I was horse-leading along a few lessons ago, walking Noble Steed up the barn’s drive-way, which has a black-top surface. The rider announced, “I like that sound!” meaning the 1-2-3-4 pattern of hoof falls. We use that sound, along with the kinesthetic feel of the body’s sway at the walk, to cue especially auditory learners into the rhythm and sensation of riding a “sound” horse (sorry).

Um, whatever. I like that sound too! I was in Melbourne, Australia (go if you ever get the chance), on the other side of the world from all that is dear and familiar to me, and feeling homesick. Then I heard the rhythmic beat of shod hooves on asphalt, clip-clop, clip-clop right there in the middle of the city. A couple of police horses were out on patrol, and just the tattoo of their hoofbeats settled my feathers and made me feel less of a stranger to my surroundings.

I’ve been adding sound to my end of day ritual, in the form of ten or fifteen minutes of usually instrumental music. My playlist is pretty trite: The Goldberg Variations, Bach’s Air on a G String. The Prelude to Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in C major. The Maple Leaf Rag, Solace. The second movement from Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 in E-flat major. These are calm, mostly lyrical old friends from my way back youth, when I had some musical proficiency. Like the sound of equine hoof beats, they soothe and please me regardless of context.

My daughter’s voice is a heart-sound I don’t hear enough, though some of it comes through in her texts. The voices of close friends and family, the sound of Travis the Cat purring me to sleep, the slow song of crickets in September, the morning aria of the robin coming through my bedroom window in Spring.

I may lose my hearing someday. My mother did, and the prognosis for me is not exactly cheerful, but for now, I have these heart-sounds in my treasure house, and my hope is, if I can appreciate them thoroughly enough, I might still have them even if my hearing disappears. For right now, they have become a conscious part of my daily self-fortification routine and a source of pleasure and joy that I can have for free, no subscription fees apply.

What are your heart sounds? Do you get to hear them enough?

I had a fair amount of energy early in life. Didn’t need much sleep, was up to stacking a wagon of hay in the miserable summer heat, did college without a car and walked all over creation as a result. Same with law school–work all day, in school five nights a week, who needs a car? Then something changed–single motherhood, thyroid disease, various anemias… I’m not sure what, but the energizer bunny became beta fish Grace, at least physically.

Fast forward to now, when I have long since realized that I don’t bounce. If I have a bad night of sleep, it’s going to take several good nights to recharge. If I over-exert myself at the barn, same. I can putter around at low RPMs pretty much all day, but the big step count days will come at a cost.

And yet, I always find the energy to show up at the barn for my appointed shifts. I come home tired and I don’t enjoy the commute, but I go, I toddle around and around with those horses, and I consider it time well spent.

Why? I often have fun, but not always (see the saddle that slipped sideways). I often feel useful and appreciated, which is lovely, but I think the trade off that keeps me coming back (besides horses! and barn buddies!), is that I leave the barn grateful. I can walk, I can use my words, I can regulate my bodily functions, I can regulate (most of) my emotions. Some of our riders didn’t get ANY of those high cards. So I go, I walk miles in the arena and on the trails, and I come home beat but grateful and humbled.

I go for walks around my neighborhood, and that often leaves me pooped as well (do not even think about mentioning how exercise can energize, because I will smite you with my figurative sword). Where I live, the scenery is wonderful. Much of the year is abundantly green, and even when green has gone on hiatus, the wildlife, livestock, and beautiful countryside refresh my mind. I occasionally run into a neighbor while I’m boulevardiering, and even a short chat bolsters my sense of community good will.

If I have all the energy in the world, but little gratitude, or little appreciation for natural beauty, or no occasions to feel humbled, I am in much worse straits than if I am physically whupped for a couple of days a week but have good nourishment for my heart and soul. I am extraordinarily lucky that I can make my living at a sedentary activity I enjoy tremendously, while I’m also able to use what juice I have to earn the very precious sustenance that money cannot buy.

What do you need or enjoy that money cannot buy, and what trade-offs do you make to keep it in your life?

I have begun teaching therapeutic riding lessons like the fully-fledged (wet behind the ears) certified instructor I can now call myself. One friend in the business kindly pointed out that these early lessons are difficult in a way that later lessons won’t be. Even by this time next year, I will have more experience to fall back on, better instincts, more sounding boards, and more completed experiments.

One of my best teachers in life thus far has been the near miss. At one of my earliest jobs, I fell hard for a co-worker. He was wicked smart, had a great sense of humor, didn’t take himself too seriously… after a few happy hours, we ended up, um, getting better acquainted, but then he went to work for a competitor, and our paths stopped crossing. Yes, we had telephones back then, but I lacked confidence that the attraction was reciprocally strong.

He was such a cool guy. I later found out that he had substance abuse issues, was a work-aholic, and traded on credentials that were not quite accurately represented. Yikes. I was a little snake-bit after that brush with leaping before I looked, and doubtless saved myself some toad-kissing for being more hesitant.

‘Nother example of a near miss: In a recent riding lesson, my student’s saddle slipped to the side, though I had repeatedly checked the snugness of the girth. Because the other team member in the lesson was a very experienced instructor, disaster was averted. Rather than going overboard, the rider was able to safely dismount, feet first, no harm/no foul. Double yikes!!!

I hate that the saddle slipped. I am endlessly grateful that the situation was handled safely. Going forward, I will be checking girths, and making sure my rider is centered, especially when it’s a full-size rider ona  very round horse. I knew that was the protocol, I did observe the protocol, but I’ll take the protocol far more to heart going forward.

What I like about the near miss is that it draws my attention to a shortcoming, a dicey decision, or a tricky sitch without also visiting upon me all the complications that come with a big failure. I’m a little sadder, but–I hope–much wiser, for taking near misses seriously. The near miss lets me learn from experience, but at a big discount.

And yet, I never saw much discussion in law school, grad school, or my Fortune 100 employment stints about near miss analysis. Failure analysis, sure. Learn from your mistakes! I also saw some success analysis, along the lines of, “Why we’re the best,” or, “What got us to where we are today,” but those brushes with disaster that spare us the worst outcomes… they were not give much attention.

Near misses also apply to contractors I didn’t hire, contracts I did not sign, relationships I cut loose rather than maintain at any cost. Money I did not hand over. Trust I did not hand over. People who could have trashed me professionally but didn’t… My mom would have said my guardian angels were working overtime. When I narrowly avoid a bad outcome, I hope my hindsight works overtime too, so that I don’t have to swerve that same obstacle ever again.

What has taught you the most meaningful life lessons? Do any significant near misses come to mind?

PS: I’ve already sent out the ARCs for The Besotted Baron (and he’s loose in the wild, bless his handsome, stubborn heart), but if you’re a federal worker without a paycheck, or you’re among the scads of us with too much month at the end of our money these days, I can send out a few more. Email me at [email protected] and let me know what device you read on.

PPS: A Kiss for Hope finally got a cover!

An experienced foster mom once said to me, “I know the kids are going to be alright when I hear them laughing. Some of them have taken months to laugh, one poor little guy never did. But once they laugh–provided it’s a good, hearty, silly laugh–I can relax a little.”

I was reminded of her wisdom when my daughter was dealing with some awful adolescent turbulence. The medication was making things worse, she was growing more isolated in part out of a mutual decision to try home schooling. I was doing everything I knew to do–counseling, horse barn, psychiatrist–and nothing seemed to be turning the situation around (it did turn around, eventually). I was puttering along downstairs, and I heard her up in her room laughing. Haw-haw-haw, ridiculous laughing.

I had assigned her one of Dave Barry’s novels, probably Big Trouble, and she had succumbed to his comedic magic. To speak humorously is a gift, to write humorly is a superpower, and Mr. Barry had my depressed, troubled, “at risk” daughter in stitches. I wrote him the sappiest fan letter an author ever did write to anybody. He made my kid laugh for what might have been the first time in months.

Yesterday at the therapeutic riding barn a couple of the other instructors and I were tasked with desensitizing one of the horses to a rider mounting and dismounting using a mechanical lift. I volunteered to be the “rider,” in part because I want to know what a student has to deal with when they use that device to get on or off a horse. I also wanted to be helpful, and–honestly–these days, I’ll take any excuse to sit on a horse.

The horse was an absolute, utter champ. He stood like an equine testament to eternity while I went up and down, over and around in the lift. Brushed him with my boots on the withers and croup, jabbered, swung my legs like an excited eight-year-old, and that horse did not flick an ear. The mental image of the chorus line from Robinhood: Men in Tights popped into my head, because the lift is on a track, and you can swing yourself to the left or swing to the right, step-behind-step-kick. step-behind-step-twirl…

Which I did. Hilarity ensued, and the whole rest of the day, I heard the Men in Tights chorus in my head, and one of the other instructors referring to me as “Tinkerbell.” Even writing this, the memory makes me chortle.

Maybe this is the disarming absurdity of the Portland Frog, or it’s the kid in all of us taking charge for a few moments. I do not know what the secret sauce about laughter is, but I know when I can really and truly laugh, I’m a happier person. I have a little more courage, a little more self-appreciation, and I feel a little safer in my identity.

Who or what has recently tickled your funny bone? Do you have any memories of joyful laughter popping up when least expected? My family got the giggles on the way to my grandma’s funeral, and I know nobody would have approved more heartily of that loss of decorum than Grandma herself!

Many therapeutic riding students are plagued by anxiety. Some of it is situational–horses can be unpredictable. They are big. They have enormous, sharp teeth. Their reflexes are much faster than a human’s. Many equines wear iron shoes. Whose idea was this anyway?

But for other students, the anxiety is chronic. They are, by nature or bad luck, champion worriers. One strategy we use with those riders is singing. Singing, because it requires us to exhale more slowly than we inhale, engages the parasympathetic portion of the nervous system. (So does humming, whistling, or keeping up stream of self-talk.) The parasympathetic system is our “rest and digest” wiring, as opposed to fight, flight, or freeze. My repertoire in the past week has included that stirring anthem to simplicity, Alice the Camel.

I’ve also done a few choruses of You Are My Sunshine… And then there’s always The Bare Necessities. Of course, if the instructor is yodeling her way through the lesson, her parasympathetic system is activated, and any anxiety she might be feeling abates. I suspect this is why most religious services start and end with music, and why sports events kick off with a musical moment–it’s a  neurological hack that gets us feeling calm and at peace.

I should be singing more, not because I’m any good at it, but because I love music. My first academic degree was in music history, though anybody who’d spent as much time on a piano bench as I did in adolescence should have been a performance major. I could not perform repertoire–went hopelessly splat in front of recital audiences, though I could accompany ballet classes, play wedding receptions, or teach all day long.

I was reminded of this at the barn dance fundraiser my barn held a few weeks back. A live band did covers of Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, Patsy Cline… old standards that are as singable as they are dance-able. I Fall To Pieces has been stuck in my head ever since. Last night, I attended a Jim Malcolm concert (Scottish traditional singer), and he has us singing a few of the choruses and finishing up with the Robert Burns’s version of Auld Lang Syne.

I left the venue feeling sweet and settled (also a little sad. I miss Scotland and my friends there). Nothing lights up our neurological circuitry like music (except for the combination of music and dance). We connect more disparate parts of our mind when listening to and making music than we do with almost any other activity we can pursue. Music is a powerful tonic, one I particularly enjoy, and yet… I have neglected it.

After back-to-back live music experiences, I feel a little bit like there’s a free bottle of high quality daily vitamins sitting on the counter and I keep dragging myself past it, day after day. And this particular bottle of vitamins is guaranteed to work especially well for me, because it reminds me of the first time I was half-way competent at anything beyond tying my shoes or brushing my chops.

So I’m adding to my nightly routine: Journal, five gratitudes, and one song or piece of the good stuff. Sing it, listen to it, maybe even play it (I do have a piano), and finish the day on… a good note.

Are you ignoring any sources of free, available vitamins for the body,  mind, or heart? Things you used to love that faded from your life, or activities you once did but put aside? New endeavors you’ve been meaning to try?

My parents retired to the endless summer of San Diego, and my dad was happy there. Lovely breezes, tons of sunshine, that gorgeous (to him) ocean a block from the house. My mom adapted, eventually, but that was not her version of paradise, and when I had to spend summers there as a kid (or visit as an adult) I found it a nearly unbearable purgatory.

WAY too crowded, WAY too built up, WAY too lacking in greenery. Too many people wanted what my dad wanted, and all those people were cramming themselves into an ecosystem that was never designed for a dense population. Just looking at the ocean made me anxious.

But the other problem was… the SoCal climate disagreed with me. Nearly every day the same, with the big story on action news being June Gloom (fog that burns off by noon), or rarely, rain. Global warming has changed the climate in San Diego somewhat (and added wild fires to the calendar), but you still won’t find me moving there for a Highland Chocolatier gift certificate nor money.

I love the changing seasons, and the season I love most is at its best around me now. Nights in the 40’s, days in the 70’s. Some sun, some rain, some leaves coming down, some asters blooming riotously. Mums everywhere, the crickets singing alto, horses getting furry in preparation for winter. The deer have shifted from russet to brown coats, and thank all the merciful powers, the stinkin’ raccoons are less in evidence.

We have about twelve hours each of darkness and daylight now, and that seems to suit me. I wake up as it’s getting light, and I go through the day with more of a sense of, “No lollygagging. We’re burning daylight!” In summer, when it’s light until 9 pm, I’ll put off my walk until 8 pm. In winter… well, I rely on my days at the therapeutic riding barn to get the step count up in winter.

This is also when the windows are open and the fans are off. A chorus of fans can be loud, and I do not care for loudness in my house at all. I care less for flies and sweat though, so one compromises.

I regard fall as the sweetest season. Winter around the corner makes me treasure the beautiful light, the scrumptious weather, the last of the flowers, the open windows. If I ever do leave my bide-o-wee here in Maryland, I will have to move to someplace that has fall, however briefly, or I will go into a decline.

Have you ever had to live someplace that did not suit you? How did you cope or how do you cope?

I have not shopped for blue jeans for about, oh, maybe… fifty years. Even now, when I’m at a healthy weight, my calves are so grand that finding pants to fit them often leaves every other aspect of the garment gapping and sagging. I’ve tried men’s jeans, mom jeans, baggy jeans… I just gave up on jeans and thanked heavens for yoga pants and their many near kin.

But this week I agreed to volunteer at a barn dance. Lots of therapeutic riding programs have them. Put the horses out out for the night, hire a band and a bartender, thump the charity donation tub, and enjoy some great barbecue. Not my thing, but I believe in the therapeutic riding mission, the people hosting the hootenanny were very nice, and it was an excuse to buy mums, pansies, and pumpkins.

Except I needed jeans a pair of jeans to wear on the night in question. I asked around, “Where do you buy jeans these days?” (Meaning, in my case, in this century.) Old Navy got a few nods so I checked out their DEI creds, and then had a look. I found a couple pairs of jeans that actually sorta, well, yes, fit. Golly days. That’s odd in itself.

Odder still, when I hauled the first stack of “try these on because it’s the only way to know” candidates into the fitting room, there was a guy sitting on the “take a load off and re-charge” bench (has outlets). Then another guy came in and started sorting through the discards that needed to be returned to the sales floor.

The fitting rooms were gender-neutral, and the sales associates on that shift just happened to present as male.

I had to have a little think about this, because changing my clothes one flimsy door away from where strange men know I’m changing my clothes… that’s a bit of a stretch. I also feel uncomfortable talking on the phone unless I’m dressed, and though I live alone, I lock the bathroom door even to brush my chops.

Hmmm. Guys in the fitting room area. I decided that this is a kinda big deal, because it declares clothes shopping to be a human activity rather than a gender-segregated activity, at least where jeans are concerned. It declares that as a shopper in that store, I am a person first rather than a gender first, and that I’m supposed to look at sales associates as sales associate people first rather than as a specific gender. I see value in this approach, potential equality, and no diminution in the quality of the shopping experience.

But that was not my default thinking. My default thinking, I am sorry to say, was: “When I am literally half-naked, you are making me tolerate the presence of a type of person who has been harmful to me, and I resent that.” Except that nobody made me do anything. Moreover, we are not types, we are individuals, and we each deserve a fair shake and to be judged on our individual merits, not our apparent “type.” Maybe I should have checked my own DEI creds?

I am not ready to buy a bra from a guy, but maybe I should be. When I asked where the ladies’ belts were or where to put back the baggy high rise pair that didn’t fit, the sales associate had the answers. When I gushed a little at the check out over being able to find a pair of jeans that mostly fit, the sales associate made the appropriate “Go, granny, go!” noises.

It can be true, that I am generally distrustful of men in certain situations for good reasons, and also be true that the better path is to see past stereotypes, my own history, and society’s biases, and just be grateful that I found a pair of jeans that fit.

What’s your take on clothes shopping and gender roles? Would you have walked right out (the thought crossed my mind), given it a think, or not batted an eye at gender-neutral fitting rooms? Am I years behind the prevailing norm or is this a new trend?

My paternal grandmother was a widow with a baby at age nineteen, her husband having been a casualty of World War I. She married two more times, ditched both (drunken, philandering) husbands before divorce was popular, and at age sixty, opened up a candy store that would support her adequately until she died in her eightieth year. My maternal grandma welcomed her first born into the world in a tent at Joe Junior mining camp, and gave birth to her last-born at age 45.

These women were handed some mighty daunting challenges and had little choice but to Cope. I am much more privileged. I could choose whether to go back to school (twice); choose to be a single mom (once); choose to close the law practice and rely on writing to support myself.  Compared to my grannies, and to so many other people, I am the veriest little tadpole in the life challenges department.

So I realize that deciding to attempt the therapeutic riding instructor certification was both an exercise in privilege (in many ways), and a pretty tame effort as challenges go. I have plenty of positive experiences with learning goals. I have been around horses for decades. I had great support going into the venture, and found more support along the way. A walk in the pasture–right?

Well… yes, and not quite. I have never tried to master a large body of book learning with a geriatric brain. I have never taken on substantial physical challenges at this age, and while losing a lot of weight too quickly. I have never had to do much teaching–a few piano students, some writing workshops, a few conflict management seminars–and none of those experiences involved the dangerous instrumentality that is the horse. My attitude going in, “I can do this…” morphed into, “I hope I can do this,” and then, “I’m not sure I can do this.”

As I drove over the hills to take my final test, though, it occurred to me that getting the certification might not be the point. Because I aimed at that goal, I took my hearing loss more seriously. It’s hard to understand somebody who is speech-impaired when you have good hearing. Try it without the upper frequencies, and you’re at a disadvantage as an instructor.

I took my physical health and especially strength more seriously. A therapeutic riding instructor has to get disabled people on and off of horses safely, and that means everything from grip strength to upper body strength to walking stamina matters. Most significantly, I took a harder look at my cognitive health. Lion’s Mane supplements seem to help with my recall and retention–who knew?

The first and primary beneficiary of my jaunt down the riding instructor path was me. I  learned a lot of material that interests me, I am taking better care of myself, and I flexed my ability to ask for help (not one of my strengths). My goal was to qualify for a certification, but in hindsight, I think my goal should have been simply to challenge myself. Pass, fail, or try, try again, the challenge itself has done me a power of good.

And–icing on the cupcake–I did pass that final exam on the first try. Phew!

How do challenges figure in your life? Always on the lookout for good ones? Had quite enough of them, thank you? Somewhere in between?

I made a couple changes this summer to how I occupy my house, and I’m only realizing now some of the undesirable consequences. The first change was to put a mama cat and her four wee teeny little kittens in the upstairs half of my house. Once they are all fixed and have finished all their shots (later this month), they will be transitioned to another, much less restrictive situation.

I’ve enjoyed watching the kittens grow, and they are endlessly rambunctious and playful. The mama is sweet, and I think this set up has given them a good, safe start in life. No regrets there.

The other shift I made was to set up a desk in my bedroom (upstairs) where I could do my riding instructor studying and keep all the course materials. I could have worked at my writing table (downstairs), but wanted to be able to focus on the riding material at the beginning and end of my day, and in some place other than where I work on my books.

Initially, I was pleased with myself. I was being organized, keeping order in my house, and checking the “everything in its place” box. But as the summer wore on, I felt a sense of, “All I do is work.” Start off with upstairs cat chores, move to  downstairs cat chores, shift to writing tasks, take a break/not really a break to get in steps, head upstairs for some studying, downstairs to deal with emails and payroll, toss in more cat chores, back upstairs for more studying at the end of the day… pick the three upstairs litter boxes before lights out.

With the possible exception of the kitchen, I have work waiting for me in every part of my house. (My washer and dryer are in the bathroom, and I do a fair amount of pet-related laundry.)

Without realizing it, I organized my way out of the set-up where going upstairs at the end of the day was synonymous with leaving all the work-y stuff behind. No chores, no obligations, no should-dos once I’m upstairs. What happened upstairs–reading, resting, lollygagging–was spatially separated from all the things in my life that require self-discipline. The Task Manager part of me was not allowed up the steps, and those steps have a door at the bottom that closes the two parts of the house off from each other.

The situation will fix itself when I’m through my riding instructor curriculum, and the five foster cats go to their next billet, but I hadn’t realized how much I benefit psychologically from having a specific consistent place that is work-free. I hadn’t realized how good it feels to close the door at the bottom of the steps, and climb up to the place where I am not a writer or a student or a cat mom, but just me, who likes to read, who needs to rest, who wants to recharge before jumping back into the affray in the morning.

Do you have a place to recharge? If you created one, what about it would be important to you?

My summer reading list this year includes titles such as, Belonging: The Science of Creating Connection and Bridging Divides by Geoffrey L. Cohen, and Hope for Cynics: The Surprising Science of Human Goodness by Jamil Zaki. I’m off on this tangent in part because I’m tired of studying for my riding instructor test, but also because I want to understand how we became a society that can be persuaded, divided, and controlled by lies.

One theory posits that survival is more important than the truth, and survival for homo sapiens long depended on belonging to a tribe. How does that work? Welp, back in the day, 20-40,000 years ago, we depended on our tribe for safety. Hunting big game with one spear was a losing proposition. Expecting everybody to make their own spears, when Ogette was incredibly good at it, was perilously inefficient. We survived by virtue of cooperation and belonging, and we are still wired for that model.

Whether we crossed the river above or below the tree last year truly did not matter anywhere near as much as staying on good terms with the women who made the rafts. Be willing to let the truth slide–we did cross above, despite what Og says–and you won’t be left to entertain the lions on the wrong shore.

When we experience social rejection, our cortisol levels spike, we are more likely to view ourselves negatively, we are more prone to aggression and poor decision-making. Rejection shows up in the brain in the same place as physical pain, and people made to feel rejected are easily manipulated.

And yet, when I write Lord Julian’s tales, he almost always at some point faces a critical rejection–from friends or family who doubt him, or from somebody who’d only recently turned to him as a desperate last resort. They hit him where he’s already bruised–in his sense of belonging–and his job is to ignore the blow and keep searching for the truth.

And because I am the queen of my writing desk, Julian’s willingness to stand alone in the hope of discovering the truth always results in freedom for a formerly oppressed party and some self-affirmation for Julian. Neener-neener!

I think we need our Lord Julians every bit as much as we need our tribe. We need the people who aren’t willing to lie for the sake of popularity or likes if the lie is a substantial moral compromise. Crossing the river at the wrong point can, some years, get us all killed.

And I do know this: When I see somebody stand up, speak truth to power, and brave the lions, that person has earned my respect and trust. Those are the kind of people I want to belong to. They won’t tell me that huge sleeping cat with all the fangs and claws is a puppy, and he’d love for me to pet him. But a tribe made up of moral invertebrates bound together by lies might convince me of such an outlandish and dangerous falsehood.

When have you seen somebody speak out for unpopular truth? Might have been a character in a book, might have been back in fifth grade. Might have been you in your last HOA meeting…