The Relaxing Presence of Horses

I’m so proud of my daughter. Holly knows how to ride a horse. This is amazing to me. I know nothing about horses. I’ve sat on a horse maybe twice in my whole life and both times I found myself thinking Boy, this baby is huge. Now might be a good time to get off.

In contrast, Holly can not only sit on a horse but groom and ride one. I know because earlier this week I drove out to the Bridlewood riding stables where she’s taking horseback riding lessons through Mt. Hood Community College.

As I got in my car, leaving Portland behind me, I felt myself physically and mentally slow down, as the grid-like streets gave way to country roads, twisting and turning their way to the stables, which sat in a small valley in the woods outside of town.

After parking my car under a row of trees, I got out and walked into the dimly lit barn, where the soft sounds of people talking were muffled by the hay covering the worn floorboards.

The barn was rich with the scent of horse and life. Three or four dogs wandered about. I breathed in the smell of leather, listened to the soft swish of someone sweeping out a horse stall, from the deep interior of which came the sound of shifting hoofs.

I relaxed, welcomed the break from the intellectual demands of work, as the low afternoon sun threw deep slants of light into the shadowy barn.

I looked around me, at the thick horse blankets and deeply tooled, leather saddles, at the animals’ coarsely veined stomachs, the ropes and leashes and long-haired dogs. I watched as the students coaxed their horses out of their stalls, brushed them and saddled them up.

In the riding arena, I stood to one side as Holly and the other students rode their horses (named Abby and Lucky and Dusty) in lazy circles around the inside of the barn while the instructor, a soft-spoken man with a slight limp, stood in the center and offered suggestions: “Heels down. Toes up.” The students, sitting relaxed in their saddles, gently urged their steeds forward, when they weren’t clicking to back them up.

Life seemed so organic, the pace so slow, as if life had no pace at all. I felt a welcome sense of relief, from writing and work and the city, as all around me, the horses gently snickered and shook their manes, their black eyelashes half covering their dark eyes.

Tearing Down Fences

My daughter is grown now, but during the days and months right after her birth, life was a bit of a jumble.

The small workroom in the back corner of my home where I’d used to write, read and occasionally nap now had to serve as a nursery as well, for a new baby had moved in our house.

I could no longer draw neat lines around who I was or what I did, for my infant daughter Holly, like a free-spirited gardener, had torn down the fences between the fields of my life. As a result, the rabbits were nibbling at the lettuce, and the cows were having a field day in the flower beds.

Tell-tale signs of the days-old gardener cropped up everywhere – baby blankets threatened to topple from the bookshelf, diapers sat next to a book on how to make a living as a writer, and a button-eyed Teddy bear peered down on the sleeping infant. On my desk, a night lamp in the shape of a hobby horse threatened to run circles around my computer, while behind me on the doorknob hung a frilly, doll-size dress.

The wonderful confusion began simply enough on the cold, clear January day Dave and I brought Holly home from the hospital where she was born. It was Dave who did the honors. Not knowing any better, he simply picked the bundled babe out of her car seat and carried her up the steps and into the house, transporting her through the kitchen and down the hall and not stopping until he reached the back room where he laid her down in the borrowed bassinet.

There was no hint, in the neatness and quickness of the act, of the wonderful chaos that would follow. Dave soon learned the importance of tiptoeing around the sleeping baby and her short-tempered mom, while I learned to write at odd moments on bits of scrap paper, used envelopes and note pads left by the furnace man.

Though Dave made a valiant effort to contain some of the confusion by building yet another set of shelves, I soon learned that making room in your life for a child means not just re-arranging the furniture but re-organizing one's priorities as well. I was left with a life in which the garden rows were not as neat, one in which the distinction between what was inside the garden and what was out was less clear, but one in which, when all was said and done, the crop would be more rich, more complete.

A Famous Writer Comes to Town

Such long fingers he has, I thought, upon seeing Garrison Keillor for the first time. I'd come to the First Congregational Church in downtown Portland to hear the writer speak. Even from my seat high in the second balcony I could see that Keillor was a man who liked red socks and had a tendency to go too long between haircuts. These traits, combined with his glasses, gave him a sort of elongated Stephen King look.

I also noticed something that made my heart sink. When he walked onto the stage, Keillor carried with him a copy of his new novel. I was disappointed to see this because I was tired of paying $12.50 for a lecture ticket only to have the speaker read from a book that I could just as well read from the comfort of my own bed.

But a few minutes into Keillor's speech I realized he'd also known disappointment. Perhaps that explained why, before breaking out his book, he buttered us up with several minutes of funny stories. Keillor is a skilled speaker with a soft, deep voice and a studied stammer that almost makes you believe he just now thought of what he's going to say next. For a few minutes I even forgot where I was and imagined myself sitting in a farmhouse across the kitchen table from Keillor, swapping stories over glasses of buttermilk.

Keillor's performance was nostalgic, sad and silly. The sappy parts particularly endeared him to me, for I consider it an act of courage for a grown man, especially a tall grown man, to act goofy.

Several of his sentences burned deep: He described his hometown of Anoka, Minnesota, as a town where "at least twice a year nature tries to kill you." Life, he said, is "a continual conflict between loyalty and curiosity." And a storyteller is "someone who feels more comfortable with his relatives at a distance." His monologue went on to include a sing-a-long and more than one dirty limerick, by which time Keillor had me in the palm of his large, long-fingered hand.

After the reading, everyone was invited downstairs to meet the author. I hoped I might have enough nerve to go up and talk with him but that did not prove to be the case. I did spend some minutes hanging around the water fountain, pretending I was getting a drink when in fact I was watching the writer from a safe distance, which was when I noticed his shoes ─ black with thick rubber soles and somewhat scuffed. I imagined Keillor walking the sidewalks of New York City in those sensible shoes. Perhaps he even wore them into the offices of the New Yorker. Like Keillor, I come from a small town where people buy shoes because they fit, not because they look good, so when I saw Keillor's shoes I knew we had something in common, which, when I thought about it, was all I'd hoped for that night. I did not go home disappointed.

Name Recognition

The summer sun felt warm on my back as I stepped into the dim lobby of the hotel. Inside, the air was cool, even overly air-conditioned, and heavy with the scent of desperation, which only made sense. I was at a writers' conference.

I'd signed up for the conference to, among other things, avoid writing but had only been there a few minutes when I spotted the familiar face of a rich and famous local author. Even in the low light I could tell it was her. Rumor had it she'd made enough money from selling her books to buy a tile-roofed house on the coast.

"May I help you?" the volunteer sitting behind the registration table asked her.

"I came to pick up my packet," the successful author replied.

"And what is your name?" the volunteer asked.

What is her name? I thought. Doesn't that registrar know who she's talking to? The woman standing before her was nothing less than the conference calling card. That very night, in fact, at a $25-a-plate dinner, she was going to be presented with the We Wish We Were You Award.

"I was just thinking there might be a packet or some tickets for me here," the famous writer said softly.

And I immediately felt a little better, to see that even a successful writer can go unrecognized when doing something as simple as requesting a laminated name tag.

Pens and Pencils

Swimming in Ideas

One of the best ways to guarantee I’ll get a great writing idea is to distance myself from paper and pen.

A lot of my ideas for essays and articles come to me while I’m swimming in the Northeast Community Center pool, where I do laps.

I no sooner don my swimsuit, cap and goggles and dip into the pool than I’m bombarded with the last lines of essays and opening lines for poems.

It’s as if the minute my mind is distracted from writing, writing ideas come pouring in. Maybe it’s because my mind, temporarily emptied, now has more room. Maybe it’s that repetitious activities open up parts of my mind that are otherwise closed. (I also get ideas while knitting, walking and driving. Watch out – I’m the one swerving down the interstate while jotting down an idea at the same time.)

Whatever the reason, it’s immersion in water that, for me, has the most consistently creative results. Taking a shower, for instance, works wonders. While standing in the warm water, covered in soapsuds, I often find ideas streaming down on my head.

Maybe it’s because, in some ways, writing is like being surrounded by water. To some degree, writing means being intentionally submerged. When I sit down to write, I’m immersing myself into thoughts and feelings, staying with them as long as I can, before slowly surfacing with the results.

Word Length

“How long is the article supposed to be?” Janet asked. “650 words? 700?”

It was a sunny Wednesday afternoon, and Janet (a freelancer writer working on an article for a publication I edit) and I were standing in the middle of a quiet street in Northeast Portland.

Behind me, bearded blue iris bloomed in the front yard of the house we’d just left, where Janet had interviewed the homeowner, a local artist, while I took a few photos. We were outside now and returning to our cars.

“I trust your judgment,” I said, while brushing orange cat hairs off my shirt (hairs shed by the artist’s friendly 15-pound English tabby named Eddie).

Before driving off, Janet told me what a journalism professor once told her about how long an article should be:

“Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be of interest.”