Wisdom Of The Horse - Excerpts
By Cali Canberra
Copyright © 2006-2008 by Cali Canberra. All Rights Reserved.
Many cultures have a common thread in their thoughts on suicide – the fear that the spirit/soul might leave the body before some sense of peace or completion has been experienced. For this reason, many cultures forbid suicide. He wondered - who is to say that a person’s attachment to life should be stronger than anything else in the world? What about terminally ill people who don’t want to prolong an agonizing death? He understood the anguish, determination, and dignity that can compel the dying who choose assisted suicide.
Murder. That’s what the law called it. Murder. The law would not consider that he helped people live out their last functional weeks and months as peacefully, spiritually, and productively as possible. All they would see is a murderer. His conscience was clear about what he did. In fact, he felt good about it in one way because most of the time the terminally ill were turned down by their closest friends and family when they pleaded for help in the transition to the spirit world.
His problem was with the guilt he sometimes felt over profiting from the death of his clients. He was in the highly lucrative viatical settlement business. For an investment, his company purchases life insurance policies at a discount from individuals in the late stages of a terminal illness.
When he got to know a client he offered them his wisdom on the transition from life to death. He taught them how to accept that death was coming and how to prepare emotionally and spiritually. If the client was physically able, he encouraged them to help nurture animals – ideally, horses. Even if the client wasn’t able or interested in being with animals, he guided them by sharing what he had learned from the Native American pathways and Eastern philosophy about departing from Earth.
From time to time, he became close to a client and they would discuss assisted suicide. Many terminally ill people desired to avoid future suffering, but if no one was willing to help them die when the agony was severe, it meant they must take their own life while still mentally and physically capable of doing so. In taking that course of action, they would cut off an unknown amount of tolerable, if not pleasant, life. He discovered that with his guarantee to help if the pain became brutal and relentless, many clients could hang on and experience the natural route to death.
When clients pleaded with him to end their suffering, he would be told in advance at what point in their illness they wanted to die, such as when they couldn’t think clearly and couldn’t eat and breathe on their own, or when they were taking so much morphine they couldn’t feel anything, good or bad. A terminally ill person thinks that when he gets to a certain point, he knows that is when he wants to die. Then, that point comes, and they think they can handle more - as a result, they choose a different point. He called it ‘moving the line in the sand’. He honored their wishes and did the kindest thing a person could do for another living being: help him die with dignity before the pain became absolutely unbearable and his body withered away.
Grayson Solvan inhaled the aroma of the crisp, fresh air as he mounted Chief, his muscular copper-colored chestnut stallion. Today, as he adjusted himself in the saddle and gathered the hand-braided romal reins, he was interrupted by his ringing cell phone. The caller ID showed it was Misty, his secretary.
“Mr. Solvan,” Misty said solemnly, “I’m sorry to bother you, but Lou Pannetta called. He needs to see you as soon as possible.”
A hot lump formed in his throat then sank to his chest. “Thanks for calling. Is there anything else?”
Misty hesitated. “No, sir. Enjoy the farm.”
“I always do. Create a nice day.”
He didn’t want to deal with the outside world. Not anymore today at least. Sitting straight in his saddle, he tried to clear his mind of the obstacles he would need to overcome to ensure his lifestyle would continue - and so that he wouldn’t end up on death row. Texas was known as a state that didn’t mind executions.
He powered off his phone and opened his spirit to the wide-open sky. At the farm, he and Chief could simply be.
The even-tempered stallion collected himself without a cue from his rider. Chief knew that arena riding meant to flex his poll and round out his back as he reached his hindquarters deeper under himself. The stallion walked down the fence line unconcerned about the hawk on the corner post.
After two laps at a walk and jog to make sure his horse was sound, Grayson completed the reining horse pattern that won him the 2003 NRHA Futurity Championship. When he finished the pattern, he opted for a scenic ride to the cattle pasture. Chief’s ears perked up as they headed out the arena gate. The stallion eagerly entered the depths of the forest, trotting down the wide pine-needle-covered dirt trail. The buzz of grasshoppers seemed amplified and the strong scent of honeysuckle hung in the air.
A half-mile into the ride, the sun glided behind a group of billowing clouds. A brisk breeze swept in announcing the change of seasons. The chill sent goose bumps down Grayson’s arms as the wind pulled at his long-sleeved denim shirt. The unpredictable weather in Kiamichi Country of southeastern Oklahoma was no surprise to the Texan. Today, the cool air and the rustle of wind through the leaves were the right ingredients to rile up the precocious Quarter Horse. Chief searched the shadows looking for monsters behind trees and boulders. When the horse was younger, he spooked at imaginary horrors - but now, with more maturity and mileage, he settled for simply staying on lookout with flaring nostrils, pointed ears, and arching neck. When Chief was buoyed up by the exhilaration of anything, Grayson let him work it out by climbing a steep grade or galloping on a loose rein until he got it out of his system. If a rider tried to hold him back, Chief braced against the bit and took off bucking.
As the wind blew harder and the clouds drifted away, Grayson abandoned his plan to ride out to the cattle pasture. He turned onto the sand and loam trail running parallel to the river and then imperceptibly squeezed his calves and gave the horse his head. The horse flicked his ears back. Twelve-hundred pounds of horseflesh exploded into action with a pipe-opening gallop, letting out some pent-up steam for himself and his rider.
A mile or so later, recalling that Chief had a new set of shoes, Grayson took the Bobcat Trail to the right and galloped the powerhouse up the stone-riddled slope. The horse navigated his own way, never taking a single misstep. He had been shod since he was a two-year-old, leaving his hooves with very little feeling in them. The subject of horse shoes was a point of contention between Grayson’s old ways of horsemanship and the ways of natural horsemanship he had adopted. His horses wore shoes all of their lives and became tender-footed when he tried to let them go barefoot. Although convinced that barefoot horses are healthier, he still felt guilty knowing his horses were sore because their feet needed to be toughened up. Chief was the only one of his riding horses with his shoes replaced - Grayson didn’t want down time with his favorite horse until at least two other horses he could ride hard were toughened up to do the job. For the most part, the ground in southeastern Oklahoma was hard and unforgiving, and the majority of the mountain trails were rocky. He had spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of man-hours creating a mountain trail system cleared of rock and replaced with good footing, but he couldn’t justify doing the same to every mountain trail on the four-thousand acre property. Fortunately, there was plenty of pastureland to ride on with good footing, but the wilderness experience could really only be appreciated in the mountainous terrain. At the crest of the long rocky trail they frightened a herd of grazing antelope. Chief’s eyes bulged. The antelope scampered off into the hardwoods as Chief snorted nervously. Grayson stroked Chief’s sweaty neck to calm him down and they eventually walked off as if nothing had happened.
Finally, the wind dwindled to a gentle breeze. A few minutes later they arrived in a lush valley - a hundred acres of gently swaying grass dotted with a cross-country course of rustic jumps. Two mowed acres of carved out flatland contrasted the expanse of rolling hills and deep woods. In the center of the valley a perfectly graded sand arena with a jump course and covered viewing deck stood out like a glistening diamond on a piece of draped green velvet. The pristine land glowed with foliage almost blinding in its brightness - vivid amber red cedars, harvest gold elms, and dark purplish black gum trees set in the field of tall nut clover and panicum grasses.
From the distance Grayson squinted into the sun and admired his wife, Laura, astride Touché, her most promising Warmblood. Over the last several years she had become a formidable competitor in Three-Day Eventing - an equestrian competition consisting of dressage, cross-country jumping, and stadium jumping - equated to a triathlon. Laura, a record-holder NCAA competitive swimmer, tore her rotator cuff during her senior year on a swimming scholarship at Stanford. The injury devastated her; she’d have no chance to compete in the Olympics - a lifelong aspiration. She grew up with a fiercely competitive spirit, both as an elite athlete and a student. As an adult, horseback riding would be her only chance to compete in the Olympics. She’d do whatever it took to attain that goal and make her dream a reality. She wasn’t afraid to spend the money or do the work required to have a fleeting chance at glory.
The sun created creeping shadows on the jump course. Grayson was interested to see what effect they would have on Touché’s performance. Before Laura bought Touché he was proving himself hard to beat in speed classes. The first time she test rode him the poles were set at 3’6” - he felt unstoppable and made the jump course feel easy. The animal’s natural inclination was far from subdued, but that’s what Laura was ready for. She wrote a check for $350,000 that day without so much as a veterinary pre-purchase exam.
This afternoon, after one playful buck, Touché concentrated on his job. Surged with power, he jumped a fluent, immaculate round with perfect rhythm. In schooling sessions the horse jumped with neatly folded legs high and wide, never rushing - but under the pressure of competition, Laura became nervous and caused the horse to feel insecure.
Grayson rode toward the arena to get a closer look. Laura went for a long spot, but she placed the horse a little bit far off the base of the jump. It was obvious Touché thought it wasn’t quite right, but he still jumped it clean.
David O’Conner, an equestrian Olympian and the president of the U.S. Equestrian Federation stood with his arms crossed in the middle of the ring, his analytical eyes scrutinizing every movement of horse and rider. As a result of what Laura considered her most dismal performance at Devon, she hired O’Conner to assess her and her horse’s abilities. After evaluating the string of horses and sorting out the awkward ones, O’Conner agreed to work with Laura and her daughter Heather so they would be better prepared for Wellington, Devon, and Rolex. If she didn’t start placing higher, Laura planned to quit competing. She was sure that with the right instructor she and her horses could manifest the spark of brilliance needed to win against stiff competition.
Laura and her kids (from her first marriage) immersed themselves in the elite horse world as Grayson did everything in his power to fit into their lifestyle while remaining true to his own interests. For the moment, astride Chief and overlooking the expanse of the jump course, Grayson simply wanted to relish the one-time dream life that had become his reality.
Leaving their Oklahoma ranch on the private jet, Laura, exhausted from riding, kicked off her shoes, sprawled out on the sofa and sighed. “I’ve got to talk my father into keeping the plane. I can’t imagine living without it,” she said as if she were referring to living without an automobile.
Grayson moved to the sofa, positioned himself at her feet and began massaging her soles and ankles. “He wasn’t serious when he said he’s going to sell it. Don’t worry.”
“Yes, he was. You know he hardly uses it anymore.”
“He’ll never sell it. You’ll inherit it before that happens. He’s eighty-two years old. The old man’s not going to live forever.”
“He might. He’s never been sick a day in his life. Anyway, if I inherit it, I’ll have to sell it. I don’t have the kind of money it takes to maintain a Gulfstream. You better hope he lives forever!”
“We’ll have the money,” Grayson said without further explanation. He never worried about a lack of money. He only feared experiencing a poverty of purpose.
Laura hoped her husband wasn’t assuming he would control her money. That’s why they had a prenuptial agreement - to protect her from losing her assets and all she would inherit.
Laura squeezed her toes into a fist when he dug his thumb into her insole. “Ouch!” she screamed playfully. “Daddy said we use it more than everyone else in the family combined. He thinks we’re starting to act like we’re entitled, and he doesn’t like our attitude about it.”
“Your father can’t seem to grasp our hectic schedules.”
In addition to using the plane for business, Laura, Grayson, and the kids flew back-and-forth from their home in Dallas to the Oklahoma farm, and all of them flew to different horse shows. They needed the plane.
Laura sat up abruptly. “I’m seriously thinking of selling the spas. There are so many opening up everywhere.”
Ten years earlier, Laura opened day spas catering to women without the time or the money to stay at exclusive spa resorts. Her father approved her business plan and funded the start-up. The business was successful in the sense that she had opened thirty locations nationwide, and although very few of them generated a significant profit, at least none of them lost money.
Grayson beamed. “You’ve met the challenge of developing your business. You know you’re bright and capable of doing anything you set your mind to. Sell out and concentrate on the horses. That’s what you and the kids enjoy the most anyway.”
Laura nodded. “I think I’ll redirect my time into being in the horse business.”
“The horse business?” Grayson said, surprised at her reply. Although he would never tell her, he hoped she wouldn’t. In his opinion, for the most part, the horse business revolved too much around perceptions of reality. So much of the business was so consumed with image that substance rarely mattered.
“Yes.”
“I meant that you should simply enjoy working with your trainers and riding your horses - competing - and going to the kids’ competitions.”
“And yours?” she said playfully.
“That would be nice,” he said, trying not to sound as if he felt neglected.
“I don’t like all that cowboy stuff. You know that.”
“Quarter Horses aren’t all about ‘cowboy stuff’! I’ve told you a million times - there are plenty of English classes.”
“I know,” Laura agreed. “But it’s not the same as what I do.”
“Are you saying you and your horses are superior?” he said playfully. He never argued the value of their riding disciplines, sensing such arguments would put distance between them.
“It goes without saying,” she shot back, and then gave him a flirtatious wink. In her opinion, preparing the horse and rider for eventing is the ultimate challenge for a serious equestrian.
“A lot of the riders aren’t cowboys as you call them.”
“Don’t get so defensive.”
“I’m not. It’s just that there’s more to the horse world than eventing.”
“I know that,” Laura shot back. She had never discouraged her son, Brett, from showing his Polish-bred Arabians in English Pleasure, Park, and Reining. Her father rode western, so she never discouraged Grayson’s involvement with Quarter Horses. In fact, she had admired his show record in Western events. Over the years, Grayson had won reining and cutting horse championships at Quarter Horse Congress and the AQHA World Championships.
As long as the family all loved horses, she was fine. They needed to have something in common. The horses were ideal – as was the time they all spent together at the farm.
He lightened up. “So, what are we arguing about?”
Laura didn’t realize she had sounded ticked off. “We’re not arguing. I was saying that I think I want to be in the horse business - not just own and ride horses. I’m not depressed or anything, but I feel like there’s something missing in my life - I’m just not fulfilled like I want to be.”
Grayson understood. He had sensed her recent discontent and had been in the same place emotionally many times in his life. “Why don’t you make a professional appointment with Shin?”
She bit her bottom lip as she gave his suggestion some thought. “I don’t need a therapist. I’m just saying that I think I want to be in the horse business.”
“In what way? Buying and selling? Breeding? A public training operation?”
She tilted her head. “I don’t know. I’m trying to decide.”
“So, just enjoying them isn’t enough for you anymore?”
“Not with the kids growing up and becoming more independent. I need something more, like what I have with the spas. But with horses, the business would actually be meaningful.”
“You don’t need to make money. I make plenty.”
You mean I have plenty from my trust and you hope I inherit more, she thought. “I know you do, but it’s not about the money. I can’t explain it.”
“I understand. The safety of the known stifles the experience of life. You want to do something different to help you make sense of your life outside of your family.” He knew first-hand that when you stretch yourself you discover an energy source within you that allows renewal.
She rested her head on his shoulder and wove her fingers through his. “I wish I could think the way you do and communicate my feelings like you do. You’re so eloquent - it makes me feel so simple. I guess simple is the only word I can think of to describe it. Simple, or shallow.”
“Don’t think that way,” he said almost in a whisper. He kissed her forehead and looked deep into her eyes. “The more you allow yourself exposure to the things I’m involved in, the more it will be internalized and the more you’ll benefit. Just remember, what you know matters less than what you feel. The mind, body, and spirit are chemically connected. It only stands to reason that you need to stay aware of how your heart feels.”
“Is that what you do? You seem so together now,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t be insulted. As a result of facing emotional challenges, Grayson went through a metamorphosis. She loved him when they met and married, but now she admired him too.
Grayson didn’t point out that her world view was limited, but he felt compelled to urge her to expand her awareness. “Why don’t you spend more time with Shin - not related to therapy, but just being with her when she works with the horses - and spend more time with Tate and Thundering Cloud? You’ve already learned a lot from them.” The Crow family shared their wisdom about life, animals, and nature. Since befriending them, Grayson’s inner chaos had ended as he developed a whole new relationship with nature and his horses. He now lived a purposeful and meaningful life and he continued on a journey of discovery.
“I am interested in the Native American ways,” Laura admitted to him for the first time.
“It’s not just Native American ways,” Grayson said while he had her attention on the subject. She usually had no interest in anything spiritual, ritualistic, or philosophical. “They’ll guide you in ways that at the core are universal to all ancient spiritual practices—including Taoism, Buddhism, and Hinduism. They all have many common beliefs. The very essences of the beliefs are what are important. Not the details.”
Laura nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
“You need to stop tuning out the longings you feel. You need to confront them and act on them.”
“That’s why I think I want to be in the horse business instead of the spa business.”
Grayson was in the process of developing a hospice and a horse rescue program on the five hundred acres adjacent to their farm. He was grateful to be financially and physically in a place where few others would have the opportunity. He stroked her back. “How about helping out with the rescue horses?”
“Maybe. I’ve actually been considering that. I was thinking about how now that some of the rescue horses are gaining weight, you ought to start buying tack. If I were you, I’d start looking for used saddles. With so many horses coming and going, you’ll need every size and style.”
Grayson had already ordered a dozen new Tucker endurance saddles - rider comfort was critical, especially for new equestrians and those not in good physical conditions. The gel seat and the tree design made them versatile for horses and their passengers.
“I gave Joel cash to take to some of the shows. There are always people with used saddles for sale.”
Joel had worked on the farm for almost a year. When he was released from his last stint in jail he didn’t have a place to live or anyone to turn to for help. His last foster family, whom he had kept in touch with as a young adult, wouldn’t have anything to do with him, having given up hope that he could change his ways. Joel’s extensive juvenile record was followed by two DUI’s, a breaking and entering arrest where the charges were dropped, and then two breaking and entering convictions - the last of which sent him to prison. Upon Joel’s release, his parole officer suggested he try to find a job that provided housing, such as at an agricultural business. There were a lot of cattle and horse operations in Oklahoma. The day after Joel regained his freedom, Grayson ran help wanted ads in a dozen newspapers throughout the state. Joel called him, told him of his record, and swore that if he could get one more chance to succeed he would be a changed man. Grayson was convinced anyone could change with proper guidance and support. He hired Joel based on the telephone call and hadn’t regretted his decision.
Laura shook her head at the idea of Grayson giving Joel a substantial amount of cash. “I hope you’re making him get itemized receipts with the contact information of the sellers.”
“No. I’m not going to do that. He needs to know that he’s proven himself trustworthy. He’s started a new life and I’m proud of him. I’ve enjoyed mentoring him, and so has Bruce,” Grayson said, referring to their farm manager.
“If you’re comfortable,” she said, “then I am too.” Her husband had evolved into a man born to heal the spirit. Sometimes she thought it was one of the few things that gave his life any meaning.
“He’s a good kid. He just needs people to believe in him.”
Laura nodded. “By the way, did you read the article in Natural Horse magazine about the PMU horses? They use the urine from pregnant mares to make Premarin®.” As many as eight million post-menopausal women have been taking the drug for hormone replacement therapy to alleviate the symptoms of menopause.
“I didn’t read anything about it. What’s the big deal about using urine from pregnant mares?”
She shook her head. “The harvesting of the urine requires about 70,000 pregnant mares to live in five-foot standing stalls, each with a bag attached to the base of her tail to catch her urine. What’s even worse – the byproduct of doing this is thousands of foals being sent to slaughter.”
Grayson turned pale at the thought. “Why don’t they sell the foals to people who will raise them and ride them?”
“They just don’t. It’s sickening. They just want to get rid of the byproduct as quickly and easily as they can.”
“That’s horrific,” Grayson said, appalled. “Hasn’t this been made public outside of the horse community?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I don’t really know. I think we should adopt some of those mares.”
He didn’t need to consider her idea any further. “Definitely.”
“I wish you could join us on the camping trip. A couple of my clients will be there for the sweat lodge,” Grayson said.
“Maybe another time. I wish it didn’t conflict with Brett showing,” she said, referring to the U.S. Arabian Nationals in Louisville, Kentucky.
Grayson had planned on watching Brett and his horse, Accomplice, compete for the reining horse championship, but when Brett decided not to risk the gelding’s health after his colic episode, Grayson cancelled his plans and rescheduled the camping trip for the same dates. They originally planned on camping the last weekend in October, but that timing would be more likely to have inclement weather.
“Brett wants me to meet this man who has Dutch Harness Horses. Apparently he’s looking for a silent partner.”
“I’ve never heard of Dutch Harness Horses,” he said dismissively.
“The pictures look interesting. I promised Brett I would meet the man,” she said.
“Why are there going to be Dutch Harness Horses at the Arabian Nationals?”
“I don’t think the horses will be there. The guy - his name is Greg Bordeaux - crosses them with Arabians. He was a big-timer back before the tax reform. Brett said he more or less disappeared from the public eye for the past decade as he reorganized his life, got remarried, and some other long saga I really didn’t pay much attention to. Anyway, Greg’s going to be at the Nationals and I promised Brett I’d at least hear a proposal and maybe go to his farm - it’s about an hour away from the show grounds.”
Laura wasn’t just going by what Brett had said about Greg. She had heard Bordeaux’s name over the years through her ex-husband, Drew, who had dabbled in various breeds of horses, including Arabians and Half-Arabians in the early eighties. Drew gathered small groups of investors together (usually from their country club in Dallas) to form partnerships to speculate on a few horses at a time. They’d pay Drew to find undervalued horses, get them in prime condition, maybe bred to a popular stallion, and then try to get the horse consigned to a February Vintage Arabians auction in Scottsdale. They made incredible profits from time to time. They never lost money on the Polish Arabians with bloodlines tracing to the Vintage Arabians program. The best part was, they never took possession of the Arabians, leaving Laura’s farm an exclusive and private showplace for her eventing horses.
Eventually, some of Drew’s banking and oilmen cohorts pushed him into trying to do the same thing in Texas so they could easily visit the horses that they were risking so much money on. By private invitation, the group attended an elaborate presentation about investing in Egyptian Arabians through a bloodstock agency where the principal owners were a Class ‘A’ Judge and a successful trainer who owned a prestigious farm in Waco. To top it off, the bloodstock agent was very influential in the Pyramid Society, the Egyptian Arabian breeder organization. Against Drew’s better judgment, the group bought five Egyptian horses. They lost most of their money. Next, they tried investing in Russian Arabians with a prominent farm in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. It turned out that their investment was a scam. Eventually, Laura got so fed up with Drew’s get-rich-quick-and-easy mentality she didn’t even want to hear about what he was doing.
“If Bordeaux’s so experienced, why does he want a silent partner?” Grayson asked, confused.
Laura rolled her eyes. “I don’t know exactly. Brett said he really only had one major client - some heavy-hitter from Southern California – and the client was bailing on him for some reason. I’m not sure really. Something about Greg relying on just one client to spend enough money to support his horse venture.”
“Sounds like a bad move on his part,” Grayson said.
“Brett pleaded with me to meet him. He’s convinced this guy is on to something with the Dutch Harness Horses, and he acts like Greg is the next best thing to God. Who knows? All I could do is to tell him I’d listen.”
“Write down this guy’s name. I’ll call one of my private investigators to check him out and dig up details on his background. You should know more about him before you seriously consider a proposal.”
Laura wrote the name Greg Bordeaux on a slip of paper, folded it in half, gave it to her husband and then cuddled up to him, molding her body to his.
Copyright © 2006-2008 by Cali Canberra
Laura and her kids scrambled out of the show office, anxious to return to the stall, tack up, and have Brett warm up the mare. In his peripheral vision, Brett spotted Greg Bordeaux leaning on the fence of one of the practice rings. Greg noticed Brett and the women – they were the only people moving at such a pace. He waved them over. His voice took on a tone of confidence as he introduced himself to Laura and Heather.
Heather looked him over in a coldly appraising manner. “We’re actually busy. We’ll call you when we know we’ve got ample time to meet,” she said, rather stiffly.
Laura’s radiant face issued her practiced smile, exposing a row of perfectly white and straight teeth, identical to Brett and Heather. She leaned forward as if to impart a secret. “We’ve had a little complication, but it’s straightened out now.”
Brett consulted his watch and excused himself. To Heather’s dismay, Laura told Greg what had happened with Campala being scratched and invited him to their sky box to watch Brett show. Having time to spare, they strolled toward a practice arena. Greg’s stride was forcibly relaxed as he shaded his eyes against the glow of the sun. He had broken his $275 Fendi sunglasses and couldn’t spare the money to replace them right now. Walking, he looked to the ground, as he always did, even before his misfortune. Heather couldn’t help but notice the scrutinizing looks a number of people had given him.
At the practice ring, Greg analyzed the horses being worked, wishing he were in the limelight astride the next National Champion Park Horse or Open English Pleasure Horse. He struggled to stop replaying scenes in his mind that rekindled the glory of winning countless U.S. National Arabian Championships, the prestigious Scottsdale All-Arabian Shows, and the Buckeye shows. He tried not to agonize over his memories of the good ole’ days and of his lucrative auctions that generated millions of dollars a year. Now, all he wanted was to keep what little he and Elaine had started developing. Was that asking too much? It seemed as if no one wanted to give him a second chance. Too many people were unforgiving, making it impossible to walk out of his history of having been a master at glossing over the truth when his problems began. Sure, he made some mistakes, but he didn’t think they were things he should serve a life sentence for. In his opinion, the people in the Arabian breed held him to an unrealistic standard they themselves could not have embraced if they were in his position.
People seemed to think he was only involved in the horse business for the money, but that wasn’t the case at all. His interest and passion for horses had always bordered on the obsessive. He loved the horses and the competition, and even the little things - like the feel of quality leather tack and the smell of saddle soap and metal polish. And he cherished the scent of a sweaty horse and new cedar shavings. He appreciated riding in an arena with freshly groomed sand and seeing the faint impressions of hoof prints – ideally in a straight line or a perfect circle.
In the 1970’s and a good part of the 1980’s, Greg was the dynamo of the Arabian business, trading paper right and left, ruling a dynasty. He had masterminded an effective system to control the high-end of the market by capturing the imaginations of people with seemingly unlimited capital. Sure, his father, brother, and Nick Cordonelli were in the business with him, but he alone was the powerhouse, the driving force that usurped the prestige of Vintage Arabians. Vintage Arabians and their subsidiary auction company had been the most profitable Arabian breeding and training operation in the world. Then, The Tax Reform Act of 1986 put into law a limitation on the deduction of losses from any business activity in which the taxpayer did not “materially participate,” turning the losses into passive losses. The Arabian market crashed and never recovered. He lost everything he owned. He lost his wife, his respectability, his good credit rating, and even worse - the admiration of those who had never done business with him and a few naïve people who had.
Over the past fifteen years, in many ways Greg had moved on as well as could be expected - considering he didn’t even have an exit strategy when he saw his world crumbling around him. He remarried yet another younger woman, making her his third wife. The onetime egotistical control freak relinquished control of everything important to him. From the outset of their marriage, he and Elaine put everything they began acquiring in Elaine’s name, including their new horse business. The public wondered if it was for asset protection or to prove to his wife how much he trusted her. He gave up his overpowering need for international notoriety and the reputation for having the most expensive horses in the breed. In his heyday he lived in Scottsdale, Arizona and in LaGrange, Kentucky.
After losing everything, he moved to Texas, then California, then Montana, desperate to find a place where he could start fresh. His problems followed him everywhere. His past haunted him regardless of where he lived.
Mixed with the nightmares of his life, he held onto fond memories of the Kentucky Bluegrass country - the land he left behind, along with his dreams. For reasons most couldn’t fathom, after being unable to settle anywhere else, he was drawn back to L’Equest, the upscale equestrian development in Kentucky he started from raw land and built into an incredible community, and then lost to Japanese businessmen. He hoped that once he returned to L’Equest his spark and flair would return and he’d find the inspiration to succeed again. He and Elaine found a way to move back to L’Equest and take another road in the horse industry. Together, they began importing Dutch Harness Horses in an attempt to ignite another profitable trend in the horse industry. Now, they were on the verge of losing the horses and the farm because of business conflicts with their only major client. They needed to be bailed out, and needed it quick.
Greg wanted to be in Laura and Heather’s presence but planned to avoid discussing his proposition until Brett was available. In the skybox he hoped that any conversation with the women would be about the horses being shown – he’d be happy to give them his professional opinions. If they hadn’t even heard of him, they definitely didn’t know the Arabian market. That was a good thing. It would be much easier to get money out of people who didn’t know the Arab business. Unfortunately, like most things in life, the stark inevitability was that it took money to finance his plans, and lots of it.
Mixing a drink in the skybox with no one around to put him on a pedestal, Greg began feeling out of place. Resentment radiated beneath his surface as he fought back his instinct to sulk.
“Brett says you’re anxious to sell some horses,” Heather said, her voice charged with authority, her eyes filled with suspicion.
The comment made his dark brown slicked-back hair bristle. Desperate to sell is more like it, he thought. “You get to the point,” he said evenly.
“That’s how I am,” Heather continued, looking out the skybox window toward the arena where tractors drug the green shavings creating a smooth surface for the next class of horses. “Brett says you need cash quick. Sounds like you’re in a weak position.”
The disturbing words rattled around in his mind. He tried to keep his face from becoming taut with anger. “You’re not afraid to speak your mind.”
“Business is business,” she replied coolly. She couldn’t put her finger on what made her leery of the man other than the looks she had witnessed at least a dozen people give him. He had barely spoken and she didn’t know a thing about him, his past, or his reputation.
“That’s not quite how the horse business works,” he said true to form with the hint of a smirk, intending a tone meant to soften her up. From her expression, it did the opposite.
“Like I said, business is business.”
Greg hid his emotions as best he could under the circumstances. “I’ve got some incredible horses. Sure, I’m in a cash-flow bind and can use some help, but the opportunity for Brett to be financially involved in my business is something he shouldn’t pass up. I’m willing to take in a silent partner. Brett could own an interest in all of my horses for a fair price if the timing helps me out of my bind.”
Heather snickered. “The value of any horse is subjective. From what Brett said, there’s absolutely no established market value for the horses you’re trying to breed and sell,” she said with an edge to her voice and her face set hard.
Amused at the wet bar, Laura poured Courvoisier XO Imperial into a Riedel Vinum tulip-shaped glass that was purposefully chosen to fully harmonize the aroma and taste of the cognac while emphasizing the bouquet. Laura never went to a show without her own stemware and alcohol.
Greg felt a surge of annoyance at the implied criticism, but unfortunately, after his life imploded in the eighties, he was well practiced at calmly responding to criticism. His expression was placid. Even after all he had been through in the horse business, he was still unable to tell the unvarnished truth to prospective clients. “That’s the beauty of what the opportunity is. I’m in a position to establish the market values of Dutch Harness Horses in the United States. And Brett can be a part of the growing popularity and the future profitability.”
Laura was definitely intrigued but his remark spawned a smug condescending look from Heather. He acted as if he hadn’t noticed.
Heather quickly decided to play naïve to test Greg’s personality. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to be offensive. I shouldn’t even have spoken up. This is between you and my parents.”
Greg’s voice quavered. “Actually, it’s Brett I’d do business with.”
Heather couldn’t control herself. “Brett doesn’t have a dime. Other than working on our farm, he hasn’t worked a day in his life. It would be my parents making the decision,” she said, thinking of Grayson as her father in these types of circumstances, and in most circumstances. She surprised herself at the depth of negative feelings she had about the man whom she had barely spent time with.
Laura looked at Greg with mild curiosity. Without even knowing the man, she could read the wounded pride on his face. She felt bad for what her daughter was putting him through.
Greg dreaded continuing. By now, his mouth tensed, his face looked drawn, and there was an uneasy wariness in his posture. After a few moments of silence he cleared his throat and looked to Laura. “Brett and I were talking one day, and we thought you might consider loaning him the money to invest so he can start his own venture buying Dutch Harness Horses that I sell him and advise him on.”
Heather laughed out loud, but didn’t say a word. Here the man stood, acting as if he and Brett were buddies. She knew Brett and Greg weren’t really friends. Brett was simply one of the hundreds of people Greg ran into in the show world. That’s how it was in all breeds and riding disciplines.
Laura interjected, trying not to sound insulting. “We’re always being approached about buying. What’s so unique about your horses?”
“These are very special horses. Dutch Harness Horses, or Tuigpaard, as they are called in their native country, came from the Netherlands over 100 years ago, tracing back to Dutch Warmbloods.” Without asking if they were interested, he opened his photo album and showed them pictures of a horse bursting into the show ring with a proud and distinctive self-carriage. The chestnut moved with its neck upright and arched, tail high, elegantly trotting high off both ends with its hocks providing incredible drive and height that allowed the horse to fully engage its shoulders and lift its forelegs in a high-and-open motion. “You can’t tell from still pictures, but at the highest point of movement there’s a distinct moment of suspension that’s so remarkable it will take your breath away.”
Not wanting to appear overly impressed Laura casually said, “This horse does radiate power and authority, and I’ve always admired Dutch Warmbloods.”
Greg took her comment as another strong sign of interest. “My name and experience in the horse world behind these horses will be an asset for Brett. He would be on the ground floor of a relatively new type of show horse in the United States. We can create an entire segment of the industry with the nucleus of horses I’ve personally selected. And I have access to more horses.”
Heather noticed he only referred to his experience, not his reputation. She wondered why and she thought his answer sounded like a feeble attempt to convince them of his self-importance. “You’re pretty full of yourself. Of course you have access to more horses. There’s a glut of horses on the market. We all have access.”
Laura’s expression suggested she didn’t like Heather’s tone. Irritation lurked in her eyes. She imagined Heather’s words hit Greg like a stake through his heart.
It galled Greg to answer to Heather and Laura – he planned to do business with Brett. Fragments of his father’s warnings to get out of the horse business all together haunted him. One memory after another surfaced of his glory days and the endless days with lawyers and packing up his belongings without his second wife, Marcie, at his side. After the strained silence, he set his glass down on the wet bar. With smoldering eyes he looked away and started toward the door as he swore under his breath.
“My horses are superior to most that are on the market,” he replied.
“Right,” Heather said mockingly.
Laura grew more annoyed at Heather’s attitude and negativity. She thought of Brett and abruptly stepped toward Greg and took him by the forearm. Her manner of speaking became crisp and precise. “Listen, she shouldn’t speak to you that way. Please accept my apology.”
Greg stopped in his tracks, enormously relieved Laura made the effort. The last twenty years of his life had become such an ordeal. Every detail of his hardships had been etched into his brain. He was determined to find a way to keep treading water until he could be on top again – he needed Brett.
“I’m sorry,” Heather said without an ounce of sincerity. She sat on a bar stool and stared toward the arena.
“Apologies accepted. Let’s start over. My point is that Brett and I would like to work on this project together. He’s a college graduate now and ready to go out on his own. I have the opportunity of a lifetime and he can be instrumental in making this venture a huge success.”
Laura returned his sincere gaze. “I don’t mean this to sound disrespectful, but why don’t you have a current client help you out? A client you already have a history with?”
Greg blushed and became tongue-tied. “To be honest, I unintentionally burned a few bridges in the Arabian industry before it crashed. People in the Arabian breed love to spread rumors, and I was the one they went after when everything went to hell. I made some mistakes that I’ve since learned from and I need an opportunity to start fresh.”
Laura was impressed with his honesty. “We all come with a learning history. A past. I’m glad you’re not letting your past keep you from moving forward in your life, but I’m not sure Brett is ready to delve into something like this.”
Greg felt painted into a corner. “You don’t even know what the proposal is. You can’t know if he’s ready or not.”
“Tell me about it,” Laura said. There was something she liked about the man, and her son sounded so zealous to have her consider the opportunity.
“I would prefer to wait until Brett’s here so we can all discuss this together.”
“It’s my money. I’d prefer to hear about it now,” Laura insisted, especially since she also wanted to get into the horse business, but still hadn’t thought about what aspect or how she’d do it.
Greg was reluctant to continue, but Laura did seem interested and they were his only prospect. He couldn’t go to any old-timers in the Arabian breed after burning all his bridges. His only hope was to lure in people who didn’t know details about his past so that he could put his own spin on describing his experience in the horse business. Buying time, he poured himself Cutty on the rocks. “I can certainly appreciate your position, but if we do this, it will be you loaning the money to Brett – or giving it to him as a gift – so he can…”
Laura cut him off. How dare he dictate the use of her money? She edged closer to him, implying he was treading water now. “Why are you avoiding telling me about this without Brett here?”
Completely out of character, Greg stuttered and answered weakly. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” Heather jumped in.
“I’m sorry,” Greg said, feeling a vague sense of alarm. He might have totally blown an opportunity. A lump gathered in his throat. “I didn’t intend to. It’s just that when I was visible and active in the horse business it started out as a small family business. When I was younger I was never treated with the respect I should have been because everyone thought my father was the leader…which he was, until I was old enough and mature enough…but, anyway, I just didn’t want to leave Brett out of anything. If we did, I’d know how he feels, and it’s not a good feeling. In fact, it’s demeaning.”
What happened to Greg and his family, and to the Arabian horse industry in the late 1980’s, shook the foundation upon which his world had been built. Every instinct he had for horses, and the horse business, and every friendship and business relationship he forged had been turned upside down. To this day, the injustice haunted him.
Laura considered Greg’s sincerity. A soft smile materialized. “I suppose you’re right. We need to treat him like the adult he is. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. As his mother, I’m used to being his protector.”
His lips parted in amazement. His explanation actually worked. It was the truth, but under the dire circumstances he was shocked that he had held his composure enough to make her understand.
“Mom, Brett’s class is starting,” Heather said, feeling a sense of anticipation for her brother.
They left the sky box and went to their front row seats to watch the Open English Pleasure Championship class.
Brett entered the ring at the far side of the arena and dissolved into a unity of motion with his mount. On the exterior, he displayed confidence - an icy calm. But inside, his heart was pounding in anticipation of a ride close to perfection.
Copyright © 2006-2008 by Cali Canberra
“What do you hope to achieve with therapy?” Shin asked directly.
Cia thought about it as she sipped her tea. She liked how Shin didn’t make her feel as if she had to rush her answers. “I don’t know. That’s why I’ve cancelled so many appointments. I feel like it’s hopeless to think things can change or that I can change. I feel so out of control.”
“I asked what you hope to achieve, not if you think you can achieve.”
No longer sounding subdued, Cia said, “What I want to achieve is some sense of purpose to my life – and genuine happiness. All I know is - I don’t intend to come here and just spill my guts to you. I want you to give me guidance. And answers. If I just needed to talk, I can do that with my husband. I need more than that. I really hope you can do something besides ask me questions and listen to my problems.”
Shin accepted her skepticism not as a criticism but as an opportunity. She detected Cia hid behind well thought out words. “It’s good you came, then. I call myself a spiritual psychologist and I prefer to work on a client’s whole life - not simply emotional problems.”
Cia nodded, not admitting she didn’t quite understand what Shin meant.
Shin rested her hand on Cia’s leg for a moment. “The isolated life you’ve been living isn’t working for you, obviously.”
Cia nodded, wishing she had eaten before she left the house.
“It’s going to be painful to heal your heart. You can avail yourself of our relationship, or you can remain closed up in isolation,” Shin said, hoping to provoke a strong reaction.
“I want to try to work with you,” Cia said, almost pleading.
“The pace of guidance, whether from me or anyone else, is like peace of mind. It begins internally. We can visit as often as you want, but for you to benefit from our time you must internalize what I teach you. I won’t let you come to me and kill time just to appease your husband. I promise you, if you’re open and honest there will be a pivotal point that will shift what you are doing with your life from being insignificant to being something of great consequence.”
With a tired, wary look in her eyes Cia said, “That’s what I want to do. How do I start?”
“First, you must put your feelings and thoughts into perspective. It’s the only way you can expand who you think you are. A depressed person doesn’t like who they think they are, so that’s one of the things we need to work on first.”
Cia exhaled a deep breath feeling comforted by what she heard and how Shin spoke. “I definitely don’t like who I am – I don’t even feel like I’m ‘somebody’. I feel like I’m just a blob, reluctantly living from day to day.”
“Do you ever go to church?” Shin asked.
Despising organized religion, Cia tensed. Thoughts of Shin advising prayer ran rampant through her mind. There was no way she would do it.
“No, I never go to church.” Or synagogue, she thought. Even if she wanted to, there probably wasn’t a synagogue for hundreds of miles.
“My church is being out in nature,” Shin said to Cia’s relief. “Do you like being outdoors?”
Cia shrugged, thinking the question had no real importance. “Sure.”
Shin disliked being indoors when not absolutely necessary. “It’s so beautiful this time of year. What would you think about us having sessions outdoors when weather permits?”
Cia hid the disappointment she felt. “Fine with me.” Being in Shin’s office reminded her of the luxury hotels she and Jeffrey used to stay in. She loved the ambiance. It was nothing like their rental home furnished with a stained vinyl couch and love seat, second-hand coffee table and end tables that didn’t match or look good together, and peeling, shiny brass lamps and light fixtures. Her kitchen table and chairs were patio furniture.
“I think it’s easier to get in touch with your spirituality outdoors,” Shin said.
“I’m not spiritual. I just want to feel happy and I just want to find a purpose,” Cia said quickly as her mind instinctively rebelled.
Shin stood to reach into a wooden box near the door. She brought out a bag of dark Belgian chocolate, setting the mouthwatering homemade candy on the table. Speaking with a silken, buttery voice she said, “Spiritual doesn’t mean religious. I think of spiritual as an ethical and practical way of living in harmony and with peace of mind.”
“Oh. Well, if that’s what you mean, I do want those things.”
Shin sat down again, this time with her legs out straight. She bit into a piece of chocolate and savored it, letting it melt in her mouth as she gave Cia a moment to think. “When you begin to heal your life you gain the wisdom of awakening to who and what you are. It’s a wonderful feeling.”
Cia could only dream of the day. She ate a piece of chocolate, waiting for Shin to continue.
“I’m a practicing Buddhist and I practice Native American traditions. You know, in America it’s a melting pot – and there are so many different kinds of spiritual practices, but the essence is the same. It’s our diverse cultural reality.”
Mystified, Cia listened and stretched out her legs. “What’s this got to do with my problem?”
“What is your problem?”
Cia didn’t answer.
Shin placed a hand on Cia’s leg again. “See, life can’t be solved by identifying something so simply. People need to connect to a higher source in order to attain at least some sense of peace, to feel a purpose, and to feel happy.”
“It sounds so out there,” Cia said, her face assuming a blank expression.
“The point is - the connection to spirit is so real that it will give you the strength to reach for anything you want. In your case, at this time in your life - for the will to live,” Shin told her, keeping the concept uncomplicated.
“Fine. I'll trust you. Where do I start? How do we start?"
By being honest.”
“What do you mean?” she said, hoping she didn’t sound defensive. Shin sipped more tea and wiped her lips with her slender finger.
You can’t be a truth seeker without being a truth teller.”
“How do I start wanting to live - actually looking forward to living?” she asked, not wanting to think about the truth.
“There’s not an actual starting point that’s the same for everyone, but I do know that however you gain peace of mind, that’s when things are good. When you have peace of mind, it’s the clean slate upon which your new life can be written.”
Frustrated by the answer, Cia tapped her bitten fingernails on the glass table top. She missed the days of professional manicures and pedicures. “How do you gain peace of mind?”
“It’s a lot of work. For one thing, I suggest meditation. First, you have to hold yourself in a quiet receptive state. Meditation and your therapy with me will go through the same sequence of actions. There is a process of descent, encounter, reconciliation, and then transformation. You need a life transformation.”
Cia couldn’t achieve a quiet mental state if her life depended on it. She’d tried on and off for years. Each legitimate attempt caused the reverse to happen. Uncontrollable thoughts popped into her mind – anything from wanting to die to wondering who came up with the idea of toilet paper on a roll and if he gets a royalty for each roll sold. Thoughts of her marriage surviving and of her favorite kind of candy bar. Memories of a fun filled day snow skiing in Aspen with her parents when she was a teen, and memories of herself and Jeffrey driving off in their car with a baby in her arms for the first time. Random thoughts - silly, sad or scary. Still, every time she tried to quiet her mind the session ended the same – with her heart ballooned in her chest and triggering a storm of emotions. Internal darkness became her constant companion for days afterward. For her daughter’s sake, she snapped out of it, trying to be a good mother and wife, but there was always a longing that couldn’t be satisfied. An emptiness. A sense of quiet desperation.
Shin’s eyes lingered on Cia. Like most of her clients, Cia didn’t have a common frame of reference. Shin grew up meditating and spent peaceful time in solitude, listening to nature and the spirits with a receptivity that put her at ease. When troubled, she was able to take her mind to a quiet, receptive state in order to find answers or, just as important, to let go of the need for answers.
Copyright © 2006-2008 by Cali Canberra
The smells in the ICU triggered Grayson’s gut-wrenching memories as he walked down the corridor. The door to Lou’s room swung open just as he approached. The nurse exited, eyed Grayson up and down, and wondered if he were immediate family. He wasn’t.
Grayson walked into the room, a hesitation in his steps. It had been a long time since he saw anyone with tubes in their arms, surrounded by beeping medical monitors and equipment sending reports on vital signs. He felt the heat rise in his face as the memory of Lana hit him like a punch in the stomach – the last time they were together was the most transforming event of his life.
Today, in the stark institutional room, Lou lay before him with dark sunken eyes, his pale white face nearly translucent. Since Grayson last saw him, his muscles wasted away, accentuating his emaciated frame – his skull protruded beneath his face, making him appear skeletal. It was somber and strange.
Grayson noticed how the blood pressure cuff looked enormous on Lou’s withered frail body. Saline and sedatives dripped from the IV in his paper-thin veined arm. The bag attached to the catheter was empty. The nurse must have just changed it. The ebb and flow of Lou’s life was artificially controlled by the breathing tube in his nose and his throat. It’s not what he wanted. That, he knew for certain.
Grayson lowered the bedrail and gently sat on the edge of the mattress. Lou reached out a hand hoping his brittle yellowed fingernails weren’t repugnant. For a moment, tension grew in Grayson’s body then quickly evaporated. He cupped Lou’s hand between his own and looked straight into his friend’s eyes. He just knew the blood drained from his own face as he did so, but he hoped it went unnoticed. His instinct was to hug Lou, but Lou’s prominent collar bone and shoulders looked as if they might snap if he wasn’t as gentle as he knew he’d need to be.
“I got here as soon as I could,” Grayson said finally.
Lou nodded. “I told Carol not to bring me,” he said with great effort as the cords of his neck tightened.
“You’ve always known she didn’t agree with you.”
Carol told her husband that she could never live with herself if he signed a DNR order. There was no way she’d agree to withhold life-saving measures. She firmly believed that with enough prayer and pure will there was always a chance that things could get better.
When Lou began experiencing the rapid deterioration of the quality of his existence, he confided to Grayson that he lost his tenacity to continue clinging to life. His inner fire was extinguished. There was no hope. He didn’t want to linger. He didn’t want his family to live that way.
Lou’s throat constricted, making it nearly impossible to communicate. Pronouncing each word seemed laborious. “It’s my time. I’m ready.”
Grayson stood. His face was carved with grave sorrow as he delicately pulled the vial and syringe out of his jacket pocket. He stuck the needle in the vial, angled it just so, and pulled back the plunger. With the syringe full he answered his friend’s plea. Lou, an oncologist, was ironically dying of colon cancer. He gave his instructions – when the time came, Grayson was to inject the prepared combination dose of pancurium bromide, potasium chloride, and sodium pentothal into the IV. Without a doubt, it was time.
Grayson’s hands trembled as he simultaneously said goodbye to Lou and injected the IV. His eyes vacant, he left the room and the hospital as quickly as he could, thinking about how two years earlier, it was Lou who first posed the question to him - why is it that when inevitable death is imminent it is legal and morally acceptable to make the decision to refuse forms of treatment that would only prolong life - yet, when it comes to actively helping someone with a terminal illness to die, it is murder?
Copyright © 2006-2008 by Cali Canberra