease.
May I be happy.
I love how he chose to use the word May...it encompasses the idea we're not always so, yet also gracefully allows us to acknowledge we can be. We're asking our heart the way a lover beckons one to bed with open arms and a welcoming smile.
The journey has only just begun, but it has gratefully become one to look forward to. One step at a time.

The last couple of years every spring the birds come back in full force, and it is always one of my favorite aspects of this time of year...however, it has become the habit of a certain pair of Starlings to nest right above my back door. Now, I happen to be an animal lover of the highest degree (cats notwithstanding), heck I can't even bring myself to trap the mice that occasionally vacation during the winter in my kitchen, despite their complete disregard for personal hygiene. And these starlings, doing their best to refurbish the nest they left behind last year, always leave a pile of their favorite nesting material on my little porch, which wouldn't be so bad if they didn't use the kitchen window next to the door as their bathroom...and I have to admit, the urge to evict them runs strong whenever I come home to fresh droppings. As intelligent as birds are, why have they refused to evolve to the point of building their own outhouse?!?! I mean, here I am, the kind of person who laments human indifference to the animal world we keep building upon, shoving them aside without the slightest thought of the impact we have towards those we share this world with...but it does irk me so, I have to say, when I find a squirrel ransacking the bird feeder I've just filled up, or the deer who callously feed on my neighbors veggie garden. Can't we just show some mutual respect and dignity??
Of course, I'll never keep the damn starlings from their yearly habit of turning my back door into the ghetto, despite their predilection for tipping other birds eggs out of their nest and installing their own eggs, so the other birds will hatch a baby starling instead of their own! The odd thought has come to me, thinking these effin starlings remind me of the human race, and that is when I really battle putting up a board to prevent them from nesting at my house...I think the lesson here for me is to channel my inner buddha nature and accept the ebb and flow of life and all that live in it. Obviously this hasn't quite reached second nature status in me. Oh, the work I have to do...............
In a related note, I just started reading a book called A Path With Heart. The title comes from Don Juan speaking to Carlos Castaneda, and he simply said; When choosing a path, take your time. Investigate each one thoroughly. And then ask yourself this, Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good. If it does not, it is of no use.
The power of this observation hit me squarely between the eyes. The summation is so clear, so unequivocal, it was like trying to look away from the fullest of moons on a crisp fall night. And I hope my memory safely stores this one away forever.

Last night I spent an hour making two cd's for a neighbor of my father...he's been the farm manager as long as I can remember, and I've been saying good morning to him, and not much else, for years...he and his crew drive around the farm picking up trash every day, reliable as Old Faithful. As someone who is fanatic about litter, I've always marveled at them picking up someone else's trash day in and day out. About ten years ago I got a message that Mr. Young would like me to stop by the shop. Not having a clue what he wanted, I felt a twinge of anxiety about this summons, not unlike being beckoned to the Headmasters office unaware of any transgression. It didn't help that Mr. Young never had a lot to say when we passed on the road. He was never rude or short, just taciturn in that old school way. When I arrived in the shop, he and his crew was there milling around. I said morning to Mr. Young, and he turned to an oil can with some envelopes and litter sitting on top, asked me what beer I liked to drink. Not exactly sure what he was getting at, I hesitantly replied Yuengling, kinda stammering. He asked me if I knew anything about what was on the oil can. I saw an envelope with my name on it, and immediately knew I was surrounded by men who picked up trash in the course of their days work and I was a culprit in their eyes. Along with the envelope and litter was a couple of Coors light bottles, and I remembered the day before stopping along a road that borders the farm they work on, where they would naturally pick up and trash. I confessed to having my lunch on the side of the road the day before, having opened my door to let some air in and put my feet up for a short nap after I realized my letter must have blown out while sleeping...I told Mr. Young I was quite old enough to drink at home, I don't drink during the day anyway, and look I told him, as I pulled out two cigarrette butt's from my back pocket that I smoked that morning, I don't like litter, I never do, I don't even chuck my butt's out! I'm sure Mr. Young was a poker player, because his expression never changed. He didn't argue with my thoughts, but he didn't verbally accept my explanation either. I apologized for the letter he picked up, told him I was sorry, and when he didn't offer to continue the conversation, I bolted out the door like a scared suitor meeting his dates Dad for the first time. Never once did Mr. Young ever bring it up with me again, but for years it burned me to consider he thought less of me for being one of those punk ass kids who have no regard for the farm he looked after, a neighbor worse still. I was raised to respect my elders, and with very few exceptions I've managed to remain one who does, but I swear I could see disappointment in his eyes that morning. I apologized, and I meant it, but for years I've wondered if there was something I could say to finally put it to rest. Ever since, Mr. Young has been the same old good neighbor, always says good morning, waves or whatever the situation calls for. The last couple of years he'll even stop his truck if I'm riding one of my horses for a brief chat. About the weather, the season, something short and quick. Not long ago I heard his wife had passed away some months ago, and enough time had come and gone I felt awkward expressing my sympathy. But I've kept thinking it would be nice to share something with him, convey my long held torment about how he might view me after picking up my envelope with the beer bottles and litter, tell him I was sorry about losing his wife, and express my gratitude for his life of service to the most beautifully maintained farm in Chester County. Despite having known this man all my life, I didn't know squat about him, except he has a skeet range behind his house. I'd only ever seen him in his truck or on some farm equipment, and since holding a gun for me inspires the heeby jeebies, I couldn't imagine what gift I could give him. Well, last night I was on itunes trying to find some new music, and it hit me; make the man a cd! Of course I had no clue what, if any, musical inclinations he had, so it was a little like driving at night with the headlights off, but I persevered. And now I have to deliver the two I made. Gonna go back to that shop, like a man damnit, and share my thoughts. Of course, I hope like hell the rest of the crew ain't there. But isn't speaking the truth supposed to come easy?!?! Why yes, it is, but there is a reluctance in me still. Where does it come from? I learned in Landmark the courage we need and sometimes find hard to summon is the result of a childhood fear, the attached feelings which come with being naked in front of another. Figuratively speaking naturally. I don't think Mr. Young would care a great deal for me walking in wearing my birthday suit. But the impulse to protect our precious little heart is so strong, isn't it? Amazing how our defense mechanisms as we grow older do nothing but guarantee wounding the precious little heart in the act of covering it up...
I hope Mr. Young is there tomorrow. And I hope I don't find myself stammering in front of him.

Sundays....what is it about Sundays?? I woke up this morning on six hours sleep, not terribly enthused, not particularly energetic, but by the time I got to the barn and fed my horses breakfast I was smiling and looking forward to a little music. Brandi Carlile was my muse today...And as I was happily mucking out, singing so out of tune you might have wandered past thinking 'Is someone in distress around here?!', I found some inner spirit full of vigor taking over. I decided to go to Quaker meeting, looking forward to meditating and hopefully hearing something inspiring, when I laughed at the ridiculous juxtaposition of looking forward to meeting when my childhood Sunday morning was always filled with dread knowing, just knowing, at some point mom or dad would beckon me to get cleaned up and dressed for church. Aaaargh, what a colossal disappointment that sentence brought me. Wearing the inevitable wool suit only served to heighten my discomfort, so by the time Blythe and I were trailing our folks to church we would find every crack in the sidewalk and rhyme that kiddy saying about breaking your mothers back...nice kids, eh? I would find myself sitting there next to dad, and invariably at some point he would fall asleep, only to waken when the first snore escaped him. Eventually I began to question organized religion, always finding the hypocrisy and guilt trips too much to bear, the glaring deficiencies too large to forgive. In my twenties I completely abandoned any pretense of going to church, though my spiritual practice began to take shape in the form of reading and holding on feverishly to integrity and doing the right thing...with numerous mis-steps along the way. Reading someone like Ayn Rand impacted me in the most positive way, reminding me how we're all responsible for ourselves, no one else can be held accountable for what we do nor how we do it. I felt like I found a guru, a wise old sage whispering directly in my ear, and my ear only. As my thirties rolled around, the grim reality of how life works, watching people drift away from kindness, honesty and forthrightness left me reeling, as friend after friend turned in to acquaintance after failing some internal test only I was privy to. Instead of reaching out and helping, I began to withdraw. And I justified it with some hollow proclamation like if they want my support all they have to do is ask for it. Then, without any tangible thinking on my part, some things began to change in my life...I busted up my shoulder the last day of racing, and almost by chance started practicing yoga, thanks to a suggestion from my friend Katie. It wasn't long before the life of a yogi rooted itself deep inside, so firmly it will always be in life. The knowledge and understanding we are what we practice, without judgment or expectation, resonates so clearly with me I sometimes marvel how I missed out on this simple and yet spectacular summation of a well lived life. Life is indeed what we practice. The power of a group practice, the energetic sharing with your fellow yogi's is a precious experience, one I endeavour to bring to my local community one day soon. Not long after beginning my practice I took the Landmark Forum, and my world was completely turned upside down, rocked to my core in the best possible way. To find the tools that allow you to understand yourself so thoroughly, with a laugh in your belly and judgment long gone, was like finding my true self for the first time...truly remarkable and invigorating. And then, finally, to find some curiosity about Buddhism. I went to a meditation at my yoga studio one Friday night, having no idea what I would experience, and by some stroke of luck listened to a lady named Tara Brach via podcast. There was something in her voice I just gravitated towards, and I've been hooked ever since. Learning to be present is a gift of unbelievable power, another practice I look forward to growing old with. As I sat this morning at meeting, I couldn't help but find the similarities in all three parts of my life, the basic tenet of each being so closely aligned, albeit differing in the methodology, it made me smile. I don't think I'll ever identify with the classical idea of God, nor in the power of organized religion, but today I realized it doesn't really matter. If I can go to meeting and revel in the power of a group sitting, my own buddhist Sangha, and walk away feeling centered if not almost joyous, it isn't hard for me to see how someone might walk away from church with the same feeling. And this might be the best lesson of all.

Saturday, one week to go...
And wouldn't you know it, I had the wheels come off last night. Went to Virginia for my buddy Sean's 40th birthday, packed up plenty of juice and cleanse just so I could keep going without any issue. I drove south in an odd mood of both looking forward to seeing Sean's new home, my friends Laird and Annie, and a touch of melancholy after having a tough conversation the night before, the kind where you are left with the distinct feeling of my forehead taking the brunt of a stone walls hostilities.
So off I went, and for good measure I even put on my ipod and tried to listen to my girl Tara Brach give one of her Buddhist lessons...maybe it was a sign that I had to stop trying to listen because one of my horses had grabbed an earpiece and promptly chewed it beyond repair, thus robbing me of being able to hear well enough while driving. Damn horses. At any rate, the past week or so I had been contemplating the end game of my 30 days, and the inevitable day of eating and drinking, putting my litmus test of choice to an exam...at some point I had to see if I could simply choose to drink. And there was some part of me which thought it should come during the 30 days, while I'm still not eating solid foods. At least not eating solid foods when I'm not having a meltdown at the Superfresh. Ahem. Granted, I didn't really think it was going to be yesterday, but that is how it went. And somehow I managed to not eat at the party, but I suppose that had something to do with the fact I always seemed to have a drink in my hand. So the test is on...
It is an odd thing, this growing up business. Driving up Sean and Ann's driveway reminded me of so many things. For 15 years Sean and I drove to the races in Virginia together, first in his Chevy Cavalier when neither one of us could navigate a stick shift without a neck brace and nothing but a little cash to our name. Now, instead of heading to the races I'm driving up a driveway to a farm Sean and Ann just bought, with their one year old Miles tottering around the house. It's a funny thing to see the first best friend you ever have with a little belly, a kid on his arm. You swear it was only yesterday when you were playing street hockey til all hours of the night, but the reality of your memory reminds you just how long ago it really was...gone is the insecure little kid who could barely look you in the eye, replaced by a successful businessman, husband, and father! Do you think our parents ever experienced the bemused thoughts that come when you go from child to parent? I can only see my parents as parents, not struggling kids trying to navigate this perplexing thing we call life...

Funerals are a funny thing. Yesterday I went to a gathering for Mrs. Hannum, one of the truly remarkable people from this small little part of the world. Our culture has imbued in us this obligation of mourning when someone dies, and there is no doubt when the occasion calls for it we find ourselves awash in grief and thoughts full of what may have been...and yet, on a day like yesterday I couldn't help but feel a certain sense of gratitude, even joy at the service for Mrs. Hannum. She was a woman who lived the life she wanted, a lady who wrung out every drop of energy and focus given her, for 90 years. She pioneered land preservation in our area, spent almost every last penny to her name in the name of keeping land open and foxhunting. And she lived 90 years! While I was pondering the irony of celebrating death yesterday, I couldn't help but be inspired by her legacy. Is it not true how we gravitate towards someone with such passion, how we allow a certain space for those who unquestionably follow their heart?? Mrs. Hannum could be among the most unbending personalities you'll ever meet in your life, yet rarely if ever would you hear a negative word...and doesn't that come from knowing the lady believed with every fiber of her being what she was doing was right? Fanatics should always hold a special place inside us, for they exemplify simple, straightforward love and devotion. I left the service yesterday humbled, knowing I have more than once lost my way, allowed my own fears and insecurities to sabotage what my heart desired...and reminded it can be found again.
I'm currently reading a book called Big Mind-Big Heart. I don't necessarily aspire to be a zen master, or a zen anything for that matter, but a bodhisattva perhaps. The cool thing about any spiritual book is your particular leanings and beliefs don't really matter. We can learn so much from other walks of life, if only we're open to it, free from presumptions and judgment. This book goes into depth about the voices we have inside us and how we might let them see the light of day without the tangled web of insecurity running the show...knowing the voice of fear is in me, regardless of whether or not I try to stifle it or ignore it, and allowing it to come out has been a powerful experience for me. I've done plenty of work in other walks of life, and they've been incredibly helpful, too. This book gives me yet another way to work with what is inside, the pretty and the ugly, the powerful and also the weak, the small and oh yes the very big...just today, I was reminded how the seeker in me is what led me to this 30 day juicing cleanse. I'm grateful to have such a strong seeker in me, for it's taken me places I wouldn't have dreamt of going without it all my life, but knowing it only one voice, one part of many different voices, I can begin to see more clearly the other parts inside, free from feeling threatened. I have the voice of desire, the self, fear, the controller, and on and on it goes...as I spend time with one and then the next, each voice finds its clarity, allowing me to unravel each strand as an inquiry, an investigation...as if pieces of clothing. And you get to laugh, too. Being able to see why is a constant source of entertainment. Even though you're laughing at yourself. Perhaps precisely because I'm laughing at myself...

Monday...two weeks on the calendar. I'd love to report I just blissfully swam through Easter weekend, but alas, this couldn't be farther from the truth. The fact is, I had a meltdown. Two, really. The first came on Saturday, when I violated on of lifes ultimate truths; Don't go food shopping when you're hungry. Thanks to my cupboard being bare I didn't get to juice for lunch, then realized I better get to the store before dinner time...so I strolled in to the Super Fresh foolishly thinking I'm only getting fruits and veggies, lemons and limes. As you could guess, the fruit and vegetable section in my store just so happens to be located right next to the salad bar and take away sections, for those who want their own ready made lunch or dinner. Simply out of curiosity I wandered by the salad bar, and before I knew it was salivating over what the sign said was grilled chicken but looked like the meat version of fake crap legs you see from time to time...in other words, it looked inedible. But try telling that to my stomach...nooooooooooo. In less than a blink of an eye I had a strip in my sweaty palm, quickly deposited in my awaiting mouth. Since this was the first bite of anything in almost two weeks, instead of abating my appetite, naturally it only inspired more hunger. At precisely the moment after wolfing down the chicken, an aroma caught my attention...looking around for the culprit, I noticed the rotisserie chicken in the ready to go section, and though this sight didn't trigger a mad dash over, the big, plump potato wedges sitting next to them most certainly did...and like a seasoned jewelry thief I sauntered past and swept two juicy fries right out of the tin. Thinking alarm bells would soon go off and security beckoned, I high tailed it out of there. Luckily the cops weren't called, and I escaped unharmed. It's such an amazing thing, being captive to hunger and how it simultaneously cuts off oxygen to the part of the brain that operates reason and logic. I didn't have a single thought while skulking around the salad bar and rotisserie chicken, it was all impulse. By the time I made it to the checkout aisle (and digested the wedges) I had to laugh at my pathetic outburst. I was rabid for only a few brief seconds, but there was no stopping my transgressions...
My second breakdown may have been a tad more nefarious. I stopped by my friend Butch's house for a little Easter get together his family was having...Everyone was out on the porch drinking and chatting, and though I had kindly refused the offer of a drink (I wasn't staying for dinner, either) my buddy Butch had his drink sittin' next to me while we discussed terribly important topics like Easter Bunnies and such, his bourbon and coke started whispering in my ear. I swear it was wooing me. And like some body double swooped down and took over, I watched my right hand slowly take Butch's drink and bring it to my lips...once. Twice. Three times. Finally he said, 'dude, why don't you just let me pour you one?'. No no, I told him. Don't want one. Really. Two minutes later, when dinner was announced as ready, I thought I was heading for the door, when I found myself following Butch to the bar. He poured himself another, which I promptly picked up and took two swigs of. It was the strangest thing. Again, no thinking, no conscious decision making. Just instinct. I didn't pour my own. I did leave right then. But why did I have those swigs of his drink?
I like to think it's as easy as remembering how during the weekend, when I was at Quaker meeting in the morning working on my meditating or contemplating almost two weeks of my juicing cleanse under my belt, thinking I was due a break of some kind. People have expressed some concern for my body dealing with such a long break from real eating, thinking I'm going a little over the top...and some part of my ego got hold of that, pretty soon turning it into a justification of sorts...I deserve a break. Some food. A drink. Something! I look back now and realize there was a little storm brewing in me. I called my friend Geoff. Never heard back. And I left it at that. I didn't follow up again and again, as I promised myself. My conviction started to waver, lo and behold my old defense mechanisms pop up...
By today I could see the picture clearly. One step leading to another. And though frankly it irks me I managed to go almost two weeks with only the one bad day, today I humbly acknowledged to myself this is a work in progress. I'm a work in progress. And to quit with the judgment...you know, if I ever meet the freakin' Genie with the magic bottle that grants me 3 wishes, the first one is going to be to not have any judgment in my life anymore. It is my achilles heel, and it torments me so. The only good thing about it anymore is how I know something is going on when I'm in it, so I begin to look, I start an inquiry...one day perhaps I'll be able to start the inquiry without suffering from judgment first. Perhaps.
There is always something to work on, isn't there??

Day 12...
A day to make you chuckle. To ponder this crazy thing we call life and all the ups and downs that come with it. Today wasn't merely a morning spent riding and schooling, it was a day worth remembering for many reasons.
When I was a kid, my sister Blythe's best friend growing up was Sanna Neilson. We were next door neighbors, our parents were close. In fact, Sanna's mother is Blythe's godmother. Sanna and I always got along great, though never terribly close during those years...as we grew up and started to make inroads in steeplechasing, Blythe and I as professional jockeys, Sanna as an accomplished amateur. Soon enough Sanna started training for her step-father George Strawbridge, and not long after I took over riding races for her. Sanna and I won our first race at Saratoga together, and her barn began filling up. Before long she started dating another jockey, Craig Thornton, and then one day, as often happens to jockeys, I found out I was out of a job by looking at the entries. No phone call, no conversation. Normally this isn't the biggest deal, but Sanna and I had been lifelong friends, and it did hurt. On top of that, her boyfriend was someone I had an intense dislike for. Not only was he a good jockey, which created a understandable professional tension, in the time he came over from New Zealand had shown a style of riding bordering on ruthless and a personality to match. For a couple of years everyone went about their jobs, all of being successful. Blythe and I both became champion jockey, and not long after Sanna won leading trainer...despite being neighbors and sharing the land to train on, there wasn't very much drama nor animosity between Sanna and I, and she and Blythe remained best friends. Blythe actually moved in with Sanna and Craig, and it was after this things took a heavy turn. I was riding up at Saratoga when my friend Gus and best friend Sean took me aside to tell me Craig had sexually assaulted Blythe.
I was dumbstruck initially. Then outraged as they shared the details. Knowing my feelings towards Craig, which I had always been outspoken about, combined with the family histories and Blythe's friendship with Sanna had discouraged Blythe from speaking to anyone for a few days, when finally she told Sean what happened...At that point in our lives, my relationship with Blythe was tenuous at best. We had grown up fanatically competitive, and that only grew during our time riding races against one another. When you both ride for your father, against each other, against our father and one another, it only got more heated. Having said that, when Sean and Gus told me what had happened I knew I had but one choice; take care of Blythe. And really it wasn't a choice at all. The only other option would be unthinkable, and it never occurred to me to do nothing. So I drove home, took a baseball bat and a friend to the house Craig was staying in, met him at the door and told him in no uncertain terms he was leaving town.
The next stop was Sanna's house (Craig was sleeping elsewhere after assaulting Blythe). I told her my feelings, told her I was worried about her well-being since Craig had already broken a guys jaw with a beer bottle and been known to rough up a prior girlfriend...and that she should be careful before Craig leaves town. Of course, I had made up my mind what was going to happen without consulting too many people, Sanna included. Blythe had only a month or so before moved to another house a mile down the road, and there was simply no way she could remain living so close to the man who had assaulted her. The fact Craig and Sanna had a thriving operation made no matter to me. Nor did the two of them being together as a couple make a difference. In my mind, some things are just too important. Too sacred. It wasn't long before I was made to realize these feelings weren't shared by everyone. Craig was sent off to sober up, after claiming he had a problem, with the understanding he would come back to ride for Sanna, the question of resuming their personal relationship to be decided at a later date. I was flabbergasted and torn up. My pleas for reason to prevail were met with mute silence. By almost everyone around me. Parents. Friends. The local community seemed to think the most important element was the continued success of Sanna's training operation, and Craig riding for her was the desired situation. Blythe went to work for Jonathan Sheppard full time so she wouldn't have to confront Craig every day out on the gallops. As for me, I had to put up with it.
Needless to say, it wasn't long before things changed. Sanna was no longer comfortable seeing me every day, so I was told my presence on the gallops was no longer tenable. I had to leave. By this time I had started to train myself, so it meant I had to not only find a barn for my horses, but also find suitable places to train the horses...As fate would have it, my training suffered, as did I. The steeplechase world is a small one, sometimes painfully small. Those years were beyond difficult. I lost a lot of faith during that time. Faith in people. Faith in life working out.
Eventually, Blythe retired from riding due to consecutive concussions. She married, moved to Maryland and had two beautiful kids. She's happy. I kept on riding and training, kept winning races as a jockey but struggled training...Sanna remained at the top, her operation cemented as one of the most stable and reliably successful. During that tumultuous summer, I had taken a horse from a local man named Michael Moran to train and ride. A horse he was fed up with, no longer interested in trying to work with. We did well, won our first race together. Michael was great about it, though he took the horse back after winning, thinking I had sorted him out. One bad start later, he was back again for the fall races...of course, as fate would have it, the weekend the horse was slated to run was a double weekend, and I had to go to Georgia to ride while Michael's horse was going to Virginia. Despite being the trainer of the horse I had more commitments in Georgia, though I really wanted to ride Michael's horse. Michael understood the situation I was in, not being able to ride his horse. But who was going to? Michael wanted Craig. Simply on the merits of best available jockey, it was a no-brainer. Craig was the best available. But in my mind there was no way. No fucking way. Over my dead body. I didn't want to, but I had to tell Michael why I felt the way I did. So I told him about Blythe. To a man who has 3 daughters, no less. And when I was finished, he said this was business. I nearly exploded. But nothing was changing his mind. I called the other people who owned half the horse. They said it was Michael's decision. I was apoplectic. My head was swimming with the thought, what is wrong with people???? Have they no morality, no sense of right, no sense of community?!?! That Saturday, Michael's horse left my barn in the morning to be ridden that afternoon by the man who assaulted my sister only months before. My relationship with Michael, one that started on the best of terms, disintegrated. Vanished. I didn't speak to him for years after. And that winter he sent a 3 year old to Sanna's barn for her to train. His name was McDynamo. Some 8 years later he retired the sports all-time money career money earner.
Sometimes truth is indeed stranger than fiction.

When I took Landmark Education 3 years ago, I had a revelation. I had many revelations, actually. My world was turned upside down, in the best possible way. One of them allowed me to see the person I had been, and why. Without judgment either. And Sanna was among the first phone calls I wanted to make. For something like 5 years we could barely tolerate being within shouting distance of one another, sworn enemies of the deepest kind. But in the weekend I spent at Landmark, it all washed away in me. The hurt and the hate evaporated. Where I once sneered I now sympathized. It was the single most powerful weekend of my life, and I couldn't help but want to share with my friends and family, with my ex-girlfriend even! And yes, I wanted to share it with Sanna. After all, we had grown up together, and our history went back long before any of us rode a race. So I called Sanna. I apologized for taking matters into my own hand, and my hand only, when Craig assaulted Blythe. I took ownership for not realizing how what I did affected Sanna's life, for when it all happened it was generally assumed Sanna and Craig were going to get married one day...I said I'm sorry, and I meant every single word of it. As you might imagine, Sanna had a hard time believing what she was hearing. She politely declined coming to my dads house for a meeting of my family and friends so I could share the Landmark experience. And she kept her distance after that, too. But that was okay. I had no axe to grind anymore, no daggers to carry. In me there was nothing but kindness and compassion. You see, what Landmark does is give you the tools to understand why you do what you do, but also the tools to see why other people do what they do. And from then on all I could think was the shy little girl who only wanted to get along. I couldn't see the snob who took her life as successful trainer as fait accompli anymore...it was nothing more than a thin veil covering the snot nosed 10 year old I grew up with.
Since Landmark, Sanna and I have been cordial. She hasn't even attempted to explain, apologize or offer a handshake, and you know what? It doesn't matter. Oh sure, there is still some little ego in me who wants my pound of flesh, my heartfelt apology, but I see it for what it is; my poor little ego. Nothing more, nothing less. It's nothing short of amazing, not only the complete lack of animosity but even better the human spirit of kindness and empathy I felt flowing inside. And how, you might very well ask, has this manifested itself? In what way have I shown this complete and utter turnaround?
Sanna has lost her job as trainer for her soon to be ex-step father. Kicked out of her barn, kicked off the gallops. Where she once trained 30, she now has 5 or 6. Instead of picking up the phone to give orders, she's in the barn riding out. She has one rider working for her instead of 6. Yesterday she called me to ask if I would school a horse for her. And I quite happily said yes. The fact we were schooling over my fences, and she didn't ask permission? No matter. I was just happy to help her out. And you know how I know just how far I've come? The idea of reminding her how life has changed didn't even cross my mind.
I'm on my way. I might not be there yet, but I am on my way.

Day 10

You know, every time I log on here and pick my font, I get this sinking feeling it looks the same no matter what I pick...today is called trebuchet. What the hell is a trebuchet? I think it's french for jackass, just type and don't worry about the font.
I digress.
Today was the kind of day you'd like to have had someone along with you. Watching the moon this morning just before sunrise, riding in the sun with nothing but deer to keep you company, contemplating this mornings podcast, meeting in kennett with a lady to discuss my yoga/local food/community center, even going to the dump and helping an elderly couple dispose of there lawn trimmings...all essentially unimportant tasks I fill my life with, but isn't that the biggest part of our lives?? Just because we're doing something less than life altering doesn't lower the experience...and ever since my near meltdown last Wednesday I can't help but notice my mood. Or perhaps even closer to the truth is my lack of moods. There is this placidness, even when I'm hungry (which is every day) or wanting that freakin' box of brown rice. I find I'm not getting lost nearly as easily in the distractions and defense mechanisms...Of course I still have my moments. But increasingly, this is exactly what they are; moments. They haven't been turning in to minutes (oh alright, they do turn in to minutes from time to time) or hours. I'm able to recalibrate simply by identifying where I'm at. Lord only knows how far I still have to go, and if I actually go racing while on this juicing cleanse it could get ugly quick. Real quick. And yet, I am smiling at the thought of knowing one of the greatest lessons I learned from yoga is in me for good...practice. Just practice. It's such a simple word, isn't it?? But in yoga, your practice (what it is called when you come to your mat and do yoga) is merely that. Practice. No judgment. No good or bad. Just practice. And in the ten days since I started, and turned off the tv to write, to explore, to read spiritual books and commit to my podcasts every day, I can see the fruits becoming ever more readily available. Now if only I can practice reaching those fruits.........
Today I read an e-mail from an old friend who happened to also be an old flame of mine. She very serendipitously asked me about why I thought our relationship failed. Being the sweet woman she is, the only two options she gave me both involved some failing of her own. I had to chuckle at the temptation to take the bait and give one answer or maybe even both, knowing full well she's a stubborn ol' cuss who likes to argue...but I could not. I felt bad there was a lack of understanding here, and though I had apologized more than once for ending our relationship, not knowing the why can be a hard thing to let go of. So I told her. The correct answer was me fearing not being good enough. Good enough for what, you might say? Make her happy? Convince her to move here? There is a little background here necessary to make it complete. When we were together, this lady, despite being utterly optimistic and joyful from first thought to last, always carried around with her a sense of worry, an insecurity almost like a shadow...never in full sight, yet never far off either. We weren't together very long, and since she lived in another country our time was often shared with family when she was here, so the chance to really develop a deeper connection didn't come to us. The reason I share this is so I can relate why I eventually came to the point of worrying about not being good enough. I worried I couldn't help her get past what I knew was there, yet hadn't discussed at great length with her. I wondered if I was up to it, and most certainly I feared I wasn't. What should happen if I can't get her past these insecurities, what if she won't acknowledge them? But far far worse, what if I could?? Ahh, now this is the nitty gritty...I'm not convinced this is the answer, but I do know full well it is entirely possible. More than likely I stopped short because I worried I wasn't good enough to help get her past her fears, and that was hard enough to admit to myself, much less anyone else. But I've come to realize how incredibly important it is to understand most of our relationships that end, end because we give up on them. We quit. Pointing the finger at another is just our clever ego working his fiendish magic. And I'm not talking about those relationships that needed to end, either. There are certainly moments where we need our intelligent discernment. Some people have a different life view, one in contradiction to our own. I'm not talking about those relationships. I'm talking about the ones we miss. The ones we regret not having. And even some of those we're pissed about, years after the fact. I have finally realized how it all comes back to me. If I refuse to give in, if I refuse to be locked out, if I simply won't accept a relationship ending, it won't. Period. It is that simple. That painfully simple. Oh, I used to get lost pointing the finger and taking the high road. I was a master at that. Still am from time to time. Which is why Geoff is back in my conscience. Sure, he was the one to not call me back. Again and again. Sure I used that as the perfect reason to not call him all these years. But you know what? I miss him. And I'm filled with sorrow we both have missed out on having one another in each others lives all this time. There is only reason for the sorrow and regret, too. That is the feeling of responsibility weeping...Ego kept me from calling again and again. Ego kept me from going to his house. Still does. And it's nothing more than a figment of my godforsaken imagination. Some poor little perceived hurt. And it totally effin' ridiculous.
So what can I do about my lady friend all these years later? Nothing more than be honest. We can't go back in time, we can't change anything that happened. But we can come to an understanding that reconciles the hurt we've been carrying around all these years, allows us to walk forward without looking behind us.
The cool part is now, every once and a while I'll remember doing something inconsiderate to another, and I'll pick up the phone and apologize. From the heart, too. Not once has the person not accepted it. And just as easily as that you have a friend back. We can make it as complicated as we want, we can create all sorts of distractions, but if you want that friend back, all you have to do is pick up the phone and say I'm sorry.
Of course, feel free to say a bit more than that.

So yesterday I brazenly decided I was going to be unreasonable about two phone calls........And all day I've been in this mildly detached mood, hovering close to being snarky, borderline judgmental with just about everyone I came in contact with. This evening I was yet again preparing myself to eat a big ol' bowl of rice. The defense mechanisms seemed to be warming up. I wasn't in a funk, but I was a lot closer than I thought. Until now. I just got off the phone with Katherine, and I told her about Geoff, our history and what brought me to make that declaration yesterday...and while I freely admitted my ego was running the show, I thought I was merely examining my ego for what lay beneath it, supposedly not taking anything personally. Merely curious was the belief I clung to. But the cool thing about friends and honesty is, they won't let your ego run the show. The last couple of days I've been slow to see how beneficial it is to have one of your friends stay with you while you're contemplating something like my 30 day journey, or even just why I've not callen a long lost friend. And Katherine, to her credit, simply kept repeating herself as she is wont to do, 'why not just call him?' again and again. It didn't take long before I started to feel annoyed, and luckily for me a switch switched, and I saw what was going on...the infernal ego is at it again!! I could see this dilemma of calling Geoff taking on all sorts of big, HUGE, meaning, whether I called or moreso if not. And my stinking ego really wants to keep the upper hand here...I called him, I've called him numerous times over the years. He's called me the same amount of time Brandi Carlile has to join her on tour. That would be zip. Nada. I have this terribly convenient out, thanks to that scorecard. And isn't that something, the desire to keep a scorecard?!?! What a devious way to avoid getting real about what the hell is going on.......
So I called. Left another message. And after I called, sure as the sunrise I felt better. A few minutes later it dawned on me; Geoff is in for it. I mean really in for it. Every day. I'm going to call and wail down the phone to his kids (this is a house phone, by the way) to let their Dad out of the basement, to his wife his long lost best friend needs him! I'm going to overwhelm him with my love and friendship, and refuse to take no for an answer. I'm going to threaten an intervention, to throw a party in his house, by me. But I'm going to do it with a smile. Some grace. And my own Big Mind. I know in my heart he loves me. I was the best man at his wedding fercrissakes. Courage for two. Yep, letting go of the past can be a bitch, but I know better. It can also be like Sunday morning sex. With the windows open, a breeze blowing. Poor Geoff. If he only knew how little chance his ego has. Ha.
Don Quixote has found his windmill.
And yes, I do have a major crush on Brandi. That girl is all that and a box of chocolates. Dark chocolate at that.

For the first time since I began this journey of reflection and hopefully change, I missed sharing on a day...Yesterday was both encouraging and humbling. Encouraging because I took one step forward, humbling for taking one step backwards. I went to Quaker meeting in the morning to practice my group meditation and to see what might come up while I sat for almost an hour. Needless to say my mind was fully awake and full of thoughts. So I practiced tagging my thoughts and then letting them go. Good thing I had the better part of an hour to sit! The great thing about meditation is you really can't have a bad practice, if you are actually practicing, and the more you stick with it the deeper you unravel the layers keeping you from being present, the distractions we find ourselves wrapped up in from day to day. While I was sitting, my mind started with the usual stuff; horses, friends, family. As the thoughts kept coming up, one theme re-visited again and again. Acceptance, and the insecurities which keep me from being there. Sitting in the group was a woman who had in the past year expressed her interest in me time and again, usually in ways I found most uncomfortable. And though I had firmly stated my position of disinterest each and every time we spoke, it never failed when I hung up the phone, this sinking feeling of knowing she would try again. Why did I know this? Yesterday, it dawned on me the reason for this was the fact I hadn't communicated with her from her perspective, only from my own, and there was always an aloofness in me, a distance. It made me wonder if perhaps I alter my approach, let this woman in for a bit so she can spend the 5 minutes she says she only needs, then maybe we can each go on with our lives in a way neither one of is looking backwards...and while I sat in meeting, it dawned on me if I can accept her path in life, one that involves past lives, even if I do not see it/feel it/am not aware of it, then I figure we might find some common ground. Enough for her to move beyond any feelings of attachment to me, to let me go. So I called her and offered to meet for a cup of coffee. I'll see what comes of it.
The humbling part of my day came later at the races. And it's so ridiculously ironic this thing we call life, I mean I'm drivin' to the races, fairly pleased I took the opportunity to at least try and grow, patted myself on the back at least half a dozen times, drove in to the races and the very first person I see is someone who hasn't spoken to me in something like ten years. We were best friends, roommates, hell I was even the best man at his wedding. I actually made contact with his wife, exchanged pleasant waves from a distance, and though Geoff was walking next to her, I immediately chickened out and went a different direction. It was so spontaneous, the decision to turn away...I didn't even have a conscious thought before I did it. Naturally those thoughts came pronto, yet I didn't act on them, didn't take the opportunity to simply say hello to Geoff, never mind broach a subject the both of us had been avoiding for years and years. A little history; there was a Christmas party, lots of people, lots of drinking. Geoff and my first best friend have an argument, a fairly loud and tense one in front of the whole room...I happened to be in a different part of the house, never heard a peep. The next day I'm told what happened by Sean (1st best friend), I call Geoff to find out what he thought. No answer. Left him multiple messages. He left that day for Boston with his wife, and I've never spoken with him since. For years I justified my phone calls as good enough. If he wants to talk, he'll call, I kept saying. I had no bad feelings towards Geoff, none. He was a great friend, the most decent human being you could ask for, and a hilarious roommate. We argued like cats and dogs about anything and never once took it personally. I missed him and our friendship terribly. But in my mind I had reached out, more than once. And the fact he never once returned my calls was the perfect out for me and my precious ego...at any rate, after taking Landmark, he was on my list of phone calls. So I called him again. Left him messages. Didn't return my calls. Some people would say it's time to move on, I did what I could. Yet the man lives half an hour away. I still have his number...and if I let it go at that, can I really and truly say I did the best I could? Course not. Sometimes in life you simply have to be unreasonable. Go to his house or call him every day til he talks to me? It's gotta be one or the other. You see, I have the ace up my sleeve. I know whats behind Geoffs stubbornness. If I live the rest of my life without Geoff at the very least hearing me out once, it will be no ones fault by my own. He may not be willing to see past the pride and ego, but not only am I willing, I already have. There is nothing for me to take personally, despite the fact I am the one who didn't get called back, despite being the best friend who missed out on being Uncle Chip to two kids, and a relationship that made my life special.
So I'm going to do one or the other. Maybe even both if he clings to his considerable orneriness.
You want stupid?, I'll show you stupid! Hahahahahahahaha, the Miller mantra at its best........
Wish me luck. On both counts.

Saturday night...a really long, rewarding day, and in many ways one worth remembering. I've been sitting here pondering for a while, just returning from the Cheshire point to point cocktail party after another successful foray watching others eat and drink some scrumptious food. I'm loathe to say it's getting easier, because the first hour was anything but...hands in the pocket, lots of talking and even more listening seem to have done the trick. Better write that down for future reference...
Back to my pondering. I spent this morning riding alone with my trusty ipod, singing like only I can. Ahem. It was one of those mornings you just can't help but looooooooooooooooooove. Cold spring morning with bright sun, frisky horses. I took one of my young horses out for our 2nd to last day of foxhunting, and Snuff was great. What got me to thinking later in the day was a question posed to me by an older gent...he asked me if I was going to succeed my father as fieldmaster, whenever that day might come. Of course I had no answer, since it certainly isn't my decision. Fieldmaster is the person who leads the entire group of folks on horses, and it is an important position to hold. The fieldmaster decides where everyone goes, has to understand what the hounds are doing, where they're going, oftentimes before one can truly tell...a good fieldmaster is kind of like a great referee; you hardly notice what they're doing. And a great fieldmaster is one who can keep up with hounds when they are running (chasing the fox) without making a wrong decision about how exactly to do that...believe me, it ain't easy. Fortunately for me, Dad is just about the best anyone has ever seen. A tremendous part of my knowledge about riding and life with horses has come from following Dad the past 30 years. When I was at the cocktail party, I couldn't help but notice the age of everyone, and how I'm still one of the younger ones in the local horse community even at the age of 39...at any rate, what has been percolating in me since driving home is the passing of years.
When I was little, my sister and I would take our ponies or horses out hunting and simply have a blast...running and jumping, never knowing what was coming next. The rush of jumping fences you wouldn't dream of doing on your own, surrounded by others, the inexplicable adrenaline rush you get when you have no idea what is around the next corner and under what circumstances you'll get there...will someone cut you off, jump in front of you, FALL in front of you, will two horses converge side by side just as they jump smack in front of you, thus robbing you of any view...for a kid with a great pony, a little bit of guts and tons of trust, it was nirvana. Naturally, I didn't know it at the time. I grew up thinking this was simply life. As the years passed, my life as a steeplechase jockey began to supplant foxhunting, as did the all the many ups and downs every Saturday. A good days foxhunting when I was growing up was often like riding two or three races in a day, and it was the perfect breeding ground to riding races, but as racing took more and more of my time, when I did manage to get back out hunting I couldn't help but notice a subtle shift in my experience. Granted, I never once forgot how amazing three or four hours with your horse out hunting can be so damn exhilarating. The shared moments of fences jumped well, or poorly, of holes just avoided stepping in, the agility courses in paths through the woods, jumping off banks or simply walking along out in nature among some of the most breathtaking countryside I've ever seen, ten feet from deer, a hawk peering down his beek at you from just above, 200 year old Sycamores proudly manning their solitary post. As the years went by, though my heart never took for granted all these wonderful things, my mind began seeing pieces of decay...fences we once jumped old and tattered, now too delicate to risk breaking. A line fence, enough room for five to jump together, by far the most fun and challenging, replaced by smaller chicken coops with room for two but jumped mostly single file, by far the most dreary experience on a horse. Folks getting older, a little less brave, the land slowly but surely shrinking in to smaller parcels fully equipped with some functional fence for one but nary a post and rail to be found. I kept noticing what I saw as deficiencies, of a standard I cut my teeth on diminishing such I found myself wondering if anyone got goosebumps anymore, if anyone relished those moments where your butt puckered and you had an instant of doubt before jumping/dodging/surviving whatever was rapidly coming upon you. I could see those moments becoming increasingly rare. And it made me sad. Melancholy. Just as I know I was born to ride a horse, my life has prepared me to one day follow Dads footsteps. For years all I could think of was how our precious countryside has been allowed to become average and mediocre. We don't have a Mrs. Hannum to pay for miles of post and rail fences. And almost as importantly, we haven't had anyone acknowledge the importance of a days hunting being a challenge and ensure that it remains so...Wouldn't you know it, a part of me has always kept a running tab on how to do it. The stark reality, though, is the painful reminder I'm the exception on the back of a horse. I don't say this with the slightest hint of hubris or ego, for I know deep in my heart and my bones I am nothing more than a reflection of hundreds of amazing horses. It was said in the last century a person had a talent for something. Not that he or she is talented, but they have a talent. And though I do indeed have a talent to understand what a horse is thinking, I can't take credit for it. It is simply a part of who I am. I didn't buy it, discover it buried in a hidden forest, nor conjur it out of thin air. If there is any pride in this talent, it is merely in my willingness to use it every second I'm with a horse. Time and again you'll see someone riding a horse as if they're driving a car. Frankly, it drives me batty. Why on earth would you even care to ride a horse if you're not interested in experiencing it WITH the horse?!?! And the harsh reality is today most people out riding/racing/eventing/foxhunting are doing it while missing out on the best part...having the best seat imaginable watching/feeling/understanding what your horse just did. To spend your days so close to a horse, to first help him navigate and understand and then to trust him implicitly is beyond measure. I'm old for a jockey. Really quite old. I've pondered finally hanging up the boots for six months now...and my young horse Snuff had me dreaming about winning the English Grand National in three years time this afternoon. Plotting how to get there. Imagining how we would do it. It was so real and vivid you might think I'd been smoking funnybush. Not being a parent denies me knowing this for sure, but I'd swear any mother or father who even has the slightest inkling of joining a young horse in his journey through life would agree it is much like having a child and raising it. It is what makes for a life well lived. Hell, me'thinks it's even better because in my case I'm right on their back while they're doing it!!!!!
So I sit here and I wonder. I wonder if 30 years from now I will have succeeded in ensuring people get goosebumps while out foxhunting. I wonder if I could handle being shouted down for wanting to do so. I wonder if there is a way to allow the older folks to age gracefully while bringing back bigger fences so the younger ones can have experiences like the ones I grew up with. I wonder if I'll help some 12 year old start to see life the way I do now, if I can sow the seed of trust so it may reap looking forward to the unknown, not fearing it...or if life on the back of a horse as I've known it will become nothing more than an old mans memory.
I'm so torn, in so many ways. To have a talent and let it go to waste is shameful, and for the last 20 years I've used it so many times it feels a part of my breath...but to share it? Share it when some don't even want it? Do I continue on or do I allow the spiritual journey with a different community to become the central focus of my life? Is there another magical National Velvet movie to be made, or has the time come and gone...mercy do these thoughts wreak havoc on my mind. I see my 75 year old father justly revered for leading so many on countless days of joy and wonder what my 75 year old fate will be.

Day 5...I had been hoping to write today about old relationships, burying the hatchet, the impact of how protecting your own hurt can have on others...but I'm going to wait for another day, since the final act didn't commence as expected.
Instead, I'm reminding myself of a few things. I've been sharing the last couple of days here and with friends the calm freedom that's been washing over me after Wednesdays near meltdown. Lo and behold, driving home from feeding the horses this evening, due to not packing either a cleanse or a juice my old friend intense hunger came for a visit...and it wasn't 3 minutes before I was back to the old wheel...but fortunately, before I came home, I realized hunger was with me, for a very good reason, and all I needed to find something to drink. But I mean the good kind! A cleanse or juicing...couldn't help but smile knowing this particular episode lasted minutes vs. hours from Wednesday, but I did remind myself just how easily I can fall right back in to it, and I damn well better be more prudent about having some water nearby. Reminder #1.
The second thought came after a great conversation with a friend of mine. We spent an hour and twenty minutes talking, first about me and this 30 day journey and all the tangents involved, then even better discussing some really cool Landmark Education material...In a nutshell, we covered what it means to create a story. When we're kids, some event (usually one that impacts us greatly, either real or imagined) befalls us...and after the event, in our little 8 or 12 year old mind, we create a story around it...and it comes as a result of trying to protect ourselves. All of us do it, more than once too, and those stories have a huge effect on shaping our personalities growing up...For example, in my case, when I was 10 or so, my parents forgot to organize a baby sitter for me as they were going to a cocktail party...and left me home alone. Not necessarily a big deal, really. But we had been robbed the year before, and seeing as it was the first time home alone at night, I got scared. So like any kid with a pony in the field, I went out and laid on my ponys back waiting for the folks to get home. I was alright actually, except I fell asleep on my ponys back, and woke up to hearing my Dad yelling in the house CHIP CHIP, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!?! My plan to make it back to the house before my folks failed, so when I got to the house, both Mom and Dad were a tad upset...and of course I had to explain where I was, and worst of all, had to confess I was scared. The very thing I wanted to hide. Tears flowed like a flood, and Dad being the kind guy he was in moments of angst and upset decided he'd yell at me for being scared...So naturally, as a result of that night, I had to come up with something in defense of my poor wounded little heart. What did I come up with? Ahh, my clever little mind constructed a story that I simply don't care what you think. And over the years I came to perfect this nice little fantasy of my 10 year old mind, eventually arriving at a place where I firmly believed I really don't give a shit what you think...to this day I still implement my defense mechanism when someone pierces my little 10 year old heart, but what Landmark showed me is that while the story can in fact help you out, can lead you successfully, it is still nothing more than a story...and the downside to the story is how it prevents intimacy with others, most definitely including my Dad. And when you can see it as nothing more than a story I am responsible for, one created 29 years ago, eventually with enough practice you can choose to put it down and not let it run the show. Doesn't mean you're not going to have the impulse to use from time to time, and it certainly doesn't mean the defense mechanism isn't going to kick in from time to time...but if you begin the work of seeing it for what it is, you can begin to choose not to use it. Not caring what others think has been at times a most beneficial part of my makeup; it's allowed me to ride races the way I know they should be ridden despite criticism (and jockeys are always criticized, part of the job description), it's led me to skipping down the street just to make someone laugh, whether with me or at me. It's allowed me to have a lot of freedom. The bummer is just how much intimacy it's cost me over the years. The cost has been hard to quantify, but I know it's been great. And it's a work in progress. I keep trying to see my mind at work, catch my defense mechanism before they can act, apologize for them if I don't catch them til after...believe me, it's a whole lot easier to apologize for a story then it is for what I think is a part of me. Practice practice practice.
Which leads me back to my friend. We talked about this in her life, and I tried to help her deconstruct one of her own stories. Time will tell whether any of it takes root, but she freely admitted giving her plenty to think about, and if nothing else it cemented our friendship being able to spend our time talking about something that really and truly matters. I sit here and know I got to spend an hour and twenty minutes in friendship and intimacy. And I'm grateful. Grateful for trying to help, grateful to have a friend willing to go places not normally visited. Just grateful. I like that.
Maybe more later, but I'm going back to Moon for more water with my buddy Jim, probably more practice of one kind or another...hug the monster, right?

Well, I'm happy to report day 4 has treated me far better than yesterday...In case you wondered, when I posted last night, I did head to the Half Moon (my local bar) pretty much convinced I would either eat, drink, or possibly even both...I had it justified in my mind I had to go to the Moon because I had agreed to meet a friend, and couldn't possibly bail out. And on the way there, some feeling of desperation crept in and got right between my eyes, almost taking over my thought process. I reminded myself this is exactly how it felt every Thursday and Friday, but reminding myself didn't exactly stem the feelings nor alter how I viewed this experience, the one I CHOSE to undertake...you shoulda heard me when I sat in my familiar seat at the corner and all but pleaded for a pint of water. Three gulps it was down, and if Jamie (the bartender) hadn't kept replenishing my pint time after time, I was going to order a ketel and tonic. Any second, or maybe even every second I kept thinking 'O christ, just get a freakin' drink and get it over with'...and though I was pleasantly chatting with my friend and Jamie, this sinking feeling of knowing I was going to order a drink kept pulsing through me...and of course, every time a waitress brought an order of bar food (the Moon serves gooooood food too), the hunger deepened and my faithful reflex of ordering a drink chimed in repeatedly. Strangely enough, after half an hour or so, there was this subtle shift in my mood. I went from hanging on to some form of acceptance. I wasn't going to order food or a drink. Can't say I was thrilled about it, but I no longer fought it tooth and nail...and by the time an hour passed, the storm had ceased. When I got up to leave sure I was hungry, but my attitude had changed. It's okay to feel hungry. Feel it, own up to it, and then let it go. By the time I got in my car I was smiling...
I was asked on Formspring, this website somehow attached to facebook, about my relationship with food, and fucked up it seems. I'm not sure if this person (the questions are asked anonymously) knows about my life as a jockey or 20 years of dieting...but the questioner is absolutely right, my relationship to food and to hunger is screwed up. And the impact it's had on me is precisely why I chose this 30 day juicing cleanse. The resentment, the harshness that's a part of me is what I'm trying to alter...and yesterday was a monumental exercise for me. I went through every antagonizing emotion and defense mechanism in 5 hours, the very things which have driven me to the edge over the years. And I'm still not sure why I didn't eat or drink, to be honest. I don't recall even once reminding myself this is exactly what I signed up for, to confront the demons and deal with them in a different manner. Acceptance, grace, choice. Simple choice.
But I know for sure and certain I came home from the Moon a different person. Not changed for life, no way in hell, I know that. But different in that I wasn't wracked with any guilt for either eating or drinking, nor desperately wishing for either one. Sure I was hungry, but I was okay with being hungry.
And today, I've spent the whole day sort of humming along knowing the first painful step was taken. I made it. Would it have killed me to have a couple of drinks? No, course not. But emotionally it very well may have. There is a certain notion in the Buddhist world about living in the moment, being present, allowing yourself to let the past slide away...and one could say why not follow this train of thought?? Honestly, one day soon I hope it will be second nature for me to do just that...but I'm not at a point where I can happily choose something yet. To continue to give in to the devil on your shoulder year after year has a way of destroying your self-esteem, keeping you in a place you just can't be proud of. Your fears and resentments run the show only one direction. Down...And I wanna go up. I hope the next day I start pining for potato chips, or even a saltine, I hope I can stop myself right there and smile, knowing what I need to do. Remind myself it's simply the waves right then, and I'm the Ocean. It will pass. Just hold on.
Today I drank 2 24 ounce bottles of juice, and 1 24 ounce bottle of the cleanse, 1 bottle of 12 ounce water... I might have one more cleanse before bed. Peace.

Well, it's taken all of three days for the old feelings to resurface...the hunger pains, and all the remora's clinging along to the underbelly. It's a funny thing about years of dieting, there is an element of total acceptance, of watching people eat and drink with nary a jealous twinge. The evil twin of that element is the heightened level of sensitivity, the physical reality of your body gettin' mighty pissed I'm not showing it any love, or even a freakin' saltine, a peanut fercryin' out loud! There is a physiological reality here of course, the internal clock of survival ticking increasingly louder...and I think combined with the heightened sensitivity, I used to become something like a winter animal coming in to town out of desperation doing all sorts of weird things. Landhope, my local store, has a buffet style lunch that goes for a couple hours of the day, soups and whatnot...and they kindly offer saltines to go with whatever gumbo you choose. I can't count the days I would stuff them in to my pocket to have in my car whenever Saturday would roll around, the races would finish and I would be driving home...needless to say, the fact I was stuffing my pockets on Monday did raise a few alarm bells. But can you believe I managed to not eat the stinking saltines all week?!?! I did. Not sure how, but I did. And really, this is the crux of my curiosity inside this juicing cleanse...the angst of being hungry hours a day, the ability to continue, the mental hoops and masochism just to avoid eating what I shouldn't...over the years it continued; the trade off of a commitment towards dieting with something like a few drinks with my salad...then I added two slices of bread. Ironically enough, I never increased the bread intake, just the vodka. From two, to three, then finally to four. And right now, as I sit here and flail around in the dark trying to describe some of what I'm going through, this very second some part of my brain is bargaining...we won't eat, but you gotta give us something!! Amazing how my puny little cerebrum can get clever. But what is the source of the bargaining mind anyway? I mean, is it simply survival, trying to fend off the physical experience of hunger? Yes, one of alcohol's many devilish traits is the numbing effect it grants you...Yet, I sit here and wonder, is it only this, or does the psyche go to much deeper levels at times like this? Am I attaching something to the act of cleansing, or dieting in years past? Hmmm. As soon as I type it, it hits a nerve. All the years of showing up, having done my job, only to sit on a horse ill-prepared, not good enough, running in the wrong race, etc. etc...and yes, I'm nodding my head in agreement, for I can easily admit the resentment I've allowed to build up over the years when this happens...and it happens almost every weekend when you're riding regularly. It's the nature of life with horses we get it wrong, whether you're a jockey, trainer, groom or exercise rider. The science of reading a horses mind is inexact at best, and if you're not inclined to read it at all, which is a sad reality I'm afraid, it's harder to get right than a first date.
I remember spending three weeks getting ready to ride a horse for my dad last fall, Pierrot Lunaire, at Belmont. We had won a big race in the spring, beat the reigning horse of the year and in the process became the favorite for the Eclipse Award, for horse of the year. The race at Belmont was a prep race for the biggest race of the year, the Grand National, but it was a $150,000 race and big in its own right...I didn't ride much during August at Saratoga, and it was something like 5 or 6 weeks between rides for me...which means too much time to continue with a rigorous weekly schedule if not riding every week...at any rate, after 3 weeks spent dieting for one horse and one race, I'm headed to Belmont early so I could sweat off the last 4 pounds...being the first one in the jocks room has always been an ego boost, kind of like being the first to work. Well, after driving 3 hours and 3 solid weeks of anticipating one ride, the last thing I wanted to hear when I signed in the jocks room was, ummm, Chip, your horse is scratched. Sorry to tell you, but he's not running. Now lets get one thing straight, I've been around the block long enough to know Murphy's Law exists, everything that can go wrong will go wrong, at some point. It is life with horses. I get it. But at the end of a 3 week commitment for that one stinkin' horse, the days of running and yoga, the hours of hunger, the meals passed up, to have nothing more to show for it than an egg sandwich and a bag of chips from the jocks room kitchen...it'll drive a rational man bonkers. In that particular moment I was anything but rational...And then when the trainer, who also happens to be your dad, calls you up an hour later to say he simply couldn't get some paperwork in order, but he managed to only drive an hour up the road before finding out the horse isn't running...well, a man could go postal after that.
For me, I don't have much of a postal inclination, and it has always been my nature to see a bigger picture...but there are times, I gotta tell you, where I would like nothing more than to bite someones head off. And now that I'm sitting here typing about a similar feeling washing over me, I can see how shortsided this line of thinking really and truly is. Instead of accepting the sacrifices in and of themselves as worthy, as I did for ten years or so with a small amount of equanimity, I have to admit to myself I allowed a different mindset to creep in...WHAT IS THE PAYOFF?!?! Yep, a one way street to strings attached way of being. Even now I can see the progression, the slow decay of integrity and non-attachment...Oh, I could hide behind some trainer not having a horse ready, paper work not in order or whatever to ease my guilt about having chicken on that salad, one more ketel and tonic...
Ahh, the irony. Here I sit, no race or horse on the horizon, and still these feelings bubble to the surface like old friends just waiting to keep me company. Choice? Gotta get there, gotta get there. Forgiveness? Just a vague notion somewhere in the distance...
And this is why I'm here. Beg your pardon if there is little rhyme or reason to all I just shared... The feeling of being scattered is something like eating soup with a fork. With two tines.
Where is that spoon???? I read A Million Little Pieces last year, by James Frey. You might remember the kerfuffle when Oprah had him on the show, told her audience what an inspiration it was, and everyone should read his true story...only to have it come out some time later he took a few artistic, oh what do they call it?, oh yes liberties. I didn't really see what all the fuss was about really, I mean the guy smoked crack and drank a quart of liquor every day, how on earth is he supposed to remember every detail? I think he had a pretty good idea without total recall. At any rate, I thought the book was scary good, and I came away with one mantra I hope I never forget; when things are getting rough, just hold on. Hold ON...
And I'm trying like hell to.

Alright, day two is almost in the books...they're either celebrating the most important legislation in a generation in Washington, or lamenting the end of the human race as we know it. I think giving up the tv might be next on my list. Listening to excerpts of Glenn Beck give me seriously homicidal thoughts, to say nothing of Tea Baggers. How the hell am I supposed to remain true to my spiritual quest of 30 days with such lunacy infecting the airwaves?!?! O, what was that? Did you say turn the tv off?? Good thinkin' Batman.
I've been listening to Tara Brach for the better part of three years, and in case you don't know her, I highly recommend her to anyone. At any rate, part of my 30 days is listening to one of her podcasts first thing in the morning while mucking stalls...you'd be surprised how meditative mucking out can be.
But I gotta interrupt this important telecast with a stomach now in revolt...jesus christ, be right ba
Phew. I made it. Barely I might add. Can anyone tell me why stomach pains have to come along for the ride?!
Where was I...Tara. So in my earnest desire to alter my perspective when it comes to why I do things in life, I've brought along some alternative theories to keep me company...as I mentioned yesterday, buddhism, Landmark Education and yoga will be my main squeezes, with a healthy mix of bare bones honesty.
I was asked the other day how I deal with 'Letting Go'. Am I any good at it, Katherine asked me. And I got to thinking, hmmmm, am I? My first impression was a simple yes, of course. One can't ride horses with any success without being able to live in the moment, and one can't really live in the moment if they can't let go...which is shorthand for bringing the past with us, right?? And if you've never ridden a horse, if you're not fully present to what's going on between your legs and your hands, you ain't gonna do too well. Trust me on that. So I got that part down pat, no sweat. Then I got to thinking a little more...and I had to admit I'm one who gets off a horse swearing a blue streak for what I did or didn't do that cost us...it is a trait which has served me well. You can't learn the lesson if you're not aware you screwed it up in the first place...But moving past horses to my life, I realized this letting go is something of a human struggle, a daily part of our lives, for better and for worse. We relish the good moments, rue the bad ones. How long am I going to stew in the hunger which comes with eating half a grapefruit for breakfast when Dad brings his help egg and cheese sandwiches (and a cup of tea fercrissakes!)? A daily practice indeed...which brings me back to Tara and her podcasts. She's a buddhist, and one of the big foundations of Buddhism is living in the present. Being present. So if you're so hungry the bale of straw you're carrying around suddenly looks tasty, are you being present for burying your face in the straw while drooling out the side of your mouth or what?! Ok ok, a rhetorical aside. Forgive me. I think Tara would say being present means acknowledging the hunger, then letting the moment pass forward to filling the water bucket, raking in an o so zen manner etc. And this morning I had just such a moment...I can be present to the hunger, but I choose to let it slide away so I can be present with tacking my horse up, scratching his withers so HE can let his tongue hang out in pure bliss. And damn if it didn't work! Still, this question of letting go kept with me, and of course it didn't take long to realize I'm good at being present and simultaneously crappy at it...there is a part of me which takes great pleasure in not letting go of slights, of my warts, of everyone else's warts, and that same part of my ego delights in this clever little ploy of distraction. Slowly, ever so slowly, I've come around to see this for what it is; holding on to the hurts I've accumulated over the years. And why on earth would I choose to wallow in the past when every second is an opportunity to see a hawk fly over head, to play tag with Snuf while I tack him up, or simply follow my breath and remind myself I only have this moment. It sounds so damn trite, doesn't it, saying we only have this moment...so damn spiritual and groovy, so ethereal!! (oh hello ego, still here are you?! bastard, I'll get you yet). But honestly, when I just sit down on the bale of straw I've stopped abusing and ponder such eloquence and simplicity I almost want to cry for missing out on all those moments I could've been witnessing beauty, creating it even, for being lost in the distraction of the past...and this to me is the essence of letting go. The real reason why I must practice this day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute. If you're holding on instead of letting go, you cannot be in this moment. And if you cannot be in this moment how the hell can you possibly savor it, enjoy it, LOVE it?!?!

Wow. I just got hit between the eyes. Me'thinks the reason for inducing carpal tunnel has just sat in my lap. I think I'm going to cuddle for a while...............

Day One of Thirty

Hi.
The next 30 days I'm going to be doing a juicing cleanse...and I've been told journaling is a great way to help explore what exactly transpires while doing so. While I'm fairly sure inducing carpal tunnel syndrome will certainly help curtail my fingers desire to shovel food in my mouth, I'm not at all convinced sharing it with others will have any effect on you or on me. Perhaps I'll improve my communications skills, and hopefully along the way find some folks who inspire me to keep going with this idea of mine....
I realize cleansing has a rich history in the eastern philosophies, and though I could do far, far worse than simply spending a month cleansing, my aim goes a bit beyond giving up solid foods and treating my body to a long holiday.
Having been a jockey for 19 years has meant a lot of things to me, one of the most impressionable being on a diet 9 months a year, 6 days a week...and over the years I've had to accept how dieting has helped to shape the kind of person I am today. For better, and often, for worse...Thanks to my chosen profession I've become something of a walking contradiction. I eat salad for dinner 5 nights a week, grapefruit for breakfast, yet I started smoking 20 years ago as a feeble way of dealing with hunger when I first started having to lose weight. I spend hours maintaining fitness as a means to be fit and as a way to keep weight off, yet for the past 8 or 9 years I've also had on average 4 drinks a night, 6 days a week.
The past year or so it has finally dawned on me I wouldn't in fact ride races for the rest of my life. Ridiculous, I know. In light of this revelation, I slowly began to see the destructive ways of my life as a steeplechase jockey...4 years ago I began practicing yoga, and it began a sort of seismic shift in my world view, and how I fit in it. My desire to smoke and drink as a way to deal with the pressures of being hungry for hours a day, 6 days a week changed...I could feel a small part of me grow to something larger, this awareness that had been percolating for years in me slowly grew to a voice I could no longer ignore...
You see, while I was dieting all these years, I developed a defense mechanism, one which enabled me to be successful in both losing weight and winning races. It was accepting this notion I had to. I had to run on days I felt like shit, I had to practice yoga even though I wasn't sure if I was riding the next weekend...and when riding races, there were places you rode that demanded a certain style of riding if you wanted to win, plain and simple. I was lucky enough to learn this lesson a long time ago, and use it time and again to win races. You simply cannot win a race at Nashville if you're more than 5 lengths off the lead at the bottom of the hill, you will not win a race at the Gold Cup if you move too soon, and on and on it went...I kept revising this with each horse I rode, each year that passed. As anyone will tell you, I can be a prick when it comes to my convictions. Unwavering. And most of this stems directly from being one who listens to horses...I didn't arrive at my knowledge for being a good jockey due to dumb luck. I listened. And over the years, after thousands of horses and races, my intuition became something of a second nature...and when something becomes second nature, it can come across as rather arrogant when you combine the comfort of knowing something in your bones with a loud mouth.
I digress. Fairly certain I'll be gettin' back to that point from time to time.
So I allowed myself to fall under the illusion it was alright to smoke if it was the price to pay so I could ride...of course, most folks would tell you it's called addiction. Not me. It was just what I did. The past 4 years has seen a lot of different schools of thought come to me...buddhism, Landmark, yoga...and they're all amazing, in their own way. Slowly, ever so painfully slowly, I began to see how I had this default place that justified my smoking and drinking...
And frankly, I'm using this cleanse as a test pilot so to speak. I'm going to test the various theories I've come to admire. Choice. Forgiveness. Openness. Sangha. Meditation. Being present. And I'm going to see if I can finally kick tobacco and drinking out of my life doing it this way...oh, and vomiting on anyone who happens to be reading this. Apologies in advance.
If it makes any difference, this sharing will not consist solely of lamenting what it feels like to be hungry, though I'm sure there will be enough of that...I do hope with all my heart I can share in a way someone will find worthy of reading.
I wonder if the power of choosing is as powerful as it is made out to be. I wonder a lot, so hopefully you can deal. Ha.