Houston is an energetic, new age, adjusted “cowboy town,” someone once told me. The Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo reminds me of that each year when horses from around Texas and beyond trot along freeways into the city.
I’m glad to drive to work in my air-conditioned car instead of riding in on horseback. And maybe it’s even better than taking the bus, since “cowboy town” and lack of public transportation go hand in hand.
I know that the road swings sharply to the left two miles down. There is hardly any traffic. My thoughts drift to the list of international contacts I need to embark on once at the office.
In my car, the aroma of hickory and New Orleans coffee interrupts my thoughts. They shift to memories of Café Du Monde in Louisiana. My hand reaches for the cup and I notice the unusual brown stone I found the day before. I had placed it in the seat next to me—“what a coincidence that this small brown rock is shaped in the form of Africa. “
Not watching the road my attention is drawn to the lines across the stone. They crisscross? Synchronicity and divination interests me. Could this stone foretell something about my new African American boss and me?
As if struck by lightning, my vehicle slams into something with the sensation of a mile-high bump. I had rammed my right wheel into the curb. What was I thinking?
Gasping for breath, I smack both hands back on the steering wheel. I attempt to get control of the car. The stone in the shape of Africa drops on the floor. My foot slaps the brake pedal as I maneuver a sharp bend. I bring the lopsided car back onto highway 146 right side up. Coffee splashes on my blue suit. Damn.
Where your energy goes you go ... I have never forgotten that.
Let’s apply that to my writing — People tell me when I write or speak I often make a large roundabout —and I do. The only time I remember thinking in a linear way occurred thirty years ago when I took Lithium. During severe depression, after the shock of the unexpected death of my husband, I couldn’t stop my whirlwind of thoughts. Yes, I was somewhat manic. It came as a revelation then that the Lithium aided me to have one clear thought at a time.
But on that chemical brain salt my hands tremble. It becomes hard to write and my mouth feels dry. I stop taking it after six months. Really, I’m here to tell you I function just fine without it.
A roundabout, approximate, and then spot on, person muses from the outside in, sees the big picture first, and then—depending on age sometimes— comes to the point. A small percentage of people have that capacity. It’s gone astray, especially in our universities where specialization in one area is valued. Much like the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. You’d think that my roundabouts balance out my Rotterdam Dutch habit of telling it like it is. It doesn’t — as my horse ponderings and the conclusion of this blog reveal.
I like horses. Especially now, that 2014 is the Asian lunar year of the wooden horse. However, I do not have a vast experience riding them. Last year I had a break through, when Sabine and her sister Bella vacationed with us in Montana where I now live. Practiced riders from Germany, they convince me to join them and trek through the mountains.
The three of us stand ready to mount our rented horses being led toward us from the meticulously kept stables. An old, very old, black muscular Brabant Belgian trait horse, knol we call them, slowly comes our way.
It must be because of my Dutch accent that they choose a horse with Dutch/Belgium heritage, I muse. Somewhat insulted, I observe the16+ hands high cheval. This stout and tall farm horse looks like the ones used in the Dutch movie Antonia’s Line. Can’t go wrong with this slow and secure one, though I dread the pictures I have to show my family. Two high school kids push my butt onto the saddle. They tighten the cinches. “No go.”
“Let’s get her Red Devil,” one mumbles to the other, motioning me to get off.
I’m glad to drive to work in my air-conditioned car instead of riding in on horseback. And maybe it’s even better than taking the bus, since “cowboy town” and lack of public transportation go hand in hand.
I know that the road swings sharply to the left two miles down. There is hardly any traffic. My thoughts drift to the list of international contacts I need to embark on once at the office.
In my car, the aroma of hickory and New Orleans coffee interrupts my thoughts. They shift to memories of Café Du Monde in Louisiana. My hand reaches for the cup and I notice the unusual brown stone I found the day before. I had placed it in the seat next to me—“what a coincidence that this small brown rock is shaped in the form of Africa. “
Not watching the road my attention is drawn to the lines across the stone. They crisscross? Synchronicity and divination interests me. Could this stone foretell something about my new African American boss and me?
As if struck by lightning, my vehicle slams into something with the sensation of a mile-high bump. I had rammed my right wheel into the curb. What was I thinking?
Gasping for breath, I smack both hands back on the steering wheel. I attempt to get control of the car. The stone in the shape of Africa drops on the floor. My foot slaps the brake pedal as I maneuver a sharp bend. I bring the lopsided car back onto highway 146 right side up. Coffee splashes on my blue suit. Damn.
Where your energy goes you go ... I have never forgotten that.
Let’s apply that to my writing — People tell me when I write or speak I often make a large roundabout —and I do. The only time I remember thinking in a linear way occurred thirty years ago when I took Lithium. During severe depression, after the shock of the unexpected death of my husband, I couldn’t stop my whirlwind of thoughts. Yes, I was somewhat manic. It came as a revelation then that the Lithium aided me to have one clear thought at a time.
But on that chemical brain salt my hands tremble. It becomes hard to write and my mouth feels dry. I stop taking it after six months. Really, I’m here to tell you I function just fine without it.
A roundabout, approximate, and then spot on, person muses from the outside in, sees the big picture first, and then—depending on age sometimes— comes to the point. A small percentage of people have that capacity. It’s gone astray, especially in our universities where specialization in one area is valued. Much like the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. You’d think that my roundabouts balance out my Rotterdam Dutch habit of telling it like it is. It doesn’t — as my horse ponderings and the conclusion of this blog reveal.
I like horses. Especially now, that 2014 is the Asian lunar year of the wooden horse. However, I do not have a vast experience riding them. Last year I had a break through, when Sabine and her sister Bella vacationed with us in Montana where I now live. Practiced riders from Germany, they convince me to join them and trek through the mountains.
The three of us stand ready to mount our rented horses being led toward us from the meticulously kept stables. An old, very old, black muscular Brabant Belgian trait horse, knol we call them, slowly comes our way.
It must be because of my Dutch accent that they choose a horse with Dutch/Belgium heritage, I muse. Somewhat insulted, I observe the16+ hands high cheval. This stout and tall farm horse looks like the ones used in the Dutch movie Antonia’s Line. Can’t go wrong with this slow and secure one, though I dread the pictures I have to show my family. Two high school kids push my butt onto the saddle. They tighten the cinches. “No go.”
“Let’s get her Red Devil,” one mumbles to the other, motioning me to get off.
Red Devil trots toward me. Strong, self assured showing obvious know-how I notice his inward ears like horns of the devil. I find an instant connection with Red Devil despite the sound of that terrifying name. Red Devil has my unreserved trust. He doesn’t disappoint. That creature chooses the trail carefully; we communicate. We have the best journey over rocky terrain high in the mountains, just outside of Yellowstone National Park.
“I’ll come back for you Red Devil,” I tell him.
Animals and yes, even stones, teach me in real life and in stories. Minh, a Vietnamese friend, recites a story told by Osho, an Indian Guru:
A soldier arrives home from war and goes to bed when a big cockatoo in a cage nearby awakens him.
“Freedom, freedom, freedom," screeches the parrot.
The soldier identifies with his plea. He gets up out of bed, staggers to the bird and opens its cage.
"Go have your freedom."
The bird eagerly flaps away.
“I’ll come back for you Red Devil,” I tell him.
Animals and yes, even stones, teach me in real life and in stories. Minh, a Vietnamese friend, recites a story told by Osho, an Indian Guru:
A soldier arrives home from war and goes to bed when a big cockatoo in a cage nearby awakens him.
“Freedom, freedom, freedom," screeches the parrot.
The soldier identifies with his plea. He gets up out of bed, staggers to the bird and opens its cage.
"Go have your freedom."
The bird eagerly flaps away.
The next morning the soldier wakes up. He hears again "freedom freedom freedom." The bird had come back and sits in its cage hollering with door wide open.
And so it goes—in a roundabout way. Where your energy goes, you go. You can ride out on a Red Devil or stay sitting safe and in comfort on an old Belgian draft horse used to pulling carts. Or for that matter, if you’d like to be a wooden parrot—hang about in your cage with the door wide open.
But then, I’d get a Red Devil, and if that doesn’t wake you up you might try to find a rock. Heck, I’d even send you one if you like — but watch out for that curb while driving.
And so it goes—in a roundabout way. Where your energy goes, you go. You can ride out on a Red Devil or stay sitting safe and in comfort on an old Belgian draft horse used to pulling carts. Or for that matter, if you’d like to be a wooden parrot—hang about in your cage with the door wide open.
But then, I’d get a Red Devil, and if that doesn’t wake you up you might try to find a rock. Heck, I’d even send you one if you like — but watch out for that curb while driving.