Here it is Friday, and I last rode on Sunday. Reo was a gentleman, we walked about the farm, tried a trot, and he was definitely dropping his head on right front leg contact. So, we walked and enjoyed a lovely Sunday afternoon. It always surprises me that so few people come to ride on the weekend. No one came the whole two hours I was there. I rather enjoyed my solitary time, however. Very peaceful, and allowed me time to come to terms with our decision to buy a condo in northern Kentucky. Strange, but I smiled when I thought of Reo in his new place, with trees and meadows and freedom. I think he will be very satisfied with his life there. I will have a splendid time riding trails, and enjoying the company of other women who enjoy the horsey life, as I do. Can’t wait.
I will have a lameness check performed on him when his vaccinations are done next week.
Whether to move Buddy will be a decision I will make at a later time, after I get a feeling for the new place. I brought grain to Buddy’s place Tuesday, and checked on him. He came immediately when I whistled, and I teared up thinking about leaving him behind. I will, of course, do what is best for him, not for me. He’s eating more food than I budgeted for. Wonderful for him, not so good for my horse budget. He’s lean, but looking good.
We put an offer in on a new home near Cincinnati; we listed our present home here in Georgetown, Kentucky for sale; and now must begin planning to move. I hired a lady who runs a business helping people downsize. She came this week and began the process of listing items for sale. Whenever I think of keeping something, I remind myself that letting go is the right thing to do. I am me, not my items. My memories will still be there, even if the items are gone. I repeat this mantra to myself, over and over, as treasured “things” leave me, that someone else will enjoy them. I convince myself that once they’re gone, it will be fine. My sister’s porcelain doll, a lovely hand painted lamp, books, stuffed animals (that talk to me), antique dining room suite, and so on. Do I need them? No. Do I like (love) them? Sure.
My imagination overruns with scenarios of these items not being cared for the way I care for them. And so, I cry. Pretty stupid, I know. They don’t feel, they are not living things, but they have become part of me, and that makes them alive, at least to me. Get over it, dammit!
I think that unless people actually undergo the experience of watching their life’s collections disappear, they cannot empathize with the lost feelings. I don’t mean to make it so dramatic, as it would be if the losses occurred during a true disaster, but I do understand why so many people keep everything until they die…sentimentality. I am striving to lose the sentimentality and spare my children the huge chore of deciding what the hell to do with the stuff when I’m gone. So there. I’ve talked myself into a positive attitude rather than a sad one.
My husband, my dogs, my horses and I are moving on to a quieter, less “stuff” filled life. We’re going to have a damn good time, I bet!