Dawn

This last morning of 2023, I await the suns return. Already dark is graying; it is only minutes to sunrise.

December has been warm and watery. Trails are muddy. Jigs detests the footing. Riding has been limited, partly out of respect for Jigs’ age and for the trails themselves. Best to let both recover from the rain.

2023 has been a year of transition. My job of 32 plus years was eliminated. Rather than find a filler job to get me to full social security, I made the decision to retire.

Most of my adult life was consumed by work. I got caught in the web of the job is who I am. But when it was gone, I realized it was not.

Years of shuffling papers on a desk, typing into a computer, orchestrating others. This world gallops forward, there is no legacy in hoofprints. Nothing of significance is left behind except the people. I slipped away with little acknowledgement I was ever there.

Losing my job was in a way, a gift. I rode and played with the pony through Summer and Autumn. I walked miles, alone in the woods.  I discovered my old poems and wrote new ones.

I found a path patiently waiting for me to return and stepped forward into daylight.

Hibernation

November is when most organized horse events stop in New England. Jigs and I participated in our last judged ride on November 5^th. We placed second in our division even though my brain fell apart at the second gate, and I messed up by overthinking.

Second Place

Overthinking is one of my fatal flaws. That and my noisy hands.

Winter is the time for slow trail rides and ring work. This week I set myself a challenge- to stop and turn off my seat and legs without using reins. I struggle with keeping my hands still and interfere with Jigs doing his job. I can use the frozen months to work on this.

And I will use Winter’s pause to continue sorting the stuff my parents left behind, like photos from the 50s and 60s. I don’t know the names of many people among them, probably friends of my parents. I did recognize an old car- a Chevy Impala my father loved. I recall riding in the back seat angry my parents were taking me from the solitude of my book to visit cousins.

As their only child, there are lots of photos of me. What strikes me is how even at two or three, my mannerisms were fully formed. Here’s one of me talking to Santa with my hands, something I do today. Noisy hands.

Talking to Santa

Snapshots of forgotten moments to digitize. It seems a shame to throw away the unrecognized ones. They are someone’s memory, someone’s treasure, but there’s no space to keep them, no one to look at them.

This pruning is part of the aging process. Keep only what matters and release the rest.

Transition

Retirement.

Trying to get my head around it.

Excited and terrified.

I have had a job of some sort ever since I was 14. Even the summer I took off to finish my master’s thesis, I wrote a weekly column for a local ad paper.  (Remember those? It was the 80s after all). What to fill time with?

But I will be busy over the next months. I’m overwhelmed at how busy. First to arrange expenses to fit a lower income.  This means getting the house ready for sale and finding another in a less expensive community, preferably with acreage.  To do that means another go around sorting 60 years of stuff accumulated by my parents. My dad NEVER threw anything away.  There are some things I don’t love, but could not let go the first time because my mother loved them.

But the best part will be riding during the work week. I admit all the Facebook and Instagram photos of others riding weekdays make me jealous. Now I will take my own weekday photos!

Oh Jigs….. are you ready?

Go away I’m napping

Choices

I have not been purposeful in my life. My choices were not courageous, if there were choices at all. I am driven by a desperate need for security so deep, I am beyond risk adverse.

I despise the yuppie town I was born and still live in. My house is the house my parents built. I do not love it. I long to have a small farm and bring Jigs home, maybe get a donkey or a goat, or both. But I am stuck here. I really should sell because I can barely afford the real estate taxes that since the early 70s have grown so high, they drove out many longtime residents and all working farms. The result is neighborhood after neighborhood of McMansions with manicured lawns. Horses are not welcome.

Only those with ridiculously high salaries can afford to live here. I tell myself to sell, but fear kicks in.

My career is the same. I fell into the security of a boring job, allowing others to make choices for me. I should have found another path years ago.  Close to retirement, it is too late. I am a lame duck. I would retire now but I cannot afford health insurance or the taxes on my house without income.

Paralyzed by fear, I am stuck.

Fear has creeped into my riding. I stopped riding on the road alone. I do not canter much. Last weekend I wimped out for fear of ice on the trails and walked with Jigs nearly 5 miles on the road. I should have ridden in the woods. I let both of us down.

I have no right to lament. I have so much. I was given opportunities others were not. My failure is not capitalizing on them.

Long Walk