The Act of Creating Yourself

I cannot conceal my most common topic perhaps is about horses – as far as much discussion and writing can make of it, a sort of common topic for people who have a horse is to talk horse, drive muddy vehicles, baler twine in our pockets and remnants of horse feed and hay amongst our clothing.

Some of us find peacefulness and a mental veil of joy as we simply groom our horse.

We don’t have to consider anyone in those precious moments, pay no heed to life’s seriousness or emptiness. We cast aside the weary weight of responsibility and co-partnership, and have no one to scorn our efforts or impose their beliefs upon us.

“Sweet is the security of my own sense of things” 

Here do I say, in full belief upon my head write those words.

Like the painter who can see his work upon the canvass appear clearly their where once was only the thoughts inside his head.

Words are to me as a picture is to the artist framing the words I have written into complete recordings of my thoughts.

The power of comparison comes forth in man in an unseemly struggle for prominence, the truth be our ego and accustomed effort to thrust our thoughts upon another in a stupendous effort to bring about change and to change is the most powerful thing we do.

I hold my pen as do I my tongue in supporting my ideas. From my pen flow words as from my tongue and to consider what it would be like to walk in a field of angry sheep.

I shall be valiant and courageous as in life’s normal struggle I shall refresh my weariness and pleasantly pass away the time with my horse in the stable.

The elements of surprise will sometimes startle me. 

An orchestra of owls upon my Christmas Eve, in the moonlight I saw myself in a sleigh led by a team of horses.

I lay silhouetted in the moonbeam beneath the branches of an ancient tree listening to the distant waters haste to be somewhere else beyond the valleys range. 

The twinkling stars through the naked branches decorated the tree. My dangling horseshoes gently clinked in harmony with the hanging knives and forks. I call it my forking tree.

It began to rain softly at first then with some intent on getting me wet, I retreated to the warmth of the fire and my dogs, thinking I shall build a barn beside this house and to have a stable door for my horses to look in on me. 

“I have thought yet of nothing but fairyland in my dreams:

And no gift for you but my prayers for peace in your life to yield:

To bathe in the light of youth, hear everything in an echo of your past:

Allow yourself to forget all that’s gone, at last.

Love all that is sweet allows none to despair your dear, dear sleep:

As one who creates within you, without being near, have courage deep:

Smile in the face of those who are blind to your faith, courage is everlasting”. 

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