Nez Perce Indians with Appaloosa horse, around...

Nez Perce Indians with Appaloosa horse, around 1895 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s an early morning for me today.  My girl started work at 5 a.m. and though she tries to be quiet as a mouse, I heard her.  That, and other noises, prevented me from falling back to sleep.

Usually, I feel more alive and cheerful in the early morning hours.  I’ve heard that most folks take time to wake up to the world.  When I wake, I’m awake.  Early morning and late evening can bring lots of zany thoughts as well as deep, contemplative ones.  I’m guessing dreams may have something to do with the way things go.

I’ve fed my horses early.  I found Amadeaus, the young gelding, lying down, Starlight resting, wishing I wasn’t there, as when I tried to stroke her nose, she let me know what she thought by expressing her opinion with a squeal, and promptly turning away. She’s interestingly vocal.  And my Appaloosa, standing in the stalls toward the back, looking the distance to see me.  There are horses on the other side of the fence and they hang together there, even though they can’t see one another. It’s as close as they can get without being in the same place.

It’s important for horses to be part of a herd.  I’m sure the  three equine next door believe that they, and mine are all part of the same herd.  As long as a horse can smell, hear, or see another horse, there’s a healthier state of mind.

If I open the gates and let them all out, they’d quickly leave the humans, and gallop, tails high.  They’d join one another, as if they’d been a family always.  Most every horse would rather be with other horses, than humans. I understand.

My neighbor’s horses have escaped several times.  Perhaps a gate latch was loose or one found a weak spot in the fence. We’ve been here to herd them home, luckily.  When mine got loose, it was my fault, I’d left the gate to the  narrow pathway where I come in with feed, open.  I’d plan to go back through, to put the feed buckets away or something, and didn’t go out that way after all, the gate remained unlatched. Eventually, one of the horses notice.

The last time my three escaped, it was a beautiful thing.  They were prancing, galloping through my neighbors back yard, making deep impressions with their hooves in the soft earth. Starlight snorted and as usual, resisted being controlled.  We were here to herd them back.  I shudder to think of them running down to one of the main roads, and about one mile or so, the 101 Freeway.  They could cover that area faster than I could get the halters, lead lines, keys, people and truck, to go after them.

I don’t panic.  I approach gently, slowly, allow each to settle and graze.  Being prey animals, the worst thing is to make chase.  Brandy’s about 15 or 16 now, has separation issues.  Halter the two younger ones and she’ll follow.

My horses and rabbits (cat and guinea pig, too)  depend on me to care for them.  Most are here because no one else wanted them.  My husband and I could have more freedom and money if we didn’t have the animals.   We’re at our limit in terms of space and finances.  Choices.

I’m going mad, having opened this “dream” of writing –  I’ve opened Pandora’s Box.  If I’d never started writing again, then I’d never consider being published and never have to see that everyone can publish, good or bad.  Bad writers can have good fortune.  I search WP and the internet for content sometimes and I’m as far from trends as anyone can be.  Is being trendy what’s necessary for success in becoming an author?   I’ll never appeal to thousands of readers that seem to come to some writers. I read, and many times, I don’t understand the appeal.

I’m not in tune with the times and I’m singing old songs.  I’m me, authentic, honest, real.  I think thoughts. I care.  I’m a relic from the past. It’s maddening to think that too much time has passed, and with that passage, my opportunity.

If I’d never opened the box, I’d see fog hanging low in our redwoods, watch my roses grow, pick the thimble berries for breakfast without thinking about what avenue to take to get noticed, how to make it work, what should I write about, what genre do I stick with, am I capable of writing from my heart, anything that people would take the time to read in a book?  How do I ignore the naysayers who insist I need a Mac or I must follow the trends?  If I’m following trends, and everyone else is following trends, doesn’t that flatten out what’s being written, leveling the surface?  I wouldn’t know how to be trendy if I got paid for it.

Who am I writing for?  I like reading my writing. Perhaps I AM writing for myself and hoping enough of you will want to come along, which in turn will encourage me to write my memoirs and children’s literature.  I want to write what children would be interested in reading and not focus on all the cogs, wheels, springs, bolts, nuts, screws that others tell me I have add in.

This post has no wish to diminish all the great and good writers in the past, present and future. I know there are good writers.  I read books.

Fog’s lifting some.  It’s still quiet here.  One of the rabbits is snoring, others are grooming themselves, or resting after their breakfast of a tiny carrot, and some greens.  Boyo has his eyes on me, and just yawned deeply.  They’re innocent, safe.

I’m at the end of my rope.  Must I tie a knot and hang on? Am I dreaming?  Or is this my choice?  Am I coming into the world – or going mad?

If anyone is still reading, or has read this entire post, are you compelled to comment, good or bad?  If, as my research indicates on trends in blogging, folks read blog posts by scanning, in an “F” shaped pattern.  If that’s true, then you’ll never get → here.

My cat just moved near Boyo.  He’s afraid of her.  All the bunnies scatter, taking cues from one another.  Poor dears.  So delicate.

Dipsy, my only cat