Just when I was about ready to give up on humanity, the feisty old broads showed up.
I was in the ladies’ locker room at the swim club, minding my own business, when I overheard three retired women—the kind who’ve stopped caring about social niceties and started telling the truth.
Lady #1 asked Lady #2,
“Hey… what day is this? Is it Friday?”
Lady #2 didn’t even look up.
“Who the hell cares what day it is? We’re retired. It’s not like we’re waiting for the weekend. Every day is Friday… or Sunday… or whatever day you want it to be.”
Lady #1 considered that.
“True. But if your doctor asks what day it is and you can’t answer correctly, they’ll diagnose you with Alzheimer’s.”
Lady #2 shrugged.
“Who the hell gives a shit.”
At that moment, Lady #3—still dripping from water aerobics—jumped in with the energy of someone who has absolutely nothing left to prove.
“I don’t care what day it is,” she announced. “It’s margarita time.”
She paused, stretched her back, and added:
“Ain’t retirement a bitch?”
I sat there trying not to laugh out loud.
Three women. Three philosophies. One universal truth:
Aging may take your schedule, your patience, and your cartilage—
They feel it long before the sky changes—before the first drop, before the first sound of thunder.
The air shifts. The energy changes. The herd knows.
And they move.
We’re not built that way.
We get the warning… and stay anyway.
There’s always a moment.
It’s usually quiet. Subtle. Easy to dismiss if you’re not paying attention.
Something feels off.
Not wrong in a way you can explain. Not enough to walk away. Just enough to make you pause—if you let yourself.
Most of us don’t.
We explain it away. We soften it. We give it the benefit of the doubt. We tell ourselves we’re being too sensitive. Too cautious. Too quick to judge.
So we stay.
The first signal is rarely loud.
It doesn’t arrive with certainty or clarity. It shows up as discomfort. A hesitation. A shift in energy you can’t quite name.
Like the air changing before a storm.
And almost instinctively, we override it— because walking away early feels unreasonable, because we don’t have proof, because we want to believe the best.
But the truth is simple, even if we don’t like it:
We knew.
Not everything. Not how it would unfold. Not how far it would go.
But we knew enough.
There’s a cost to ignoring that moment.
It’s not always immediate. Sometimes it takes time to surface.
It shows up in small ways at first—unease, tension, the sense that you’re adjusting yourself to fit something that doesn’t quite align.
Then it grows.
You find yourself explaining behavior you wouldn’t normally tolerate. Making space for things that feel uncomfortable. Silencing your own reaction just to keep the peace.
And little by little, you lose your footing.
We don’t just ignore red flags.
We negotiate with them. We rewrite them. We minimize them. We convince ourselves they mean something else.
But the signal doesn’t change— only our willingness to listen.
Looking back, the clarity is always there.
The moment you hesitated. The thing that didn’t sit right. The feeling you pushed aside.
It was never unclear.
It was just inconvenient.
We sabotage our equilibrium every time we step into a situation that feels off from the start.
Learning to trust that first signal isn’t about becoming guarded or closed off.
It’s about staying aligned with yourself— about recognizing that discomfort isn’t something to override… it’s something to understand.
Because in the end, the lesson isn’t about what someone else did.
There are places in the world where animals watch you. And then there’s the Galápagos— where they don’t.
There’s no fear in their eyes. No instinct to run. No sense that you don’t belong. You’re not observing wildlife. You’re stepping into their world.
Quito felt like an introduction… but not the destination.
The Marriott was familiar, predictable — a place to land before stepping into something I couldn’t quite picture yet. The next day brought the expected stops — the equator line, the views, the market, a lunch that felt more staged than real. It was interesting, even enjoyable, but still within the rhythm of travel. Structured. Explained. Designed for you.
It all made sense.
Until it didn’t.
Somewhere between Quito and the islands, the world shifted.
Smaller plane. Fewer people. More distance between things. Less noise. Less urgency.
By the time we boarded the Celebrity Xpedition, it was clear this wasn’t going to be a typical trip. The ship didn’t feel like a destination — it felt like access. A way in.
In the Galápagos, the rules are simple — and enforced.
You don’t wander. You don’t touch. You don’t interfere.
Every visitor is accompanied by a licensed naturalist. The ecosystem is protected with an almost reverent discipline, and because of that, the animals remain exactly as they were meant to be — wild, undisturbed, and completely indifferent to human presence.
And that indifference is what makes the experience so extraordinary.
We explored the islands twice a day for a week — one excursion in the morning, one in the afternoon.
Each outing felt like stepping into a different world.
One moment you’re walking along a rocky path beside marine iguanas, the next you’re standing quietly while a sea lion pup studies you with curious, unguarded eyes. Birds nest at your feet. Crabs scatter across volcanic rock. Life unfolds all around you, uninterrupted.
There is no performance. No reaction. No need for you at all.
I wasn’t prepared for how close everything would be.
Not just physically — although that alone was surreal — but something deeper.
The blue-footed boobies walked past like we didn’t exist. A sea lion blinked slowly, unimpressed by my camera hovering inches away. Marine iguanas gathered in clusters, ancient and unmoved.
It wasn’t that they trusted us. It was that they had never learned not to.
There was one moment that stayed with me — simple, unexpected, and oddly meaningful.
We stopped at what they call the “post office” on Floreana Island.
Not a building. Not a mailbox.
Just a weathered barrel surrounded by driftwood signs from travelers who had passed through before us.
We were each given a postcard and asked to write a message to ourselves — name and home address included.
Then came the part that made it unforgettable.
We were told to sort through the stack of postcards left behind… find one addressed to someone who lived near us… and take it home to deliver.
No stamps. No system. Just trust.
My husband’s postcard arrived first — hand-delivered by someone we now refer to only as “Blood Bank Bob.”
Mine showed up later, quietly, like it had always belonged there.
And somehow, it meant more than anything sent the traditional way ever could.
At the time, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
The marine iguanas looked almost prehistoric — dark and unmoving against the volcanic rock — until you noticed the color. Not subtle… but vivid. Reds and greens woven through their scales like something alive beneath the surface.
Later, I learned we had arrived just as the breeding season was beginning.
Even here, in a place that feels untouched by time, there are rhythms quietly unfolding — whether you recognize them or not.
And then there were the albatross.
Before the cliffs… before the flight… there was something quieter.
Pairs stood facing each other, calling, moving in sync — a kind of ritual that felt both ancient and deliberate. There was no audience. No urgency. Just connection.
They bond for life.
We watched as they moved through these small, repeated gestures, as if reinforcing something already understood.
And then, later, at the edge of the cliffs, they gathered again — this time facing the wind.
One by one, they stepped forward.
A pause. A shift.
And then — without hesitation — they launched into the air.
Even in the harbor, nothing really changed.
The sea lions claimed boats like they owned them, lounging without concern, completely indifferent to the activity around them.
There was no boundary between wild and human life — just a quiet understanding of who truly belonged.
Not everything in the Galápagos lives in the light.
Deep inside the lava tubes, where the air cools and the world goes quiet, we found an owl — perfectly still, perfectly aware.
It didn’t move. It didn’t flinch.
It simply watched us… as if we were the ones out of place.
The Moment That Stayed
It was an instinctive click. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t frame it. I didn’t ask. I just reacted.
The moment that stayed with me wasn’t a landscape or a sea lion or a postcard view.
It was a woman at a hillside market, working with her child tied to her back.
She moved with a rhythm that belonged entirely to her life — unhurried, unposed, untouched by the presence of a stranger with a camera.
No one looked at me. No one performed.
I was invisible.
And somehow, that’s what made it matter.
It wasn’t a moment created for me. It was a glimpse of something real — offered without intention — and it stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect.
There are people who pass through your life, and then there are the ones who leave a voice behind.
The ones who teach you, steady you, challenge you… and sometimes cause just enough chaos to make you pay attention.
John was one of those.
He didn’t lecture. He didn’t sit you down and explain how life worked. He just lived it — fully, unapologetically — and if you were paying attention, you learned.
We rode every morning at seven. No matter the weather, no matter the mood, John showed up. Horses saddled, stories ready. There was always a story. Usually inappropriate. Always unforgettable.
As we rode past the barn and headed down the street toward the trailhead, he’d call out, “Vaya con Dios!” like we were setting off on something far more important than a morning ride.
One morning, Sunshine went down hard in the desert — flat on her belly, sand flying, tack slipping sideways. My 23-year-old former endurance horse didn’t hesitate. She hit the ground, sprang back to her feet, and kept cantering toward the lead horse like nothing had happened.
I never came out of the saddle. Not a stirrup lost, not a beat missed — just instinct and motion carrying us forward together.
When we caught up, I asked John to stop so we could check her and tighten the girth, which had loosened and pulled the saddle off center.
He glanced over with that wry, understated smile of his and said, “You have good balance, kid.”
It was the closest he ever came to a compliment — and coming from John, it meant everything.
That was it.
No panic. No overreaction. Just quiet acknowledgment — and then we fixed the saddle and kept riding.
That was John.
He didn’t dwell. He didn’t dramatize. He moved forward.
At the barn, he held court like a man who had seen it all — because he had. He could spot trouble before it unfolded, and he had little patience for what he called “repeat offenders.” People who made the same bad decisions over and over, expecting a different outcome.
He didn’t try to fix them. He just observed, shook his head, and let life do the teaching.
There was a kind of freedom in that.
John understood something I didn’t at the time — that you can’t control other people, and you can’t live their lessons for them. You can only ride your own horse.
Years later, when I went to see him, the stories were quieter. The man who had filled every space with laughter now measured his words. Breathing was harder. Time was closer.
He motioned me in, the way he always did, and said something I’ve never forgotten:
“Every time the sun sets, it takes a part of your life with it. Live your life, sweet thing.”
There was no story after that. No punchline. Just truth.
I didn’t understand it fully then. Maybe I still don’t. But I hear it now in different ways — in the quiet moments, in the choices I make, and in the times I catch myself hesitating.
John didn’t teach through instruction. He taught through presence. Through observation. Through living.
John lived his life with no regrets.
And at some point, we all look back and realize one of two things:
we’re either like John — grateful we went for it with full gusto — or we’re left wondering about the things we never tried.
I was about to be slid into a narrow cylinder with no exit and asked to lie still for forty-five minutes.
The attendant explained the process in a calm, practiced tone, then offered music to help me relax.
I declined.
Ten minutes later, I regretted every life choice that brought me to that moment.
Somewhere in the next room, a burly man was yelling, “Get me out of this thing!” His panic did nothing to soothe mine. Inside the tube, the air felt thinner, the walls closer, and my heartbeat louder. Claustrophobia crept up my spine like a slow electrical current.
And then I heard my horse trainer’s voice in my head: Listen to the birds sing.
There were no birds there, but I reached for the image anyway. I pictured myself walking along a quiet beach, waves rolling in and out, the sun warm on my shoulders.
It must have worked, because the next thing I knew, the attendant was nudging me awake. Forty-five minutes had passed without me clawing my way out of the machine.
Horses have been teaching me things for years, often without my noticing.
They are honest in their interactions, intuitive in ways humans rarely allow themselves to be, and immediate in their responses. I’ve been told so many times to “think like a horse” that I now catch myself watching people for the same cues I look for in a pasture: dominance, insecurity, bluffing, avoidance.
If humans handled conflict the way horses do — directly, immediately, and without apology — we’d probably have fewer interpersonal disasters.
Take Sunrise, my Peruvian Paso.
Around people she is sweet, soft-eyed, and polite. But turn her out with other horses and she becomes the matriarchal mare who takes no prisoners.
The first time I saw her defend herself, I was stunned.
On Day 1, as the new horse in turnout, she was kicked and bitten.
On Day 2, she made her point.
She singled out the aggressor, chased her relentlessly, cornered her, and left no doubt about where she stood. That mare never looked at Sunrise sideways again.
Sunrise only had to say it once.
Rosie, my Arabian, is the opposite.
With humans, she’s expressive, fiery, and full of personality. You’d assume she’d dominate any herd.
She doesn’t.
In turnout, she’s the one who gets pushed off hay piles, chased from the fence line, and quietly yields space to horses half her size.
Something in her body language tells the herd she won’t fight back.
They read her correctly.
Watching them taught me something I should have learned years earlier:
What’s inside a horse — or a person — is rarely what you see on the surface.
Sunrise looks delicate but is steel. Rosie looks bold but is vulnerable.
And humans? We’re even worse at showing who we really are.
Horses don’t tolerate mistreatment.
They don’t make excuses. They don’t wait for things to “get better.” They don’t hold meetings about it.
They respond — immediately, clearly, and without hesitation.
Their boundaries are visible, consistent, and respected.
Humans, on the other hand, let things fester.
We stay silent. We rationalize. We reward the very behavior we claim to hate.
And then we wonder why people “always” treat us a certain way.
A wise woman once told me that every time I interact with my horse, I’m training it — whether I mean to or not.
The same is true with people.
With every interaction, we teach others how to treat us — through our words, our behavior, and our silence.
When someone crosses a line and we say nothing, we’ve just taught them they can do it again.
Healthy boundaries aren’t walls.
They’re self-respect in action.
They keep us centered. They protect our peace. And they’re the first step toward becoming our own best friend.
By the time I met the small Arabian mare named Rosie, eight owners in eight years had already given up on her. The current owner was preparing to send her to auction — a fate that rarely ends well for a horse.
Somehow the grieving human and the troubled horse found each other.
What followed became a bond of trust that neither of us expected, but both of us needed.
Every horse person remembers their first ride.
Mine came at the age of twelve. Later, after transferring to a new job in Delaware, a colleague named Vivian convinced me to join her for riding lessons. She had recently attended the Devon Horse Show and concluded that riding must be simple — after all, the horse does most of the work.
We signed up for lessons at Arundel Stables in the middle of winter. The outdoor arena was buried in snow and the temperature hovered near twenty degrees.
Vivian rode a horse named Whitey. Each week she proudly mounted and rode toward the arena, only to have Whitey spin around and gallop back to the barn with Vivian screaming the entire way.
One especially cold morning Whitey decided he had endured enough. He deposited Vivian into a deep snow drift, cleared the arena fence, and returned to the warmth of his stall.
Vivian climbed out of the snow unleashing a series of colorful words before storming away.
It was the last day she ever rode a horse.
For reasons I still cannot fully explain, it was the day I realized riding had entered my blood.
Years later, I found the horse who would become my first great partner.
Her name was Sunshine.
She was a ten-year-old Arabian-Quarter Horse cross with kind eyes and endless energy. For the next twenty-five years we explored trails together, first on the East Coast and later in Arizona, where I moved with her when she turned twenty.
Sunshine lived to the remarkable age of thirty-five before impaction colic finally claimed her life.
Losing her was devastating. Some days I laughed remembering our adventures. Other days I cried buckets.
Her photographs still hang near the entryway of my home. Every time I walk through the door, she greets me.
I told myself I would never love another horse the same way.
Then Rosie appeared.
I was looking for a companion horse for Sunshine when someone suggested I visit a backyard outside of Phoenix to see an eight-year-old mare.
Rosie possessed none of the qualities I thought I wanted. She was defensive, mistrustful, and widely considered untrainable. Eight previous owners had passed her along like an unwanted responsibility.
The current owner was ready to send her to auction.
I bought her simply to spare her that fate.
I knew she would be a project. What I didn’t know was how deeply our lives would intertwine.
Training Rosie required help from an extraordinary horsewoman named Koelle.
Koelle quickly recognized that Rosie’s behavior wasn’t stubbornness — it was fear. Every interaction with humans triggered defensive reactions, particularly when anyone tried to touch her face or feet.
Years of mishandling had taught Rosie that people could not be trusted.
The first breakthrough came with the farrier. After a disastrous initial visit, he refused to work on Rosie again unless she was sedated.
Eventually I convinced him to attend a training session with Koelle.
He arrived skeptical.
Within an hour, Rosie stood quietly for hoof care and lifted her feet on cue without even being touched.
The farrier left astonished and still tells the story of Rosie’s transformation that day.
That was the moment the light bulb went on.
Rosie was not untrainable.
She simply needed someone willing to listen.
Despite her mistrust of humans, Rosie displayed surprising gentleness toward Sunshine as the older horse aged.
During turnout in the arena, Rosie adjusted her pace to match Sunshine’s ability on any given day. Some days they ran together. Other days Rosie simply circled protectively while Sunshine rested or struggled to stand after rolling in the sand.
Watching Rosie care for the older mare revealed a side of her few humans had ever seen.
Beneath her defenses was a remarkably intuitive horse.
One moment convinced me just how aware she truly was.
I turned Rosie loose in the arena to run. I removed my sunglasses so she could see my eyes more clearly while we worked together.
Afterward I walked toward the gate with Rosie following behind me.
Only when I reached the gate did I realize my prescription sunglasses were gone.
For twenty minutes I searched the entire arena, convinced they had been crushed beneath pounding hooves.
Rosie waited patiently at the gate, watching my every movement.
Finally, I gave up and walked back toward her.
At that exact moment Rosie left the gate, walked across the arena, and stopped in an unusual spot. She lowered her nose to the sand and held it there.
When I reached down to attach her lead rope, I saw them.
My sunglasses were lying directly beneath her nose.
Not only had she seen them fall — she had carefully avoided stepping on them while galloping around the arena.
When I put the glasses back on, Rosie rested her head on my shoulder and gently nuzzled my neck.
It was the first true affection she had ever offered.
No words were necessary.
Over time, Rosie allowed me to touch her face and welcomed the affection she once rejected.
Every day I remain grateful for the lessons she has taught me about patience, trust, and the quiet power of understanding.
They called her difficult.
They called her untrainable.
But Rosie simply needed someone willing to listen.
She lived with me for twenty years after that first uncertain meeting, and in time she became the horse no one believed she could be — calm, trusting, and deeply intuitive.
I lost Rosie in September of 2024.
When I think of her today, I still see her soft eyes looking into mine on that final day.
If you ever met Rosie, you know she wasn’t a horse to be trifled with. Smart, intuitive, and selectively stubborn, she ran a tight ship in her barn — and she certainly didn’t outsource management.
I hired a professional equine sitter while my husband and I went on a short vacation. The sitter was experienced, kind, and confident. I assumed everything would go smoothly. Rosie, however, had other plans.
The first night, I received a cheerful email: both horses let the sitter kiss them on the nose. I smiled and told my husband, “Okay… that won’t last.”
True to form, silence followed for the next couple of nights. I assumed no news was good news — until a desperation email arrived. Rosie was no longer allowing the sitter anywhere near her. Grooming? Absolutely not. Removing the blanket? Not a chance. Her mane had turned into a tangled disaster, and the blanket stayed on for days.
When I returned home, I walked into the barn ready to negotiate a truce. Untangling the mane and removing the blanket felt like delicate diplomacy — and I knew full well Rosie held all the power.
Here’s the thing about Rosie: she was extremely intuitive. She assessed the new handler on day one and immediately determined who was in charge. Kind words and polite gestures didn’t sway her. She read energy, tone, posture — and acted accordingly. By the time I stepped back into the barn, it was clear: the sitter had been fired. Rosie had made her boundaries unmistakably clear.
Watching her with Sunrise was its own lesson in equine politics. Sunrise, the calm and compliant trail horse, was Rosie’s opposite — and for years she bossed Rosie around, chasing her from hay piles and asserting herself at every turn. Then one day, Rosie decided she’d had enough. Teeth flashed, hooves flew, and years of pent‑up “I’m done with this” energy erupted. No injuries, just a firm rebalancing of power. From that day forward, Rosie never had to defend her food again.
Rosie’s presence in the barn was a daily reminder of the power of intuition, boundaries, and quiet leadership. She was a teacher without words — reading energy, setting limits, and communicating with a clarity most humans never master.
Lessons from Rosie: never underestimate an intelligent horse, always pay attention to body language, and remember that in her world, respect was earned — never assumed.
Until her final day, she still ran the show — in her barn, in her life, and in our hearts.
Cleaning out files today… stumbled across this blog post I wrote on my anniversary – 8/7/2012. RIP David. You were the best husband a woman could ask for. The humor never ended. Miss you every day, my love.
Today is our 28th wedding anniversary. We exchanged the usual hallmark cards and went about our daily tasks. On the drive home from work, I telephone hubby, who reports with great exuberance that he’s prepared surf and turf for our anniversary dinner.
I truly want to be optimistic, but this is the same man who prepared my lunch one day, and at noon, I uncovered a Ziploc baggie filled with chili!
Oh, the possibilities…
I arrived home to a serving of what must be the Welsh version of surf and turf — a slab of Tilapia …. with a handful of meatballs!
To me, surf and turf is a traditional steak with lobster duo. But for others, well, I guess it can be whatever you want to make it – in this case, fish with meatballs.
In his mind, the equation was simple: fish plus meat equals surf and turf. For a physicist, the logic was sound.
In my house, every day is a culinary journey — Bon appetit!
Sunshine, my first horse, was an absolute angel. I made all my early mistakes with her, and she tolerated every one of them with patience and grace. She lived to 35 and guided me through the early years of horse ownership with a temperament that could calm any storm.
She was loving with people, gentle with the herd, and willing in every task. Wherever we boarded, Sunshine became the sweetheart of the barn. She taught me the rhythm of partnership, the importance of consistency, and the quiet power of empathy.
When Sunshine suffered impaction colic and passed away, I was heartbroken. Rosie, her companion at the time, suddenly needed a new herd mate — and I needed a way forward. That loss opened the door to the next chapter: Sunrise.
Rosie: The Difficult Fireball
Rosie had been labeled untrainable. Eight owners in eight years had given up on her, and she was on the brink of being sent to auction. I bought her to spare her from that fate, fully aware she was a project — and fully unaware of how much she would change me.
Her early life had left its mark. She was reactive, protective, and deeply sensitive. Even simple tasks like touch or hoof care could trigger resistance. But behind all that fire was intelligence, intuition, and a fierce will to survive.
Her first breakthrough came with the farrier. After a disastrous initial visit, he refused to trim her without sedation. Two failed attempts later, I convinced him to work with Koelle, our equine trainer. Within an hour, Rosie lifted her hooves calmly and consecutively — a moment that felt like witnessing a miracle.
Rosie’s intuition was extraordinary. She read energy with precision.
The day I arrived at the barn after my accident — disheveled, injured, and emotionally raw — she recognized it instantly. She nickered loudly, nuzzled me gently, and made it clear she knew something was wrong. She didn’t need touch to understand vulnerability.
Through years of partnership, Rosie taught me patience, awareness, and the kind of trust that must be earned, not assumed. She forced me to slow down, to listen, and to show up consistently.
Sunrise: The Companion Who Chose Me
After Sunshine’s passing, Rosie needed a friend. That search led me to Sunrise, an eight-year-old Peruvian Paso mare who had been rescued and professionally trained.
Sunrise was everything Rosie wasn’t — calm, brave, steady, and deeply attuned to her rider. On her first day, we performed join-up in the round pen. She approached me directly, stopped in front of me, and the rescue owner said, “She just chose you.” And she had.
Her past had been difficult. She and her lifelong companion, Conquistador, had been rescued from neglect. But she had also been trained in California, competing successfully and earning ribbons at the Pomona Championship Horse Show.
Watching Sunrise and Rosie together was its own kind of education. They were different in every way, yet somehow balanced one another. Over time, their relationship shifted, and so did Rosie’s confidence.
Sunrise became my trusted trail horse — calm, protective, and reliable. She taught me the value of steadiness, intention, and quiet leadership.
Lessons from the Herd
Each horse taught me something different, something essential:
Sunshine taught consistency, grace, and the foundation of partnership.
Rosie taught resilience, intuition, and the courage to set boundaries.
Sunrise taught stability, bravery, and the quiet strength of reliability.
Together, they reshaped my understanding of connection, communication, and presence.
Horses speak through energy, not words. They respond to intention, not performance. They mirror our emotional truth whether we want them to or not.
The Enduring Gift of Horses
Even after their passing, their lessons remain. Rosie’s intuition, Sunshine’s patience, and Sunrise’s quiet strength continue to guide me — in relationships and in life.
Horses are not just animals. They are teachers, companions, and mirrors of our emotional selves.
Their gift endures — in memory, in wisdom, and in the way I move through the world.
Today marks the first anniversary of my husband, David’s, death. In the quiet moments, my heart still aches. My inner goddess continuously persuades me to get out and enjoy life. She who cannot be ignored wisely infers that no one leaves a lasting imprint by tiptoeing through life.
In the early weeks following David’s death, the stillness woke me. In the dark of night, I understood why people feared silence. His memory invaded my every thought. It was like a wicked form of torture. I went through the motions of daily life feeling like the walking wounded. I still hear his voice in my head scolding or encouraging. We knew each other so intimately that he would have a thought at the same time I verbalized it. I know exactly what he would say to me in every instance. It is comforting to feel David’s presence.
I planned to spend this weekend on a healing ride through Monument Valley with a Navajo guide named Joe. Unfortunately, the Tribal Park is closed due to the Covid-19 outbreak. Instead, I spent a quiet morning with my horses. While snuggling my palomino, Sunrise, a small grey feather floated in space, landing near my feet. The feather was noticed earlier in the week but disappeared. As if on cue, it reappeared today. Twirling in the breeze, it eventually landed on the toe of my fringed moccasin. Native Americans believe the feather is a powerful symbol. Feathers arrive unexpectedly, but always with purpose. When a feather falls to earth, it carries a message to a living being. The feather brings inner strength from a loved one. The symbolism is overwhelming and the hair stands up on my arms and neck.
Until you experience indelible loss, you cannot understand what it does to a person’s soul. Life can be painful and heart-rending. The pain of loss is immeasurable. The most devastating endings usher in the next chapter in life. Over the last year, intense grief has become profound sadness. There comes a moment when you realize everything has changed.
I truly believe people come into our life with purpose. The people we meet along the path teach us lessons, help us to grow emotionally, and force us to realize special moments. There are no mistakes or failures, just an evolution in time. Each chapter in life teaches us what doesn’t work; thereby, forcing us to focus on what we need.
A year has passed, yet here I sit with tears streaming down my face. It is through grief that we learn to value the present. Each of us is the architect of our life story. Every chapter must be worth reading.
Romancing the Herd 