Becoming Real...

Google image of the illustration by William Nicholson from the book by Margery Williams, published 1922

This is one of my all-time favorite sections of the book The Velveteen Rabbit. I am in a pensive and thoughtful mood, pondering the concept of becoming a better, more real person. Enjoy...

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

A Young Woman Leaves Home

Seattle, where a piece of my heart will live

Google image

Today, my daughter moved hundreds of miles away from home to Seattle. She graduated college with honors after attending on a full ride scholarship. She has gone from being a quiet private high schooler to a strong, wickedly witty young woman with friends surrounding her as she herds them to outdoor challenges. She radiates confidence and energy. She is fully prepared for the big world away from her small town roots.

But, still. I am at once sad to my bones at her leaving, happy for what life will gift her with, and pleased that she feels free to go. But, still. She is my baby, the last of the brood. She will be no longer within quick reach to rescue or simply to touch. She will be hours away. I will no longer have the expectation of the step at the door being hers. I will no longer see her burst through the back door, Pug and laundry basket balanced precariously, saying breathlessly, 'Hi, Mom! I got some time so we came down!'

I clearly remember my mother's sadness when I left home at seventeen. I, too, felt the heaviness of the moment, not without a little fear. And, I felt sorry for my mother. She seemed so old, so vulnerable, so unhealthy. And, she was. Not really old, but worn out by poverty and hard work and disappointment. But she was vulnerable and unhealthy, and I felt like I was abandoning and betraying her. I cried all the way to my new apartment near the university I was to attend.

I have broken the cycle of poverty and abuse in yet another way with my own daughter's leave-taking. She knows I am whole, and healthy, and busy, and involved in my own life. She need not fear for me, or feel like a traitor to me in order to seek her own dreams. And, that is another gift I can offer my children. I have given them roots, and now I offer wings.

Fly high, my sweet child. I'll be here, always.

(from Journal of Ravensayrie)

All I pay my psychiatrist is the cost of feed and hay, and he'll listen to me any day.

~Author Unknown

Touching Sage

Today, my mare and I spent some time together as she quietly chewed her grain. We stood in the warm afternoon sun, relaxed in our closeness. I began stroking her back, repetitive long firm touches with the flat of my hands on both sides of her spine. After a while, I switched to a gentle slow circular motion with my fingertips. Sage began to close her eyes.

I worked my way up her neck, feeling areas of tightness melt away under my massage. She sighed deeply and leaned into my body. I traced the lines of her legs from shoulder to hoof, from hip to hoof, again and again. Sage swayed in place to a gentle rhythm of her own. She curved her neck around me and drank in my scent, gentle lips nibbling my skin lightly. Then, we just stood there, my hands on her back, her head pressing me to her body.

At last, a huge sigh escaped her and she returned to her grain, gently blowing a sigh from her nose. I patted her, said, 'Good girl' and left. When I turned to look at her, she was watching me. I smiled and left her alone.

My hands still felt hot and electric from her touch.

Reaching An Abused Horse

I have two new horses. They came to me from the same owner. One is a gelding, a Tennessee Walking Horse/Quarter Horse cross. He is Mr. Big, a big, bold, outgoing character with a curious nature and a desire to please. The other, a Tennessee Walking Horse mare, is reserved, quiet, watchful. It is the mare that intrigues me and sends me to the pasture to watch her and think about her personality.

I was told that she was abused by the man who bought her as a youngster from the breeder. That, in his slow downward spiral into mental illness, he lashed out at those under his control, his horses bearing the greatest burden of his wrath. Hospitalization and medication were forced on him, relocating to new homes was the fate of the horses.

Sage (the mare's stable name) went to the home of a wonderful woman who loves her horses, spends hours every day grooming, riding, wrangling them into and out of separate paddocks and stalls. She french braided Sage's tail and bathed her with lavender soap. Under her loving hands, Sage learned to be still for ministrations and attention. I was told to 'kiss her face a lot, she loves it'.

I saw something different, though. Not a horse that loved the attention, but an abuse survivor who was walled off, holding herself closely to herself, standing stock still to avoid gaining attention. As a counselor in the mental health field, I saw the same thing in survivors of domestic or sexual abuse. Sage's stillness and frozen acquiescence impacted me more than if she had thrown her head or backed away. It was as if she knew she should want this but could not allow herself to trust or let down her guard.

It made me not want to hold her head to me, to not kiss her stone still face. It made me want to give her the space she needs without me invading her closely held defenses. It made me want to gain her trust, to reach her openly and honestly, when she was ready to receive that caress without fear. It made me want to learn more about horses in general and her in particular so that I could be a partner in her reawakening to a mutual relationship.

I asked a trusted friend who is an exceptional horsewoman and trainer to meet Sage and give me her thoughts. Our impressions were identical. She pointed out the specific body language that I merely sensed, horse language that validated my assessment. What I have is an introverted, damaged horse who holds herself away from further pain. She is never violent, angry or hostile, never kicks, bites or rears, she just remains within a shell, remote.

My job will be to reach her, to get her to trust me, to let me lead her out of her remote place of mental survival and into a full relationship with me and other humans. To help her learn to trust again, to learn to breathe and relax.

I will take you on this journey with me, reader, for you to learn as I do, the language of learning and growing and pain and recovery. For my horse and for me, an adult survivor of physical abuse.