Photo Credit: Ridin’ Buddy extraordinaire, Alison Duvall

There sure are a lot of people making money off the non-profit sector!

This revelation has dawned as I’ve begun researching how I can raise money for my therapeutic riding barn. As sure as tech loves algorithms, if I’m nosing around the topic, “Grant funding for…” then I am besieged by a bazillion newsletters, workshops, webinars, and free!!! downloads, all purporting to make fundraising so much easier.

I was particularly intrigued by one shop that was featuring a presentation on The Trust Equation, put forth in The Trusted Advisor by David H. Maister, Charles H. Green, and Robert M. Galford. This 25-year-old book (with updated anniversary edition) is posting on Amazon as I write this as the No. 1 bestseller in the consulting category.

The residual message is as follows: Trust is comprised of four factors: Credibility (do you have the skills and standing you claim you do?) Reliability (do you keep your word?) Intimacy (can you appropriately handle sensitive personal information?). As I read that list, I’m nodding along. If a doc is going to prescribe treatment for me, I want all three of those factors in place, but the critical factor is apparently number four.

In whose interests are you acting? If you have all the creds, you always show up and follow through, and you treat sensitive information respectfully, you can still blow the trust test by being blatantly self-interested. The doc who prescribes a course of treatment for me that just happens to occur over the next twelve months in their office, at the low, low price of half my retirement because insurance just doesn’t take snake oil and raspberry ketones seriously… I’ll get a second opinion.

If self-interest is a trust killer, I wonder how we are to navigate, in a society that keeps so many of us in scarcity situations, and saturates media and culture with scarcity messages, and exempts next to nothing (including very especially health care and higher/applied education) from profit motives.

The logical end point of a society focused on greed and scarcity is that neither people nor institutions can be trusted. Everybody–docs, teachers, lawyers, journalists, farmers, dog walkers, day care providers, architects, CPAs–has loans or credit cards to pay off, and if we don’t have loans breathing down our necks we have the prospect of an impecunious old age staring us in the face.

Even if people are motivated by genuine altruism, in an environment where greed is normalized and even applauded, we don’t trust altruism and good moral health when we run smack into them.

This is all very bleak, and yet, I still believe most people are honest most of the time, and there’s science to back me up on that. Especially if we’ve had a solid primary school education, we tend to have active shoulder angels and a sense of empathy for others.

And yet, I’ve been schnookered, by bosses, boyfriends, clients, even family members. My trust radar has let me down in some pretty serious ways. How do you know whom to trust? Does it matter who trusts you?

PS: Pre-order links are up for An Heir of Possibilities!

Mom and I in Ireland ca 1981.

My mother was an aggressively competent housekeeper and cook. She mitered the corners of our bed sheets, ironed our pillowcases (in a precise sequence of folds so the pillowcase only had to be turned over once), and had dinner on the table every night at 6 pm, for a household that for years included at least nine people.

I thought she was a little nuts. Ironing pillow cases? If you make your bed without a lot of frills nobody sees that pillowcase, and if it stays on the bed for more than one night, it gets all wrinkly. Why in the world…? She tried to show me how to miter corners on sheets, and I asked her why bother doing it that way?

Her answer: If you’re ever in the army you’ll have to know how to do it exactly like this.
Me to myself: Welp, guess I won’t be enlisting, will I?

Mom and Dad in retirement

As I grew older (and less snarky?), I realized how very, very little agency my mother had compared to me. She was a registered nurse, but “had” to quit nursing when she got married, because nurses were not allowed to be married. Huh? She could only use credit cards in my dad’s name. She never learned how to figure a 15% tip, she ran the household on the budget my dad allotted to her. She had no checking or savings account in her own name. She was so painfully Catholic that the only birth control she’d use was rhythm, and that was apparently ineffective.

All she had was that house and that kitchen, so she made the tastiest, most comfy, inviting lemonade she could out of it. I have been thinking about Mom (and all the moms) this week, as I have felt overwhelmed by world events. Her generation dealt with the aftermath of WWI, the Great Depression, WWII, Korea, McCarthyism… they sent grown children off to Vietnam, endured the assassinations and violence of the 60s, watched Watergate unfold… How often did Mom feel as if she was powerless to do a stinkin’ thing about a world run amok?’

But she put together great meals, was the surrogate mom to the grad students far from home, always had time to visit with the neighbors, and was always willing to get up and dance for joy. Maybe she was a little nuts, but she was also resilient, resourceful, and for the most part, lots of fun.

Her example inspires me. I am no sort of cook and my house is a roofed campsite. What I can do is go on walks, where I express thanks for the birds, flowers, clean air, bugs (even the bugs), the sound of water in the stream, the scent of mowed grass, the quiet, the freedom to walk at mid-afternoon, the ability to walk…

The world does not suddenly right itself if I go on a thank-you-birds walk, or if I bring cookies to the barn, or plant a flat of pansies by the mailboxes, but I am a little righted, and that is an excellent place to start.

Mom ironed pillowcases, I plant pansies that won’t last but a few weeks. How are you keeping your balance these days?

PS: Final cover for A Gentleman of Modest Ambitions!

For the past couple weeks I have been bottle feeding a kitten. I came home one night, saw that the corner of the porch where the mama had made her nest was empty. I figured mama cat had moved the nest, as mama cats will do. Well… nope. I walked into the house, and there was this one little gray scrap of feline yelling her fuzzy head off about knowing her rights and this is an outrage and bring me a flagon of ale, wench!

The particular mama cat making free with the porch was feral. Had never been in the house to my knowledge. How the kitten got into the house will forever remain a mystery. Her eyes weren’t open yet, so that’s a nope.

Anyhoo, she’s driving me nuts. Getting her to take a bottle was easy, but wee little kittens should be offered six to eight feedings a day, preferably on a strict schedule. There goes my REM sleep. The little darlings are prone to diarrhea and dehydration even when being fed the fancy milk replacer that I happen to keep on hand. My kitten forgot to read the part about the strict schedule. Some days she’s a bottomless hog, other days she is morally opposed to eating.

On those days, I fret and worry and offer the bottle every hour, often to no avail. I hate the dragging anxiety, the dragging spirits, the sense of being unequal to the challenge of getting this kitten safely past infancy.

In other words, I feel with this kitten a ghost of what befell me when I was the single working mom of a new baby. Beloved Offspring did not sleep through the night for THREE YEARS (yes, I tried everything that was legal), but who could blame her when the person who brought her into the world was gone eleven or twelve hours a day? If she wanted to spend time with me, 3 am was always wide open.

In her first four years of life, I bought my first and only house, and was promptly laid off. Found a job, got laid off again. Money was a constant issue (no child support). Her health was a constant source of anxiety. I was not a big sister to any babies for whom I had any responsibility, I never babysat infants. The internet hadn’t been invented yet, and ye gods… That feeling when you know something is wrong with your child, but they can’t tell you what, or if it’s serious or just gas again…

When I look back on that season of my life, it was hell. I was alone, exhausted, bewildered, and scared, with no end in sight. People would say to me, “Enjoy these years when she’s little. They go by so quickly!”

They did not go by quickly at all, which probably explains why, now that I have two grandchildren, I am pretty happy to admire them for the most part from afar. I am snakebit when it comes to infants. I forget just how I came to be that way, but the kitten is providing an vivid reminder. She is emphatically renewing my compassion for the parents of infants, and also my compassion for a younger me.

I tried so hard, I was so overwhelmed, and I felt so inadequate.

When you look back, are there, “I don’t know how I did that” times in your life? Is there a period about which hindsight has become kind sight?

I’ve been reading a lot lately about the value of friction. Not in the sense that rubbing two sticks together creates friction, and therefore heat, and sometimes fire, though fire is pretty impressive, but in the sense of a human being trying to do something, and having to exert effort, endure frustration, muster patience, apply creativity, and otherwise struggle to produce a hoped-for outcome.

Generative artificial intelligence (AI) is supposed to get rid of “all that friction” for us. You want the perfect menu for a twelve-person get-together that includes two vegans, somebody who is gluten intolerant, a farm-to-table evangelist, another guest who is lactose intolerant, and two friends who “hate” vegetables and believe every meal should include meat.

No problem! Just ask your AI assistant for solutions, and in nanoseconds… there you go, complete with recipes, a budget, estimated time to prepare, ideal task sequencing, nutrition parameters, and wine pairings. Friction gone!

My dear mother, who could put on one heck of a dinner party, would grieve the loss of the hours spent on search-and-compare-recipes missions that this easy-peasy approach would “spare” her. She would detest the idea that a recipe should be followed to the letter (always salt to taste, never just dump in the suggested amount). She would positively enjoy trying new wines while building her menu, and she would be delighted if her guests found the results of her experiments satisfying. Get rid of the friction, and it would no longer be “her” dinner party. She would be the scullery maid working for her AI “assistant.”

The greater concern I hear about overuse or misuse of AI is that we will become even lazier morally and intellectually than we already are. We will lose our talent for gnawing away at tough problems, for keeping an open mind through reasoned debate. Our ability to sit with a difficult issue while pondering contradictions will atrophy. Why spend years even learning a foreign language when Claude, ChatGPT, Grok, Gemini, and dozens of other programs can translate your email better than you could after three college courses?

I’ll tell you why: I’ve studied five different foreign languages, and I don’t speak any of them well, but each one taught me something cool about English, or about the culture of the lands that spoke that language. The pay off was in the study, not in the mastery. That is to say, the friction–putting the old proboscis ad carborundum–was the gift, not the grind.

We are designed to value what we struggle for, which is part of the psychology of weeder courses, boot camps, church missions, competitive promotions, and parenting. This is how we are wired and how we have been wired for millennia, so how do we find meaning in simply following the directions AI hands us?

I don’t want a life of doing what the Bot says I should or watching what the Bot suggests I watch. I want an interesting life, with meaningful challenges, thorny questions, moral accountability, and work that tests my skills and stamina while allowing me to make a contribution beyond my own subsistence. For that reason, I cannot ever see the day when I will write a book in a process that in any way relies on generative artificial intelligence (and also, because much of it is built on piracy, but that’s another post).

Where do you come down on  the risks of AI? Over-hyped? The tech we’ve been waiting for? Fine in moderation provided we have enough water and power?

PS: An Heir of Distinction published Friday on all the retail platforms!

Several experienced therapeutic riding instructors were hanging out in the tack room once upon a time, while I imitated a fly on the wall. They were discussing the extent to which even in able-bodied children, fine motor skills seem to be in decline. The young riders do not wield pens or pencils to the extent their parents did. The children often don’t have to lace up and tie their shoes (Crocs are technically shoes, I suppose); their clothing might not feature buttons, zippers, or buckles when Velcro will do instead.

On the simplest horse bridle, you’ll find four buckles. An English girth has four more, and stirrups are generally adjusted by means of buckles. If a rider has never met the concept of a buckle, then how to open, adjust, and fasten a buckle can be perplexing.

One of the instructors went on to lament that she had to show a child how to use a broom (a swept barn aisle is a safer barn aisle). I learned that sweeping with a broom used to be an occupational/physical therapy staple for several reasons. First, it’s simple. No on/off switch, no this-side-up baloney, no left-hand or right-hand limitations. Pick it up and go.

Second, brooms are safe. Yes, you can ka-bong somebody over the head with one, but there’s no electricity, no sharp anything, no cord to trip over. Third, a broom is cheap and has a useful life of nearly forever.

But fourth–and to me most significantly–using a broom requires cross-body movement. You can use a broom without moving a hand past the mid-line of your body, but that’s much slower than whisk-whisking along, shoving the dirt from your dominant side, past your non-dominant foot. This kind of activity lights up both sides of your brain at once, which makes learning or even cognitive processing of any sort easier (thus explaining the pediatrician’s delight when a baby starts to crawl).

Who knew? And maybe this is why sweeping is one of VERY few domestic activities I affirmatively enjoy. Scrubbing the cabinets results in the same sort of, “housecleaning was done here” visual difference as sweeping the floor does, but I prefer sweeping. It’s gentle, quiet, makes a visual difference, and gives me a sense of having imposed order on chaos as scrubbing does not. I suspect the cross-body brain boost is a large part of why I feel more settled after having swept the floor. The term “meditative” comes to mind, whereas I find a lot of other domestic chores either tedious (folding clothes) or tiresome (scrubbing the instantly-self-dirtying floors, walls, appliances, and counters).

Do you enjoy some simple, old-fashioned activities more than others? Do you still wash and dry dishes by hand or avoid the electric toothbrush gizmos? Maybe you do mending by hand or bake your own bread?

When are the old ways still the best ways for you? I suspect in each case, there’s a sound neurological or emotional benefit resulting from your “simpler” choice.

PS: The first set of Advanced Reader Copies for An Heir of Distinction have just gone out. The web store ebook has gone live, as has the Amazon print version. The retail edition comes out on Friday. If you’d like an ARC file, please email me at graceburrowes@yahoo. com.

In the past year, I’ve seen more power outages at my little farmhouse than in the previous five years combined. Not sure why–high winds, drought, aging infrastructure, or maybe Potomac Edison has been economizing on preventative maintenance in a jurisdiction chock full of big trees?

Nah. Well… let’s leave it at all of the above. In any case, a lot of what I consider productivity requires a computer connected to the internet. Or–house work counts, right?–running water. At the least, it’s nice to have some illumination while using that broom, but if the power goes out at night, that’s a lot of candles.

I have water, firewood, snacks, and dry pet food stockpiled. I also have candles, matches, and flashlights, but that doesn’t address a need to use time productively or enjoyably. Today’s outage wasn’t quite three hours, last weekend’s was closer to eight. What to do? What to do? If the weather is acceptable, I’ll tackle some yard work, but I’m certainly not up to eight straight hours of outside chores.

What I have done is nipped upstairs (warmer than downstairs), snuggled under the covers with Tavis of Feline Perfection Fame, and whipped out the old Nook. Can go about 12 hours on battery, is self-illuminating, and always has two or three books I want to read.

And yet, I always feel a little defeated when I am backed into this option. What if I fall asleep and take a nap? What if I can’t get to sleep tonight because I took a little siesta? What if I run out of books? When will the electricity come back on so I can Be Productive?!

But then I recall how many days I’d get off the school bus as a kid and trudge up the hill to the house, only to find my mother reading in bed at 4pm, the remains of a little plate of cheese and crackers on the night table. She might have taken a few naps, and for sure, she took breaks. And yet the house was always tidy, dinner was always on the table at 6 pm.

All the science out there says naps make us healthier, breaks make us way more productive, and getting our feet up from time to time is a great idea. I love how hanging out with Travis helps me slow down and cheer up, and yet, I still feel as if I need a power outage to excuse the “indulgence.” The habit of working just because I can keep my eyes open, is deeply ingrained, and–I know this–not healthy.

I one day soon hope to have a solar house and to drive an EV, but before that day arrives, I hope I already know that breaks are good for me, and that they actually help me avoid the human power outages that no amount of electricity can fix.

Are a you napper? A put-your-feet-upper? What breaks have you learned to take even if the power is on?

Losing weight threw me for a loop in a lot of ways beyond the physical, one of them regarding how I dress. My chubby idea of clothing that fit was clothing that was loose enough for me to move around in, and that hid my exact, generous, contours. In the X-Plus sizes, nothing was “too loose,” but now that I am into the regular numbers… stuff will fall off if I choose too large a size.

This is obvious to the normal-sized, but I am still trying to find a balance between, “That looks and feels too tight,” and, “That is how clothing feels when it fits.” Some of my bewilderment is just the old dog/new tricks challenge, but some of it is how fussy I am about tactile matters in general.

I am pretty tactile avoidant. With a few close family and friends exceptions, I don’t like people touching me casually. It’s not a germ thing, it’s an I do not enjoy other people’s hands on me thing. I can shake hands and even hug others (now),  but I have always been socially stand-offish.

For a long time, I thought I was just wired wrong, but then I started coming across Participants at the barn who cannot stand to touch the horse. They will sit in the saddle and enjoy riding the horse, and some of them ride quite well, but the whole, “Pat your pony!” or hug your horse routine… not only no, but heckin’ darn no.

The feel of that coarse, often dusty, horse hair is unbearably repugnant to these riders. These are the kids who as toddlers had tantrums if their shirt tag touched their nape. I am not that far down the continuum, but I understand their reactivity.

The upside is, I love soft textures. Flannel sheets were invented for me. Really cushy socks are my guilty pleasure (you can spend a lot on socks if you’re not careful). To pet a sleek, soft cat calms my nerves.

Fleece is my friend, and one of my treasures is an angora scarf woven in the All Scotland purple plaid and purchased in Edinburgh. Warm, and soooo soft. I think those folks from days of yore with their capes and shawls were on to a tactile delight. Those garments are snuggly warm, soft, and pretty.

I got to thinking about this business of textures when I noted that a week off meant a week in play clothes–loser, softer, less structured attire. Slippers instead of my Brooks or Hokas, the special alpaca socks that I don’t wear to the barn no matter how cold it is. Like hot tea and pretty flowers, what I allow next to my skin can be a real comfort and joy to me, and I am so very grateful that to a significant extent, I am in charge of what and who touches me.

Are you a hugger? A handshaker? A closet soft-sock collector? Or maybe you don’t give much thought to your tactile preferences, though cooking spices or colors or footwear are serious business for you?

My winter went off the rails when I spent the holidays contending with a rare occasion of deadline writing. Some writers create their best work with a deadline looming near at hand. A few writers can only generate prose when the clock is ticking down.

I am not one of them, and I hope in the future to avoid that sense of, “This book must be done by the end of the month or else.” I got it done, and it’s a good book, but the process was Not Fun. Then January continued the Not Fun theme with foul weather, a visit from the norovirus’s more persistent cousin, and the extra house work that comes with foul weather and many pets.

February was just as slog. I overcommitted myself at the therapeutic riding barn in terms of hours and days per week, and I am also in the Dunning-Kruger dip as an instructor–the place where you admit this gig is more complicated, stressful, and demanding then you realized, and holy Ned, your ignorance is vaster than you imagined.

My barn schedule will be lighter going forward, and I have the first week of March off from all horse duties. The writing schedule is in a good place (waves to Lord Julian), and the weather is moderating. I have a window of days to rest and refresh, and by gum, I intend to make the best of them!

For me, part of R&R means going back to  that old, elementary school basic: Playing outside. I still have a few bulbs I can stick in the ground, I have a yard full of windfall to clean up. The point is: Go OUTSIDE. Get some Vitamin D the way nature intended, touch dirt, re-connect with my tiny patch of paradise.

Another part of a re-charge is wearing play clothes. There’s office attire, courtroom attire, barn attire, and, for me, slack day attire. Into my slack day attire I will go. All very soft, loose, warm, and comfy stuff.  The play clothes wardrobe somewhat assumes I will avoid socializing, which figures near the top of the agenda.

If I tackle some house work, I will start on my bedroom upstairs, the place where I put the day aside and literally rest, or where I go to read in quiet with Madam Travis the Cat purring beside me. The big chores that result from winter wear and tear on the house probably won’t figure on the list. Those I will do weekend-by-weekend as spring progresses.

And I will read. I will go upstairs earlier than I have been (Travis approves of this part of the plan), and after a couple days of sleep-in-if-I-want-to, I will set my alarm to get me up with the sun.

None of this is complicated, but I still need to be intentional about it, or I will go down You Tube, housework, research, and socializing rabbit holes, and my week to rest and recover will be gone before I know it.

How do you put the court in recess after a compression phase?

One of my junior high social studies teachers would, when his lesson plan ran short, have us play the map game toward the end of class. He’d pull down the big world map in the front of the room (Mercator distortion view of course), put a student on either side, and call out a country or capital. The first kid to find that location was challenged by the next kid and so forth.

The competitive aspect of the game was distasteful to me, and I realize now that the game was easily biased. The teacher simply had to pick eastern locations to favor the student on the right side of the map, and so on.

But that big world, with all the strange names, different colors, enormous mountain ranges and huge seas… I liked knowing where everything went on that world.

Fast forward to any weekday morning, when I’m reading the daily newsletter from International Intrigue, (“Your cheeky guide to what’s going on in the world…”) and I am frequently stumped. Yes, El Salvador is in Central America, but is it north or south of Nicaragua? (North, and no shared border with Nicaragua). Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania are all stacked on top of each other, but in what order? (Alphabetical from the north.)

Because I was so frequently flummoxed about a world map I once knew pretty well, I made myself a little rule: If I don’t know where a place is, I will look it up. I might not remember next time what I found this time, but that just means I’ll look it up again. I am gradually getting the -stans sorted, along with west central Africa, and southeast Asia.

On the one hand, I am ashamed of my ignorance. Do better, Grace Ann. On the other hand, I notice that my life is full of personal micro-rules, some worthwhile, some ridiculous. When I’m shopping, I observe the “never take the last one” rule, because the pandemic left me with some lingering tendencies to hoard and to “shop anxious.” I don’t want to be the reason some tired parent goes home empty-handed when the Vandal Horde expects the three cheese, stuffed crust home-baked pizza dinner.

On social media, if I draft and edit the same comment three times, I’m not allowed to post the comment. I’m probably arguing with a bot or a troll anyway, and denying FB one more piece of engagement data about me is always the better course. My other rule about social media is never, ever let that crap blight the beginning or end of the day.

These micro-rules reflect my values: Be a responsibly informed citizen of the earth. Think of others. Guard my peace of mind, but don’t be an ostrich. Don’t be greedy, balance legitimate fears with common sense and compassion….

And somehow not taking the last pizza is supposed to be a contribution to a better tomorrow? I dunno, but it’s enough if exercising a little restraint contributes to a better Grace today.

Do you have micro-rules, even if they would make no sense to anybody else, and are sometimes honored in the breach?

People who train horses quickly get wise to the notion that horses can spot patterns better than people can spew words. Horses also get cause and effect. “If I trot off smoothly when she bumps her calves against my sides, she strokes my shoulder. Yay! If I sidle away from the mounting block, she moves the block close to the rail, so I can’t sidle anywhere. Boo!”

Because horses do pick up on patterns, most riders are very careful about certain moments in a training ride. When do you let your horse go from the working phase of the ride to the cool down phase? Ideally, when he has just been a very good boy, of course. Even if the ride has been largely frustrating, you find something for him to do that he can handle well.

My daughter (who is 5 foot 8) with her wee pony

Old Thunderbolt will think, “I changed my canter lead in the middle of the arena and then I got to walk. Walking is easy!” He will be more alert for that change-the-lead cue in the subsequent rides, because it might mean easier work is ahead.

When do you end the ride and hop down? After more good behavior, if at all possible. When do you put him into his stall after the ride? When he’s being calm and mannerly, NOT when he barges down the barn aisle like a tank in overdrive.

The moments when what naturally follows feels like a reward to a horse have to be carefully considered, lest you set the horse up to think that lagging, jigging, bucking, crow-hopping and other tiresome naughtiness is what yields results the horse likes.

I am not a horse, but in my typical day, the same kind of, “Choose consciously” moments appear. When I sit down at the computer early in the day, my first cuppa tea steaming to my right, my mouse pad to the left… I have two options: I can jump right into my work in progress, or I can read two newsletters and then jump into my work in progress. Pretty much any other course–solitaire, yesterday’s sales, a jig saw puzzle, scrubbing that cruddy spot where a muddy cat brushed against the kitchen cabinet…

Not smart, Grace Ann. That is asking to end the day admitting in my journal that, “The morning got away from me.” The whole morning did not get away from me, but that one moment, fingers poised above the keyboard, mouse ready to click, very much got off on the wrong foot.

Another tricky moment occurs in the early afternoon, when I’ve done my writing for the day (I hope, I hope), checked email, and  dealt with any financial matters. Then what? This is the time to get away from the computer, take on a few house chores, go for a walk, and get my head free of the to-do list. If I don’t, if I yield to the jig saw puzzles and FB doomscroll (once a day, and I try to keep it under 20 minutes), I usually don’t get anything worthwhile done, but I also set myself up for a dull, fretful evening.

The time to goof off, for me, is late afternoon. I can let myself–or sometimes force myself–to frolic and detour, watch a horse video, read a physical book, or research the history of Wellington boots, and then as evening rolls around, I might have more juice for say, writing blog posts, updating the web site, or doing other not-very-creative work-work.

I don’t need to think so much of scheduling my whole day. If I want to keep a balance between productivity and pleasure, between focus and freedom, I just need to manage some of those critical moments, when I will transition from one phase of the day to another. If I let the moment slide by and take the path of least resistance, then the rest of the day often goes sliding by as well and that’s not how I most like to manage my spoons.

Does your day have moments you have to manage a little more carefully? Little windows that can sneak your time away  in the wrong direction or set you up for a nice steady trot down the preferred to-do list?