Aging Cantankerously: Downsize This!
Anna Blake
January 2
Ten days after solstice and it’s already staying light longer. Want to wish me a happy one-year-older? On January first, horses become one year older, regardless of their actual birthdate. Breed organizations do it for ease of record keeping, and I doubt the horses notice. As proud gray mare, that means I am a year older, too. Spare me the party.
My first upgrade when I moved to this farm in 1999 was a place to train horses. I marched off the highest flat piece of land and marked corners of a dressage arena. I wasn’t happy it was next to the road, but if something happened to me, I’d be visible when someone eventually drove by. This passed as a safety plan, but just barely. Then, I had six inches of topsoil ripped off and finally, a caravan of dump trucks delivered the sand. I didn’t have a tractor, so I raked it all down by hand. Call it a labor of love.
It would be hard to explain to someone who isn’t a rider what it means to have an arena. It benefits horses, but as an Affirmative Trainer, it’s also like having a huge room where all the best things happen. Never fear or punishment, only praise and laughter. It’s a happy place where I spent so many joyous hours doing the things I love best. We rode as the full-moon set at dawn. We galloped across the sky with the clouds at sunset.
Before long, I started training professionally, giving riding lessons and eventually boarding a few horses. I would never have believed it, but coaching horses and riders became as rewarding as working my own horses. I gave Riding to Music clinics and offered horse agility. The farm was a busy place, and the arena was the heart of it all. I spent some of the happiest hours of my life in that sandbox.
Now, it’s too quiet. Once I began traveling for clinics, things changed at home. My beautiful arena became deserted. There are five retired souls in my barn: three horses, a donkey and a mini. Each year they cost more to keep. Meanwhile, my clients have gotten older, too. Some have moved away, and some have lost their horses. Others are no longer riding by choice. That isn’t a crime. Bones that were flexible when we were younger have gotten brittle. Laying down your ego and making regretful decisions for our health and the security of animals that depend on us is honorable. And inevitable.
Weeds grow, and I fight them back. I’ve spent years maintaining the footing in my arena, and now it’s an eyesore that reminds me the riding party is over. A reminder that I’m not training there and yet, not retired. I’m in limbo. Sound familiar?
At this time of year, I do a little repurposing. I can’t stand wasting anything, so flip-side, I watch myself for hoarding. It started by cleaning the things I don’t wear out of my closet. It progressed to open season on things I was keeping for good. At this age, what am I waiting for? It was like my closet had a class system, and I proclaimed equality. The last skirt was excused. I haven’t worn one in decades. I eyeballed my three thousand scarves but didn’t touch them. Much of my work is online, so I am still in Covid waist-up dressing mode. Then I tossed out some cooking gadgets for good measure because I hate to cook. I’m getting rid of stuff that holds me back. I’m making room for new things to come.
It started two years ago. I turned some water tanks into raised flower beds because I had more tanks than horses. A celebration that I was no longer boarding. It made me feel free. Whatever you are paying to board your horse, as much as it is, it isn’t enough. Trust me.
I also started selling off my tack. Keeping the things I use at clinics, sending some things to clients who might like them, and then selling the rest a little at a time. Where did all these saddle racks even come from? I’ll pool the money for my next whatever. But there, by my driveway, is a sandy beach with letters around it. It’s like an albatross who pokes me with his beak as I come and go. What do I do with that?
Jolene said, let’s go muck. It takes more time when she and Mister help, so why not? It’s a double win. More dog time and more muck time, which any horsewoman will tell you is when all great ideas come. Amid my limbo worries all year, the reluctant changes and sad losses, I countered by getting Mister and me a dog. The first puppy in ages, and I’ve put all of my horse training knowledge into her. The two species are more similar than you’d think. Or maybe kindness is a universal language. Now the three of us are on a search for our next project. Mister hopes it will include a special lunch. Holding his ears up is exhausting.
How do I land this thing? This third half of my life. They put little stock and even lower expectations on gray mares in our culture, but I won’t let getting older feel like a demotion. I don’t want to travel back in time. Or sit and wait for the next loss. This awkward age feels like being a lame duck in life. Now what?
I’m still a horse trainer, where the antidote to any problem is forward. It can be physical movement or an attitude, but it’s that simple. Forward. Instead of being haunted by a sandbox, I want to grasp at the foggy unknown ahead. So, I barter with myself. Like trading a toy for the shoe the puppy has stolen, I try to trade myself something for what is being taken away. Simple enough, but more complicated than it used to be. What is reasonable at my age and income, but impractical enough to be fun?
I was ruminating in my slightly ripe juices when Jolene swaggered into the studio and said, Hey, you. Pull this rope. She has been doing this for hours as I work, and all the toys from the yard are piled around my desk. Mister is meditating because it’s an activity you do with your eyes closed. It’s easy to mistake for napping at his advanced level.
Jolene says I throw like a girl. She is wrong, of course. I’m not that strong. At this age, it can feel you have more past than future. The problem is that it’s true. Getting older is uncurable because it isn’t a sickness or injury. I could brag that I hoist feed bags. I still do, but since I broke my wrist tripping with one, I am ridiculously careful. I come armed with glasses and hearing aids but no complaints. I used to be critical of my body, but it’s held me together all these years. I don’t think I’ve ever loved it more.
A new year is a privilege, I lecture myself as I nearly whack my head over-handing her unwieldy rope. My heart swells looking around my farm. I never want to be anywhere else. Never want to retire for that matter. Life has always been a ride in limbo, balancing anticipatory grief with anticipatory joy.
Then I hear a sound like no other. It’s a heaving howl that rises whole octaves to a guttural shriek, with gasps for air between each screaming honk to the heavens. It’s Edgar Rice Burro reminding me of my other favorite thing on my farm, and an old idea dusted itself off and started running laps in my frontal lobe. Now we’re doing math at the hardware store. Jolene and I are on a mission.
To be continued…