Nidan Essay: There’s No Waiting

“There’s your trot.”

Mark stood in the center of the south end of the arena, near the barn. His long oilskin duster and cowboy hat seemed out of time with the black boom mic he was wearing. His moment-by-moment feedback reached me via the PA sitting on the tailgate of his truck.

“Too late. Circle until she comes back to a walk.”

Sabrina was a beautiful, solid black mare – my first horse – half Friesian, half Morgan, with rockstar hair and an energetic, bouncy way of going. She was powerful, smart, and gorgeous. She and I alternately walked and trotted along the rail of my friend’s big arena. The west side overlooked the long mountain grade down toward San Diego. On a clear day you’d be able to see the ocean, 50 miles west.

A couple dozen folks – other participants in the horsemanship clinic, or auditors just there to watch and learn – looked on from a deck off the barn at the south end, bundled in Carhartt jackets and warming their hands on mugs of hot coffee.

I had been struggling with Sabrina taking off with me right from the beginning. She would launch into her big trot. I’d try to get her to walk. She’d toss her head and swish her tail – signs of frustration. This was how it always went. We were in a seemingly constant battle between her wanting to go faster and me wanting to go slower. I didn’t mind speed, but I felt I didn’t have control, and so I didn’t feel safe going out on rides. Well into my 30s I’d finally gotten the horse I’d dreamed of since childhood, and now I couldn’t ride her.

I had been through two trainers, taking lessons with each for months, working on this. I’d been advised to use a stronger bit to force her to listen to me, “show her who was boss,” “not let her get away with that disobedience.” But Sabrina was a sweet-natured horse without an ounce of malice in her. Force and domination was not the answer. I knew that much, at least. In desperation I’d forked over the painfully large sum of $425 to spend an hour each day for four days working with this guy I’d heard about, Mark Rashid.

“There! Did you feel her walk speed up? That’s when it happens. That’s when you need to address it.”

It was my first time working with Mark, although I’d read a few of his books and liked what he had to say. As modest and self-effacing as they come, he seemed to be a magician when it came to fixing problems with horses. Or more often, problems with their people.

“Nope. Just circle and try again.”
“Feel that?”

No, I really didn’t feel it. Not at first. But over and over, until I could feel it on my own, Mark called out when he saw her intent building to break into a trot. Maybe her ears would prick forward slightly, her head would come up, she’d pick up the pace a little. She was, in essence, asking if it would be OK to trot now. My timing was off in answering: “Not now, thanks. Please keep walking.” When I failed to notice the signs, she’d start into a lovely fast, rhythmic trot. Naturally she’d get frustrated when I’d then pull her right back to a walk. “But I asked… and you said… dammit.”

“There it is.
“Circle until she’s walking again.”

At first we’d only get a few strides before she’d start into a forward, determined trot. Then maybe 100 feet. Then the whole long side of the arena.

“That’s it.”
“Yes. Good.”

Not even halfway through my first session we were walking the entire distance around the arena. No head-tossing. No tail-swishing. And that was that. It didn’t take months of progressive training and repetitive practice. Just a new awareness and better timing. The problem I’d been working on so long was just gone.

“Great. Now, what do you want to work on for the rest of the weekend?”




A decade or so later – another horse, another clinic, in another arena with Mark.

“There’s your problem right there.”

Rainy was a big goofball. Imagine a 1,600-pound black and white puppy who always wants to play. He was half Percheron, young and athletic. Feet not quite the size of dinner plates. Maybe salad plates. He was big. Big enough that you’d think he wouldn’t have been afraid of much. But Rainy would get scared at a little rustle in the grass every now and again and bolt, heading for the hills, bucking and snorting. I’d been dumped more than a few times. We weren’t safe on the trail.

Mark spotted the problem the moment I entered the arena, with Rainy following at the end of a soft purple and teal lead rope. I stopped walking, but Rainy kept going until his nose bumped into my back, then he stayed right there behind me, breathing in my ear. The big dufus.

“There’s where your bolting starts.”

I have always been a cat person. One simply doesn’t order animals around. I had set a few boundaries for Rainy, and he’d respected those. But bumping me with his nose? He was just being a goober, right? Wrong. Mark explained that Rainy, like most horses, was looking for clear guidance. I wasn’t providing it. I wasn’t being the calm, reassuring presence that would let him relax about those scary sounds in the grass. “You’re with me. We’re fine. Don’t you worry about that.”

Again the root of the issue was in my not noticing a problem was developing until things “got a little Western.” Mark coached me on being in charge right from the beginning, and then keeping that connection alive. He wanted me to give direction for the littlest things – where to stand, when to move, how fast to walk. I was to set and reinforce boundaries. Consistent, clear, direct. It felt mean-spirited to me. Discipline for the sake of discipline. Nit-picking. But I trusted Mark, and what I’d been doing on my own sure wasn’t working. So I tried doing as he said, but it was really hard for me.

Later that weekend, after all the rides were done for the day, Mark asked me if I’d heard of Aikido. He suggested that training in that martial art – which focuses on connection with one’s partner rather than fighting – might help me with my horsemanship.




Another ten years… I was at the dojo preparing for my nidan exam – 2nd-degree black belt, training with a friend who is my mentor, with other senior students, and with junior students, too. There were common themes in their feedback.

“There’s no waiting in Aikido,” they’d say, reminding me of one of Sensei’s mantras.

“Go in before their strike develops force.”

I have heard this feedback so often. You’d think it might sink in eventually. It’s like I need to learn it all over again in each new context.

“Take out the pauses.”
“Keep the connection throughout.”

At the dojo we often train slowly, step by step, from static attacks. Kihon waza. Basic technique. But mastering basic, methodical movements is not the goal. Consider studying music. Playing perfect scales with perfect timing is not what we are trying to achieve. That exercise is only part of the learning process. We ultimately want to perform evocative music with expression and feeling. We may add syncopation, vary the tempo, bend notes. At some point the rules change, and there’s no big sign with flashing lights to tell us to let go of what we’ve been practicing and open up to a more natural expression.

“Take my partner’s balance and don’t give it back? In this technique, too?” “Go in and meet each attacker even with weapons?” “But, but, but…” “That’s not the way I learned it.” “I thought I was supposed to…” “Dammit!” I know these things. (Well, most of them.) I just wasn’t practicing them. Working with the kids, working with beginners, that’s valuable training, but in many ways contrary to the energy I needed to bring to my Aikido now.

“Bigger! Continuous! Be early! Stay close! Enter deeply! No stopping! Relax! Follow through! Breathe!” I joked that I should get these tattooed on my forearm as reminders.

“Move in as soon as you feel their intention.”

It was so frustrating. Like everything I thought I knew was wrong. I know, I know, “the purpose of today’s training is to overcome yesterday’s understanding,” but this was getting ridiculous.

I’d try to run through a few techniques, and each one became a project. So. Frustrating. I wanted to be refining and polishing for my test. Instead it felt like I was slipping backward, having to re-learn everything from a new perspective.

One day I’d meant to breeze through some familiar weapons take-aways. Instead after 15 minutes I was still working on the first one, the simplest technique. My partner patiently attacked again and again with a straight, smooth strike. Trying to hit me in the head with a heavy wooden sword, or bokken. All I had to do was grab between his hands and turn out of the way as the strike came down, sending him into a forward roll and keeping the bokken. I’d done it a thousand times.

“You were late. Try again.”
“You don’t have to be faster. Be earlier.”

I was beyond annoyed with myself by now. I couldn’t seem to get it. I was intimidated, jumpy. I’d flinch. I’d duck out. Too far away and I couldn’t connect with his center. Not in soon enough and the energy of the strike was gone before I could redirect it into the throw.

For a moment I stamped around in a circle and cursed my own ineptitude. “Dammit, dammit, dammit! Why can’t I do this?” Then I shook it off and took a few deep breaths. “Hmm…” I turned back to my partner with a completely different look in my eyes. “Again.”

He raised the bokken and I was already moving in on the line of attack, hand reaching up between his. As his strike came down I pivoted and dropped, extending my energy forward. He flew across the mat.

“Yes! That!”

I didn’t let my focus waver. He came back at me and I was under the bokken and following it down, taking his balance just as the strike should have connected. Again and again, giggling and giddy by now, I took the weapon and sent him rolling away.

“Yes, keep doing whatever you’re doing.”
“What changed?”

Before, I had been coming from the perspective of dealing with an attacker, avoiding being hit, trying to get the timing right. Now instead, I tried on the perspective of “Hey, that’s my bokken you’ve got there!” And I just took it. No drama, no fear, no struggle. “That’s mine. Thanks for bringing it to me.”

It was a moment of that same magic Mark could bring to working with a horse and rider, only this time I was the magician. *poof* Problem solved.

Ultimately the solution wasn’t a matter of practicing drills to get my feet to move more quickly, or learning perfect timing through intense focus or endless repetition. Instead it was about approaching the situation in an entirely new way. Not about doing different, but being different. Coming from a confident, centered place of calm, welcoming acceptance.

I took that feeling into other techniques, and then into the rhythm of my training in general, and it worked. When I can remember that state of being – and not fall into old habits of feeling attacked and reactive – it naturally leads to a better outcome.


“Don’t ask how to do this.
Ask who you need to be where this is possible.”

~ Robert Nadeau Shihan



I have gotten feedback since the beginning that I tend to be cautious, tentative, careful. I’ve worked and worked on it. And yet…

“It’s like you’re afraid you’re going to hurt us.”
“Stop holding back”
“We can take care of ourselves. Do the technique!”

It was echoed in how I was managing my training opportunities.

“Be greedy.”
“We are here to support you.”
“Ask for what you need.”

If ever there were “on the mat” coaching that could be taken out into the world, this was it. I just didn’t recognize it until the last moment.

This is another lesson I keep having to learn.

I feel like this time it is sinking in.

I can see the lifelong pattern – hanging back, waiting, being understanding – from looking out for my sister and caring for my grandparents, to defining requirements and managing projects. I am the one everyone can count on to get things done. No slip-ups. No drama.

Be strong. Be capable. Be reliable. Do the grunt work now, and maybe you’ll get a more challenging role someday. Don’t ask for help. Shun recognition. Don’t consider your own needs. Others come first. And whatever you do, make it look effortless. Be invisible.

One begins to internalize these messages. It became my place to help out, to be good, to support. To hold back on going after what was important to me. To not even think about what was important to me.

Patience can be a virtue. Consideration of others is honorable. But always hanging back and waiting is self-destructive.

Waiting for permission.
Waiting to be asked.
Waiting for the right time.

When I’ve fallen into that pattern it has not worked out well for me. I’ve been passed over for opportunities. But habits can be hard to break.

Being clear about what I want? Asking for what I need? That is a very uncomfortable place for me. It’s asking Sabrina to stay at the walk. It’s telling Rainy to keep a polite distance. It’s asking for the role I want, delegating, saying no. It’s hard. But it’s important.

It’s reaching unflinchingly into that strike. “I’ll take that – it’s mine.”

I don’t need permission.
I can ask for what I need.
Now is the right time.

There’s no waiting.



After a Firestorm

After a Firestorm
By Linda Eskin

Flat gray rings of former trees dapple the black hills.
Angry chainsaw growls and purposeful shouting replace the stunned silence.
A charred oak sounds like a truckload of lumber when it falls.
Front loaders and roll-off bins gather out of nowhere like vultures around a carcass.

Your home was spared, or it wasn’t.
Dozens of friends lost theirs.
Whole neighborhoods are just gone.

You will rebuild, or you won’t.
You may live in a trailer on your land for years.
You’ll deal with insurance, your architect, building permits, contractors,
Or take the money and move on.

Your neighbors will stay, or they won’t.
You will cry and laugh together.
We are OK, and that’s all that matters.
It was just stuff.
But it was your stuff.
Share a take-out meal at a folding table and tell your stories.

Everyone will have a story.
Trauma hammers memories into our minds. Vivid, indelible.
Everyone will tell you their story. They will need to tell it.
You will need to tell yours, too. You will tell it a hundred times.

One day next week a friend will venture onto a familiar trail.
They will see still-smoldering stumps and the remains of animals trapped by the flames.
They will see a panoramic vista where dense Manzanita and Ceanothus once grew.
They will see an ending, and a beginning.

One day next month it will rain, just a little.
The air will smell like water on a dying campfire.
Cold, wet ashes.

Then it will be dry again.
A strong wind will blow and the air will turn gray.
Not brown like smoke. Not white like fog.
Something you have never seen before.
Fine gray ash swirled up into the air.

The holidays will come.
They will be an inconvenience. Celebrations will be simple and sincere.
Someone will put up lights out of sheer defiance.
“The fire will not ruin my holiday spirit!”
Those who can will host dinners for displaced friends.

One day this winter it will rain, a lot.
With nothing to hold the soil the mud will flow into stream beds blocked by debris.
There will be warning of mudslides and flash floods.
You will stay out of low-lying areas.

Communities will go dormant.
The annual parade, the horse club fun show, the scout troop outing.
No one will have the time or energy.
The mailing list on someone’s computer will be lost, along with their house.
Decades of history, club records, newsletters, group equipment, supplies – all erased.
Like the Manzanita and Ceanothus in the hills,
And the scorched hedge by your driveway,
Some of these will sprout again from their seemingly-dead roots.
Water them when you can – the rituals and the hedge – they may come back.

Soon the light green of new grasses will appear on the hills.
Fresh 2x4s will outline walls and roofs of new homes.

Next year, in the fall, you will see a quality of light,
You will hear a siren or a shout, feel a dry, warm breeze.
Your gut will tighten and your breath will catch in your throat.
At first you won’t know why.
The year after that when it happens, you’ll know.

A decade from now the mountains will be green,
Alive again with meadows, deer, and tall trees.
Black Halloween skeletons of oaks will stand guard over the new growth,
As if to remind the exuberant youngsters of their mortality.

Many years from now, when you are old, mention the fires,
and someone will tell you their story.

Linda Eskin is a writer in San Diego County. She normally writes about the non-violent, non-competitive Japanese martial art of Aikido. Her blog, Grab My Wrist, is about connection, mindfulness, and the pursuit of mastery. She has been affected by several major wildfires, starting with the Kitchen Creek/Laguna Fire in 1970, and has assisted in large animal rescue operations.  You can read Linda’s story about the 2003 Cedar Fire here.

How Is It Already August? (or, On Turning 55)

Last Tuesday we flipped the dojo calendar to the new month, and I or someone said something to the effect of “How is it already August?” That line has been rattling around in my brain for a week, gathering energy and ideas. Today is my 55th birthday.  Yesterday morning I woke up to all these random lines coalescing into a country/rock song, of all things. So I wrote it down. It doesn’t have much of a tune yet, except bits in my head. Maybe I’ll write it down one of these days. On reading it, it seems a bit depressing. But it’s more an urgent call to action. Hurry! There’s no time to waste.


How Is It Already August?
(or, On Turning 55)

By Linda Eskin

The calendar up on the kitchen wall
Shows it’s time to turn another page.

We wonder how the time can seem to crawl
Yet suddenly we reach a certain age!


I started the year
With big visions and goals.
And now those ideas all seem
Shot full of holes.

Months ahead seemed to be
Limitless and wide open.
Filled with potential,
As though I’d just woken.

We’d go camping and swimming,
Hang out with our friends.
Every week we’d go hiking.
The fun never ends!

But whatever happened to April and June?
We haven’t see rainfall in many a moon.
Solstice is past and the nights’ getting longer.
And I’d hardly noticed the heat getting stronger.

How is it already August?


I thought that by now
I’d be farther along.
I thought I’d be smarter,
I thought I’d be strong.

Meant to go for a hike,
Meant to go the beach.
And writing my books
Always seems out of reach.

Trading hours for money
Things get in the way.
If I want to get moving
Guess I’d best start today!

Good times in life don’t stand still ’til were ready
And while we’re distracted time’s progress is steady
At the beginning the year seemed so long.
I was just getting started, now it’s more than half gone.

And how is it August already?


I breathe in and it’s March
Let it out, it’s July
The months disappear
In the blink of an eye

The days fly by quickly
Like miles on a long drive;
We’re at 221
Out of 365.


We’re all getting old,
Living under the gun.
Now’s the time to be bold,
And start getting things done

Soon we’ll see pumpkins,
Then turkeys and elves.
But when the ball finally drops
We’re alone with our selves.

Whatever happened to the rest of the year?
Can you believe that we’re already here?
The high sun is bright and the hot days are long
But I’ve hardly found time just to write down this song

How is it already August?


The calendar up on the kitchen wall
Shows it’s time to turn another page.

Copyright © 2017, Linda Eskin. Please share freely by linking to this post. All other uses by written permission only.

Cedar Fire – San Diego County, 2003

In the quiet hours before dawn 13 years ago I got a call from my friend Sandra. She lives in the community just up the hill from us. She could see flames to the north. The weather was hot and dry – common here in the fall, and perfect for wildfires. As horse people living at the edges of open space we were especially wary. My equestrian friends know to keep our eyes open, fuel tanks full, trailer hooked up, and rig parked facing the way out. In a fire there might not even be time to turn around.

The fire came right to the edge of our neighborhood, and we had to evacuate. Twice. The first time it was with embers raining down on us. Emergency services were overwhelmed. There was no warning, no orders to evacuate. We figured it out when we saw the fire top the hill behind us. We never even heard sirens. There was no help on the way. I think this is one of the things that was so unsettling for everyone who went through that experience. We like to think we have systems in place that will keep us safe. Nope. Not in conditions like this. We are on our own, and we have to look out for each other.

This was back before smart phones with cameras. Nobody was posting “I’m safe” updates on Facebook. There was no live online map. We had TV (utterly useless because of stupid reporting – which is still the case today), AM news radio (the only really helpful thing) with their news ‘copter and listeners calling in updates, phones (sometimes), and each other.

Ultimately the Cedar Fire burned over 280,000 acres, destroyed over 2,500 homes and other buildings, and killed 14 people. [CDF Cedar Fire summary.] AND there were two other major fires in the county at the same time. If you want to learn more about the fires, see maps, etc. check out this CDF report:  The 2003 San Diego County Fire Siege – Fire Safety Review. According to that report, “… the Cedar fire was estimated to have consumed 5,000 acres per hour within a 40-hour period.”

During the rest of fall and winter that year every time it rained the air smelled like water thrown on a campfire. When the weather was dry and the wind blew there would be a gray haze of stale ash in the air. People and horses suffered respiratory issues. Flooding from water running off the bare soil was a problem.

It was scary and exhausting. We didn’t lose anything, but still … When the light is right this time of year, or the wind blows a certain way, I still get jumpy. Mention the fire to anyone who went through it and you’ll get stories. And they’ll get a knot in their gut. The memories are fresh and raw.

One fall evening the following year I was out in the horse pen with Eeyore, our little donkey. He was a sensitive soul described by his vet as “highly emotional.” He was trotting back and forth, glancing anxiously up the hill into our neighbor’s yard. I looked, expecting to spot a dog or coyote, but couldn’t see anything. Everything about Eeyore was saying “Look! Danger! We need to get out of here!” I finally understood what he was trying to get me to notice. Smoke! The neighbors were having a fire in their fireplace, and the smoke was hugging the ground and wafting between their trees. Poor Eeyore was sure it was happening all over again. I assured him things were OK, and that he was safe, but I knew where he was coming from.

A couple of weeks after the fire, when things calmed down and the flames were mostly out, I wrote about our experience. That was back before I had a blog. I posted it on my website, which I’ve since redone, removing the article. Here it is again, with a few [bits of new information] added:

The Cedar Fire, October 2003

Michael & Linda Eskin

(Written in early November, 2003.)

Now that things have calmed down a bit I can finally write up a summary of our fire adventure. I hope I got most of the facts right – between the chaos and the lack of sleep some parts are kinda fuzzy. Please forgive typos, etc. Things are still a mess here, so this was done in a hurry.

A photo of the El Cajon valley and surrounding mountains on Sunday evening – we did not take this photo, and do not know the source. If you have any information about it, please contact me, so that I can post proper attribution (or remove it, as the photographer sees fit):

El Cajon Valley, Crest on the Right - Cedar Fire 2003
El Cajon Valley, Sunday, October 26th, 2003
[We live near the right-hand edge of the photo, at the base of that burning hill. Just above us is the community of Crest, where my friend Sandra lives. It’s that bright spot that’s on fire. Her house was saved.]

Our Story

Sandra, a friend from Crest, woke us up with news of the fire on Sunday at 4:30 a.m. – she could see flames from her back window. We checked the news, and found it was quite a ways off. She got down here with her animal carrier and bolt cutters, while I fed, topped off water, and made sure our halters and lead ropes were on the gate. She and I took off in my truck and trailer to see what we could do.

Our Equids - Clementine, Sabrina, and Eeyore - Cedar Fire 2003
Wells Park in El Cajon, Monday Morning
[This was the morning after our first evacuation. These three were ours: Clementine, Sabrina, and Eeyore.]

We offered help to a few folks in Lakeside, but they were riding out ’cause their horses wouldn’t load. We saw them later – they got out OK. We also had to pass up a donkey in a field, whose owner had told the others there that it was mostly wild – they couldn’t even catch him. I heard later about a singed donkey, and I sure wish I’d at least given it a try – I’m pretty good with donkeys who “won’t load”. I don’t know if he’s the one who was injured, or not.

We heard Blossom Valley was on fire, and ended up taking two colts from there, as flames came down the hill across the road. Whoever handed them to us didn’t know them, just said they went together. They loaded pretty well, considering – the baby walked in, and the yearling took a little shoving and placing of feet, but it only took about 5 minutes. Since the Lakeside Rodeo Grounds were full (and very chaotic), we took them to my place, where we thought they’d be safe.

Brown's Castle (house) Before and After - Cedar Fire 2003

“Browns Castle,” [a locally-famous mansion] before and after the fire.

The smaller one unloaded in a huge leap, and landed right on Sandra, who now has a small, but very colorful hoofprint on her leg. Michael got it on video, of course. LOL I think it was the first time the colts had seen donkeys, ’cause they looked at ’em kinda funny, but didn’t get upset. In fact, the only thing that upset these guys, with all they’d been through, was after we finally got home, and I tried to fly-spray them. We were very lucky to have gotten colts (ungelded) who’d been worked with so well, and were so good-tempered. (The folks in the trailer ahead of us had gotten a very cantankerous pinto stud, with just a neck rope!)

An aside about what was happening County-wide … We’ve had no rain for 175+ days, on the heels of a long-term drought. We were in the midst of a Santa Ana, where dry (3-4% humidity) winds blow in from the desert. Prime fire weather. The general sense of the news reports was that there was no stopping this fire, and no help on the way, so you’re on your own. Don’t wait for announcements – no one is coming for you – just get out if you think you might be in danger. Entire neighborhoods were going up, with no fire equipment to be seen, and nothing ever mentioned in a news report. People were banding together to cut brush, put out spot fires, and save homes. When we got the colts home, and I called a few places to see where animals were being evacuated to, I was told they were so busy with the other areas that nothing was arranged in our area. Everything was stretched so thin there was just no way to deal with the magnitude of the situation.

We went up to Crest to check on Sandra’s horses, but things looked better up there than they did here, so we left them for the time being. At least she has a big pipe corral – ours is plastic fencing. Shortly after I got back down the hill, she called saying her area was being evacuated. I tried to get back up there, but just as the sheriffs were moving the barricades aside they got word it was coming up from Harbison Canyon, and made me turn back.

Two Colts from Blossom Valley - Cedar Fire 2003

Two Colts from Blossom Valley

On the way down the hill I picked up a horse, and the guy who’d been leading him. His friends were all riding down the side of La Cresta Road (long, steep road with no shoulders, and the only way out, at that point.) I kept his horse here until his friends arrived, just as it was getting dark. They rode / walked down to the high school, and warned us to get out, ’cause the fire was headed our way.

Meanwhile, Michael packed up his car with all of his instruments, and he got all the important paperwork together. We rounded up the cats, including a neighbor’s cat, and locked them in the house, just in case.

We fiddled for a while, discussing decision points and contingency plans, but when the fire crested the hill behind us we figured we’d better bail right now. I switched my computer off, grabbed the external drive where I back up my data. We shoved the four cats into two carriers – they don’t get along, but they’d have to figure it out. Michael loaded his car with instruments, paperwork, and, the cats. Flashlights, check… Cell phone… Horse feed and meds, cat food… We each threw a few days of clothes in our vehicles. We grabbed whatever food was handy. Water was already in my truck.

Michael with Eeyore & Clementine at the Boys' & Girls' Club - Cedar Fire 2003

Michael, After a Harrowing 36 Hours.
[This was in the fenced playground of the Boys’ & Girls’ Club in El Cajon]

Sabrina and Clementine went in the first trailer load – Eeyore declined our invitation to get in the trailer, so we left him for the second load. We headed to Wells Park, in the middle of urban El Cajon, because the smoke was so thick. Plus, it was getting dark, and we couldn’t figure out how to get into Granite Hills High School’s fields. Just as well, since it was packed with motor homes and horse trailers, and it looked like they might have to be evacuated next.

Michael called my parents, who live in Pacific Beach, and they came right out to help. So did our friend Mark. My mom and Michael watched Sabrina and Clementine (who were tied to trees, pawing and gnawing on bark), while my dad and I went back to get Eeyore and the colts.

Eeyore hadn’t wanted to go the first time, but now, with fire roaring down the hills behind us, a hot wind, and embers in the air, he rethought the situation. He’s usually hard to catch, and hates trailers, but this time he was waiting at the gate, and stuck his nose right in the halter. He and I ran to the trailer, and he got right in. His first time loading into the front stall (without Sabrina already in the trailer). He didn’t even flinch when I slammed the divider, and he waited quietly while we got the babies on-board. He was all but hollering “Drive, already!” Smart donkey. Difficult, but smart.

The bigger colt didn’t want to load. Can’t blame him … But it was getting downright scary, and my dad was starting to wonder if maybe we should just put him back in the pen and hope for the best. As a last resort, I got behind the colt (who was still calm, just not loading), and blasted him in the butt with water from the hose. (It was hot out, so it wasn’t like he was going to get chilled.) After about 20 seconds of indignation and dancing around, he jumped in the trailer, and we shut the doors.

Evacuated - At the Boys' & Girls' Club - Cedar Fire 2003

Safe Harbor at the Boys & Girls Club

At the park, after trying a few things, we ended up with everyone tied to they trailer (‘cept Clem – she got a lamppost), and waited it out. Considering that we had an impatient mare, two donkeys, and two ungelded colts we didn’t know, we had a pretty easy time of it. They did not paw or fuss (much). Sabrina thought the colts were the handsomest studs she’d ever laid eyes on [notice her gaze in the photo above], and spent the night flirting from her side of the trailer.

Mark helped with the critters at the park, and did a shopping run for water dishes for the cats, corn oil for Sabrina (especially important when she is stressed), and some food and water.

All 5 Equids in Boys' & Girls' Club Playground - Cedar Fire 2003

All five critters in the playground.

A neighbor of the park, Lorenzo, I think, a Nez Pierce Indian, with a soft spot for horses, came by to see if he could help, and ended up bringing us a big water jug so we could transport water (we only had about 20 gallons with us). People saw us camped out in the parking lot and brought us coffee, or offered to bring food (we’d packed enough apples and almonds for several days). An El Cajon police officer circled by to check on us a few times. A carful of teenagers who’d been evacuated from Alpine stopped by to be sure we were OK. Even the homeless people who live in the park were friendly and offered to help.

Once we got settled in, we let my mom and dad, and Mark, go home (around 1 a.m.). We slept (sorta…) in shifts, me, on the tailgate of my truck, and Michael in his car, making sure the critters didn’t get loose, or tangled in their lead ropes, passing out handfuls of hay, bringing buckets around… We each probably got an hour or two of rest.

In the morning our neighborhood looked safe. All the hills above us had burned already. So, thinking the animals would be safer at home than standing on pavement in a parking lot, we went back, making two trips. As we were leaving the park, two guys in rec center t-shirts came over and offered to let us use the fenced play area behind the Boys & Girls Club. Turns out we were going to need it.

Just after we returned home, and were hosing down the yard in case any embers remained, CDF (California Department of Forestry) came by and evacuated the neighborhood again. This time it was “if the wind shifts” that we’d be in trouble, so it wasn’t quite the same urgency as the first time. Nobody wanted to go, least of all Eeyore (who doesn’t care for adventures), and Michael, who by this time was feeling pretty awful with the flu. We were all exhausted. Nevertheless … Off we went again.

Shadow Mountain after the Cedar Fire in 2003

Shadow Mountain, and Crestridge Reserve
[As seen from our backyard.]

This time we left the cats in the house, thinking their chances were pretty good, and knowing how miserable they would be, two to a carrier, back at the park. Again I left with Clementine and Sabrina, with Michael following in his car. This time we headed straight for the Boys & Girls Club. One of the guys there understood horses, and put us up in their fenced playground, which had about 1′ of wood chips for footing. After the parking lot, this felt like a resort. My parents came back out to help with the animals, so we could take a nap!

On the second trip, this time Eeyore figured he’d be better off staying in his pen. He heard some strange voices out front (neighbors filling water buckets for us), and decided he’d rather brave the fire. We could *not* get him near the trailer, never mind going in. My dad and I came back for him, and after a few rope burns, and getting dumped on the ground once, we gave up for the time being, and resolved to come back later for him.

The older colt (18 months) in the playground.When Eeyore is left alone, he doesn’t hang out quietly. Instead, he runs the fenceline frantically, hee-hawing mournfully, in a panic. He probably would’ve been OK staying there, if he were a calmer sort, but I was afraid he’d colic from being upset (he certainly won’t drink when he’s like that). Besides, that kind of exertion in thick smoke is really bad for the lungs.

Eeyore Back Home, Charred Hills in the Background - Cedar Fire 2003

Eeyore in His Pen, with Charred Hillside
[The white spots are piles of ash where trees or larger shrubs used to be.]

We gave him a few hours to calm down, took a nap, and came back again. This time I asked my dad to wait out front, and be very quiet – just be there for safety’s sake. I took some carrots to Eeyore, caught him, and convinced him we were just going for a nice friendly little walk. One… step… at… a… time… 200′ through the backyard. We got just through the front gate, where the trailer was, and Eeyore saw through the plot. Just as he was turning to head back to his pen I took a wrap with his lead rope around a fence post by the front gate. Ha! Then I closed and locked the gate. What they say is true about closing the barn in the fire, after you’ve gotten the horses out, so they can’t run back in.

Once Eeyore was stuck in the front yard all it took were a couple of apples, some long ropes, and patience, and he was finally in the trailer. We got him back to the playground with his buddies, and could finally relax a little. Our friends Eric and Sarah came to help out (and brought food!).

Since the fire wasn’t an imminent threat, Michael was able to stop by the house to check on things, and take a shower. Some neighbors of the Boys & Girls club came by to see if we needed help. They offered to let us use their phones, bathrooms, water, power… We were pretty self-sufficient for camping out, but I did take up an offer of a shower in a nearby vacant apartment – the managers, a very nice young couple, left it open all night in case we needed to use it.

Although the playground was fenced and relatively horse-safe, we kept the critters each tied to their own fence post. One flirtatious mare, two donkeys, and two colts could’ve have way too much fun in there running loose. As it was, they were digging to China in the deep wood chips. I left their ropes longer, and tied lower, than I knew was safe, but I knew they would all want to lie down – they’d all been on their feet for 36 hours. One of the colts did get tangled, and fell, but I got him loose within minutes (he just laid there and waited for help).

Older of Two Colts - Cedar Fire 2003

The Older of the Two Colts

Aside from a few more minor interruptions, we slept, on the picnic tables, on saddle pads from about 8 p.m. to 5 a.m. Many thanks to Mom, who brought sleeping bags and pillows!

I’m sure the folks in the neighboring apartment buildings must’ve thought dinosaurs had moved in, when the donks started hollering for breakfast at oh-dark-hundred. It really echoed between the buildings, too! We got everybody fed (soaked pellets – we’d run out of hay the afternoon before), packed our things, and cleaned the place up as best we could. Michael went out and brought back some sort of fast food breakfast, including fried french toast sticks, which we wouldn’t have touched on a normal day, but gosh, was it good that morning. We were just leaving with the second load when the Club folks showed up for work. I want to send them a “Thank you for saving our asses” note, with a photo of Clem and Eeyore in their playyard, but probably ought to think of something more appropriate for the kids.

Michael has all his instruments back in order. I’ve got the truck and trailer washed, and the cat carriers brought in. We eventually got together with the owner of the colts – they’d been evacuated from Eucalyptus Hills once already before we took them out of Blossom Valley. At least they load good now! We took a heaping pickup-full of towels, blankets, pillows, tools, buckets, chairs, etc. to Crest, for the hundreds of burned-out folks there.

Tomorrow I’m hauling some friends’ horses to their temporary home – theirs was one that burned. So far we know of one friend who was lost – Ashleigh Roach, an Irish dancer. Michael played at her wake. Many friends lost their homes – at least 4 in Crest, 3 in Harbison Canyon, 1 on Mussey Grade Road, the Roaches, in Valley Center, one friend lost her ranch in Lakeside, and her ankle was broken when one of her draft horses stepped on her. I’m sure we’ll hear about more – many areas don’t have power or phone service yet. Many others lost outbuildings, fences, vehicles… Most of our State Park facilities are gone, including the Los Caballos and Los Vaqueros horse camps. [The impact of this fire on the equestrian community was huge. People were still recovering physically, financially, and emotionally for years. Some moved away. Many of us tried for over a decade to get access and trails and facilities restored for public use, with limited success.]

If you weren’t here, or don’t know the area, it’s hard to imagine the scale of this disaster. Everywhere you go, all the hills are burned – not just patches where there was “a fire”. Out back, the hills near us are black, and the hills in the distance, and the mountains beyond them. It was (is, actually, it’s still burning) the biggest fire in California history, and it moved unbelievably fast through nearly every community in East County.

A lost hunter started the Cedar Fire by lighting three signal fires in dry brush during a Santa Anna. He was rescued by helicopter, and was issued a citation.

Copyright © Linda Eskin, 2003, 2016

Update, 9 Nov. 2003 …

Helped a friend clean up her burned-out horse boarding facility. She has several steep banks, and lost all the iceplant and mulch that was helping to hold them in place. She is also having trouble getting any help. There are a lot of groups collecting money “for fire victims”, but several burned-out people I’ve spoken with are being refused help everywhere they turn. Should be interesting to see how these millions are accounted for when this all calms down.

Update, 12 Nov. 2003 …

This morning we got just over an inch of rain. That’s great for our yard, but a bit much for the fire damaged areas. There was a flash flood watch this morning. I hope people’s straw bales and sandbags are doing the trick. (The local news stations keep calling them “hay bales” <sigh>.)

For more info on the state of things here…

[At the time I posted links where people could find up-to-date information. Lists of links were a thing back then, because Google wasn’t. Most are broken now, so I’ve omitted them here, but kept the heading so you can see how things were then. ]

Channel 10 News – Slideshows with hundreds of photos:
(Anything that mentions El Cajon/Granite Hills was in our area.)

Our local paper: [The old direct link to fire info no longer works]
Photo galleries:
[There were galleries of hundreds of photos from throughout the county.]

Information of some of the people who were killed:
[Broken links.]

About Ashleigh Roach, the Irish dancer who was killed:
[Link no longer works]

Local equestrian sites, reuniting horses and owners:
[Horse clubs did tons of work caring for displaced animals and getting people connected.] [It was this site that helped us find the owners of the two foals we rescued.]

The local TV stations were virtually useless. They covered the areas in the City of San Diego, rehashed info about what had already happened and showed dramatic footage, while whole communities burned with no mention on the news.

KOGO Radio (600 AM) did a *tremendous* job getting information out about which way the fire was headed, where people could go, etc. They relied on listeners to call in with updates.

The Boys’ & Girls’ Clubs of East County, El Cajon center, took us in on Monday. They provided a safe, fenced area for the animals, and a safe place for us to camp out for the night. Their kindness and hospitality was very much appreciated. If you are looking for a good cause to support, please consider giving to them – it’s clear they do a lot of good work on a shoestring budget: <<< [This is the current link.]

Seven Years On The Mat

I started training on May 5th — Cinco de Mayo — in 2009. Seven years on the mat, as of today.

On one hand, it’s gone by in a flash. I remember like it was last week how nervous I was walking into the dojo for my first class. I can see the space I parked in. I know which shoes I wore. I can still hear the conversations, and can feel what it was like being at the back corner of the mat with another new student when someone took us aside to teach us to roll. It’s like no time has passed.

On the other hand, everything is different now. My outlook on life, my health, my careers, what my days look like. So many vivid memories from classes, tests, and seminars. So many new friends! Thinking of the time before I started training it feels like I’m looking back at someone else’s life. And I still get excited about stepping onto the mat.

Aikido of San Diego - Group Photo - 15 August 2009

The Aikido of San Diego crew, after Johnathon Purcell’s sho-dan exam
At the old Alvarado Canyon Road location, 15 August, 2009.

It’s all still so new! No class is ever just the same old drill. Earlier this week Sensei taught the whole hour on one simple technique (yeah, simple, ha…) that I’ve done hundreds of times. It’s not that I was “doing it wrong” before, but I learned so much in that hour — about the mechanics of the technique, the feel of allowing it to happen in a more relaxed way, and more broadly, about how I’d been approaching things recently. The depth of Aikido is remarkable.

Today Amanda Laurick, an Aikido friend from Seattle, shared this brilliant quote:

“You have to play a long time to be able to play like yourself.”
~ Miles Davis

As she pointed out, it’s true of Aikido as well. I feel like I’m just getting started.

My Blog, Evolving

Blog Topic Pie Chart - Aikido, Writing, Body, and Life

When I started writing here, I wrote exclusively about Aikido. As time has gone on – over six years now – it’s become more and more difficult to differentiate what is Aikido from what is not. The poem about the November afternoon light streaming through the high window at the back of the dojo? A report I read about the cognitive benefits of practicing complex movements with a partner? The story about calmly changing my plans at the last minute, because the circumstances changed?

I find myself filtering. This belongs, that doesn’t. But Aikido influences everything in my life, and everything in my life influences my Aikido. It’s all interconnected.

To reflect this, I will be more inclusive about what I write here. I may discuss an realization from last week’s class with Sensei, something I learned about alignment and grounding while moving a heap of wood chips with our little orange Kubota tractor, or a brilliant comment by one of the young people in our children’s program. I may post about my work as a fitness professional, research supporting Aikido as a healthy activity, or my own progress in strength training.

Photography, sketches, and poems? Yes, of course. When I write about the black-crested Phoebe perched on the splintered handle of the overturned plastic wheelbarrow, hunting insects on this wet winter morning, I will share it. Being still and observing a little bird from a place of wonder belongs here, too.

So, grab my wrist, and let’s see what happens.

Looking Ahead to 2016

Wow… As usual it’s been too long between posts. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think of (and usually jot down) at least one or two subjects to write on. Alas. 2015 didn’t include much space for writing. This year – 2016 – will be a year of writing, a year of training, a year of working, and a year of doing.

This post is what has been rattling around in my mind as we’ve wrapped up the old year and moved into the new one. It’s probably of no significance to anyone other than myself, but if you’re inclined to do so, grab a cup of tea and come along for the ride.

Looking back at the past two years – 2014 and 2015 – it’s been easy to feel like I didn’t accomplish much. But now I see they were a time for preparation. For laying groundwork.

In 2014 Michael and I – well, mostly our very skillful contractor, Randy Metevier – renovated our 1960s house. I did most of the planning, purchasing, and scheduling, and some of the work, including refinishing the kitchen cabinets, painting a full-room mural, and planting a new garden area. Everything from the plaster inward was redone, right down to the wood paneling, the 30-year-old salmon-orange carpeting, and the poorly-designed room layouts that we couldn’t use well, and didn’t really enjoy. Now our house supports us, instead of being a constant source of irritation.

In 2014 I trained for almost the whole year, along with my friend and dojomate, David, in preparation for our shodan exams. We worked hard, had fun, and learned a lot about Aikido and ourselves. I continued assisting in the kids’ classes at the dojo, and training almost daily. Here and there I also worked on a couple of books, which are waiting for me to get back to them. That year I studied for, and earned my certification as a Group Fitness Instructor – physically active, sociable work to balance out my sedentary, solitary writing. I worked on building that business, creating the branding, all the online assets, networking and advertising… the usual startup work. I also did tons of learning, reading, listening, and some writing, immersing myself in the fitness profession.

In February 2015 our dojo produced the first Joshua Tree Evolutionary Aikido Retreat, a major international, live-in, 4-day event 3 hours from San Diego. It went beautifully, and we’re offering it again this year. I couldn’t make it to the O Sensei Revisited retreat at Occidental, but did get to the Aiki Retreat in Feather River. I continued training almost daily, and assisting in the children’s programs. During 2015 I also had the opportunity to lead occasional adult classes at the dojo, which I  enjoyed, and look forward to continuing in 2016.

In addition to Aikido, in January 2015 (after I had my shodan exam safely behind me) I also started training with a strength coach. Deadlifts, presses, rows, squats, chin-ups… It’s been fun and interesting, and I feel more solid and confident, especially when falling and rolling.

Over the summer of 2015 I led large group fitness classes (mostly for seniors), and discovered that while it is important and rewarding work with great people, it is also not a viable way to earn a living. One notch above volunteer work, pay-wise. I also was reminded that I don’t do mornings. No more 8 a.m. classes for me! An important lesson. Thankfully they were short-term gigs, filling in for instructors who were away for the summer months, so that spared me the awkwardness of quitting. In the fall I turned my focus to working with small groups and individuals. I studied more, and more intensively, this time to be a Certified Personal Trainer. I rebranded the business (, reworked all the assets, more networking and advertising… I established relationships with facilities where I can train clients and hold workshops. I learned more, read more, and listened more, too. I’m loving audiobooks, because I can easily “read” a book several times through over the course of a year.

While I was in the right mindset to work on websites I also totally redid this one (see my earlier post), so things are easier to find and read, and it will be more useful and enjoyable to more people.

During 2015 I got bogged down in some health issues, too – all resolved, happily.

A particularly stressed-out day had me holding my breath periodically, and that triggered supraventricular tachicardia, where one’s heart rate can shoot up suddenly with very little provocation. Turns out I can hit 230 beats per minute just walking from my desk to the kitchen! I’ll write more about that another time, but the bottom line is that it’s relatively harmless, just disconcerting, and is well controlled by a mild drug (beta blocker) that costs $2.89 for a two-month supply. But it was an exciting few months of urgent care visits, cardiologists, heart monitors, conducting fitness classes in this state, and a few times sitting out classes wondering if I’d ever be able to train again – that was the worst part.

That little cardiac adventure, plus some feedback from a mentor (“Hey, you’re not breathing! I can’t believe I never noticed that before!”) during one of my earlier shodan exam run-throughs led me to the discovery that I just don’t breathe sometimes. Not-breathing is bad thing, as it turns out. Long story short – pulmonoligist, sleep testing, and finally an APAP machine (like CPAP, but not continuous – it adjusts), plus being mindful of staying relaxed and breathing freely during waking hours, which is harder than you might think. I thought I had been sleeping OK before, but now I feel sharper, think more clearly and creatively, am more productive, and have more energy during the day. Still not a morning person, though!

And as if that weren’t enough, I also managed to get flattened by a case of giardiasis – the sickness caused by the microscopic parasite giardia. I recommend that you not try this yourself. It’s miserable, can kill you, and can leave you permanently messed up. And no, I don’t know how I got it, in spite of going over the preceding 45 days of activities and foods with the very nice lady, Peaches, from the County Health Department. Could be anything from eating salad bars in the Sierras to the fresh cilantro dressing I’d recently discovered at the market. The worst part was the fatigue, which lasted well past actually being “over” the infection. I’m sure you’ve seen very elderly people who doze off during meals or conversations. Yeah, that. If I were moving I could keep moving (for a while). If I sat still I was out like a light. I had no energy. I would sleep 10 hours, teach two hours of classes, nap for 4 hours, train at the dojo, and crash again for the night. Absolutely exhausted. That can linger for months or even years. I’m delighted to report that I got away with just a couple of months, and seem to be fine now. Miserable stuff.

So back to the good stuff…

At the end of 2015 I pulled together the last details required to begin taking on personal training clients. I determined rates and billing policies, created contracts and exercise programming forms, and designed systems for tracking clients’ progress. I planned a client training schedule that flows right around all the classes at the dojo, leaves useful spans of uninterrupted time for writing, and does not include being anywhere before noon.

Finally a solid foundation is in place, and I am ready to get down to the actual work of both training clients and writing books. *whew*

So what lies ahead? My long-term intention is to split my time about equally between writing and training clients. At the moment I do not have a full book of clients, so I’ll have a chance to do more writing in the early part of the year. The first two books will be for beginning Aikido students – adults, and children. In just a couple of weeks I’ll be participating in the San Diego Aikido Bridge Friendship Seminar – its 10th year, my 7th – and am looking forward to seeing many friends there. As we only have one retired old backyard donkey now, Clementine, I’ll be selling my F350 truck and horsetrailer ASAP, and clearing out almost all my horse tack and supplies. We’re doing the Joshua Tree Evolutionary Aikido Retreat again in February, and I’ll be helping some with organizing that. Finances permitting, I hope to be able to travel to several seminars this year. (If you know anyone in the San Diego area looking for a supportive, friendly, professional personal trainer at a gym right next door to a great Aikido dojo, send ’em my way!)

That about covers it. Time to settle in, dig down, and get to work!

Thanks for hanging out with me all this time. I hope you have a brilliant year.


Good bye, 2014. Hello, 2015.

In looking back at 2014 I see it involved a lot of completions – clearing out the old, and making room for new things – and beginnings – laying the foundations for future work. Time to head into 2015 and take advantage of all that groundwork.

Thankfully, Michael and I, and our immediate families, all stayed mostly healthy, happy, and sound all year. *whew* Plus we celebrated out 25th anniversary.

Most of the first half of the year was consumed with managing a whole-house renovation. There are still bits and pieces to be completed, but for the most part we now have a home that is much more pleasant and functional, and supports us better in our respective activities.

Throughout that time I was dealing with our donkey Eeyore’s worsening arthritis. I tried to keep him comfortable, and he had his good days, but was trending in a bad direction. Eventually, in July, we elected to give him the easy way out. Now Clementine is on her own. She was doing well, but now seems to be having trouble with tendinitis or something in her front legs. Having the vet out, again, tomorrow, to see if there’s anything we can do to help her heal and get off pain meds. Right now she’s not very happy, and I’m hoping she doesn’t follow the same trajectory as Eeyore did.

[I’m including a lot of links here because if any of this sounds like fun to to you I hope you will come out and play, too! Each link will open in a new tab, so you won’t lose your place here.]

Because of other priorities and limited finances (career transitions can be hard on one’s bank account, after all) I didn’t get to as many seminars as I would have liked. But I did participate, as usual, in the Bridge Seminar in San Diego and the O Sensei Revisited Retreat with Robert Nadeau Shihan and his senior students/instructors. Both of those are really worthwhile events, and I’m glad I was able to make it to them. Also, finally, after years of wishing, I took the train to Seattle (2 days each way!) and participated in George Ledyard Sensei’s Randori Intensive at Aikido Eastside. It was a blast. Highly recommended!

I hope to be able to do all three of those seminars again this year. Definitely the San Diego Bridge Seminar, which is in just a couple of weeks. And this year there’s a new retreat that I’m really looking forward to – the Joshua Tree Evolutionary Aikido Retreat with my teacher, Dave Goldberg Sensei (Aikido of San Diego), Patrick Cassidy Sensei (Aikido Montreux, Switzerland), and Miles Kessler Sensei (Integral Dojo, Tel-Aviv, Israel). It’s going to be a pretty spectacular event, at a historic retreat center in the Mojave Desert in February. The Aiki Summer Retreat is reported to be happening again this year, and I hope to make it to that as well.

After the house project was done I got busy studying, and passed the test for my ACE certification as a Group Fitness Instructor, then went right on to get certified to teach SilverSneakers Classic, Circuit, and Yoga classes for seniors, and began the process for offering their FLEX Community Fitness classes.

At the same time, I clarified the concept, created branding and marketing materials, and launched my company, Fit Coach Linda. Its mission is to support people in getting moving, and living active, healthy, happy lives through better connection with their own bodies, with nature, and with others. Right now I’m designing programs and materials, and arranging for venues. I should have had that up and running for New Year’s. Alas, too much to do at once. I’ll have to catch people as their resolution motivation is waning, and they realize that a supportive group environment and accountability is more likely to lead to success than determination alone. If you want to be a part of this, you can follow my Fit Coach Linda Blog  for info and inspiration for living a more active life, and also “Like” the Fit Coach Linda page on Facebook.

As always, I enjoyed training all year at Aikido of San Diego. In December I passed my shodan (blackbelt) exam. I’m looking forward to “just training” this year, and deepening my understanding and application of Aikido. The Joshua Tree Retreat will be a huge part of that, I’m sure. I didn’t meditate as much as I would have liked in 2014 – must incorporate that into my regular practice this year, too.

Between the renovations, donkeys, studying, and training, I didn’t get as much writing done as I should have. However, I was able to make tons of progress on two books (Aikido-specific, for students, to be published in the next few months), and some progress on a third (non-fiction/self-help, maybe later in 2015). Writing – actually publishing books via my other company, Shugyo Press – is my “day job,” along with the programs I’ll be teaching for Fit Coach Linda, so I need to be diligent about actually getting that work done this year.

But before any of that, today is the first day of New Year. I’ll be celebrating by heading to the gym to work with my personal trainer, Kyle, of San Diego Strength and Conditioning. A very nice guy who knows what he’s doing, and his facility is right next to the dojo. Perfect. Part of my own strategy to make 2015 an even better year.

Time Flies

If you ever want to make a year fly by, here’s how to do it.

First, anticipate that you will likely be testing for shodan at some point this year.

Next, sign up for a study course to be certified as a Group Fitness Instructor (GFI). Plan to be done with it by summer. Ready to rock in your new career. Along with your writing you can help people be healthier and happier. Buy a notebook, highlighters, and pens. Put everything in a big tote bag so you can study anywhere, even at the park. Dive into the material. For a week.

Now, decide that this is the right time to remodel the house. Drop writing studying like hot potatoes for 6 months and instead focus on choosing flooring, rearranging furniture, and picking paint colors.

Meet with Sensei, along with a friend who will also be testing, and schedule your shodan exam for December 13th. Many months away. Plenty of time to train and prepare.

Refinish the kitchen cabinets. Landscape the driveway entrance. Collaborate with the contractor. Throw a big party when it’s all done.


Check the calendar and note that if you don’t schedule your pre-paid GFI certification exam in the next 2 days you will have to pay again to schedule it later. Schedule the certification exam for Friday, October 24th – as far out as you dare without being too close to your ranking exam. Dive into the material again.

Discover that you don’t know anything that’s going to be on your shodan exam. You’ve seen and done it all before, of course, but it escapes you now. Kazushi is kaput. Ma’ai is MIA. Even your gi are all goners. Start training on Sunday afternoons with your testing partner, friends, and sempai. Take all your gi to a tailor. Train, train, train. Make progress, slowly.

Get back to working on your books.

Realize there is more to do on the house. A lot more. Only the contractor’s part is done. Try to divide your time 50/50 between studying-writing and house projects. Study and write Sundays-Wednesdays, work on the house Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.

Try to settle into a routine.

See that your elderly, arthritic donkey friend is getting worse week by week. Try everything you can to help. When that finally doesn’t work, let him go.

Get back to work.

After a few days adrift your brain starts churning out ideas again. Branding concepts, business models, marketing messaging… Blog posts resume writing themselves. Jot down ideas everywhere. Wake up inspired to write. Forget to drink coffee one morning!

Today will be about putting away all the stuff in the bedroom that’s still out after construction. And then there’s making a salad for the big dojo summer party after tomorrow’s kyu exams.

How is July almost over already?

Vale, Eeyore.


Just the thought of checking the oil in the truck feels like I’m plotting the murder of a dear old friend.

And I am.

I rarely use the truck anymore, since I gave up horses. I need to make sure it’s safe to start it. The truck and trailer are in the way. At least he won’t have to go in the trailer. He hates trailers. I think most donkeys hate trailers.

Yesterday I called the neighbors, the ones with the grandkids and the pool, to be sure they would not be around. Bible camp this week? Convenient.

My chatty neighbor is full of kind advice. “You’re doing the right thing. With our old horse… I wish we had… It’s always hard. We’ll pray for you at camp.”


And then the vet’s office. I had to schedule around other commitments. “Thursday? 9 a.m.? OK then. We’ll arrange everything. We’re so sorry.” Simple.

I hang up and cry some more.

Convenient and simple, but terrible and hard.

For years he’s had a hitch in his get-along. Arthritis. He’d stand up in the morning and cuss under his breath for minute, then shake it off and get on with his day. Just a bit of a limp in the right hind. Happy for ear rubs, excited about treats, glad for company.

We all have our aches and pains, right? I do, and I’m not ready to give up. He didn’t look ready, either.

More and more often, though, he rests lying down in the shade. His favorite place recently is under a pecan tree up the hill, where he has a view of the yard and the house, and the ground is sloped, making it easier to get up from resting. His friend munches her hay nearby, not hovering over him, but never too far off. He looks like a cat, lounging with his feet tucked under one side. Sometimes he chooses an open place in the midday sun, and stretches flat out, sunbathing as donkeys do.

Is it so bad to spend one’s later years relaxing in the shade and sunbathing?

But now I see the weeping sores on his legs from lying down so much. Generous layers of soft wood shavings may make him more comfortable – when he’s willing to lie in them at all – but they don’t help the sores.

Trusted friends give advice and sympathy. They’ve been here, too, and it never ends well. Ways to help, ways to let go. How to make it easier on his friend. Words of wisdom, shoulders to cry on.

Suggested sprays and ointments are rubbed off within the hour. Recommended bandages refuse to stay put. And he hates all of it. I decide he would prefer to be left alone and have sores than to be pestered with treatments that don’t help anyway.

Is it better to have life, with suffering, or to not exist at all? There’s a point where the scales tip. But where?

Every day I watch from the house as he buckles to his knees trying to rise from a nap in the shade, and hold my breath. He gives a mighty heave and gets to his feet, bracing wide against falling again. He makes it this time, and wanders off to nibble at his hay. But how many more times?

When will I come home and find that he’s been down for hours, exhausted from struggling in the hot summer sun? I’ve experienced that horror before. I want to spare him from it.

I see him crash to his nose one day, front legs failing him, too. I had wondered how he’d scuffed up his nose. Now I know.

He seems to do better when he takes his time. He rushes to jump up if he sees me come out the back door, so I watch out the window, waiting for him to stand on his own before going out to feed.

He stands and cusses a bit longer nowadays, tucking his leg tight to his belly. Are the muscles cramped? Is a nerve pinched? Do the sores sting?

He rubs his graying face on my jeans as he’s always done, and I’ve always let him. The seams and pockets are at just the right height for scratching an itchy forehead and eyes. He digs into his food with his usual combination of enthusiasm and desperation. He’s a fat little donkey. I think at some point in his past he went hungry, or lost the shoving matches at the feeder. He’s always afraid there won’t be enough food.

I hide his medicines in a delicious mash of soaked pelleted feed. He loves the treat, as long as he has some hay to eat along with it – it’s too mushy alone for his tastes – but the medicines might as well be inert dust for all the good they have done.

He has seen us through 3 horses and 16 years. We found him at the Humane Society in 1998, when we needed a companion for a herd-bound gelding. A family had lost their home and had to give him up. He was fearful and defensive. It took 3 hours and 4 people to load him my trailer. He was hard to catch, and harder to handle, but he never kicked. He wanted to be friends, and wanted to be good. With patience and kind training he learned the world could be an OK place, and that he could relax. We boarded him with friends when we took vacations, and he learned that trailers don’t always take you away from home forever. He surprised us years later by running to the trailer and jumping in when we evacuated ahead of a huge wildfire, embers falling around us. He knew he could trust us, and would be safe if we stuck together. He still doesn’t like trailers, though, and I won’t have to ask him to get into one again.

The sores have gotten worse. Sometimes blood drips down his legs, directed by the long fur, like rainwater. I kneel to take a closer look, and he threatens to kick me. “That hurts. Leave it.” I respect his request.

He walks down the hill to his water, and stands with his friend in the afternoon shade of the house, dozing. For years they’ve had the run of the yard, a sloping acre of fruit trees and dry weeds. No point locking them up in a barren pen. Neighbors have fed him grape leaves through the chain link, and he’s watched their kids grow up. Our citrus trees are all pruned bare to eye level – the leaves being tasty, apparently – and the fallen fruit makes a juicy snack. He’s had a pretty decent life. Now he wanders, picking at the short grass growing where the lawn used to be.

It’s been cool and cloudy for a few days. A welcome break from usual sweltering heat. Sometimes he doesn’t look so bad, walking slowly but purposefully back to his soft place under the pecan tree. But I remember the scuffed nose, the sores, the cussing, and the inevitable return of the blazing sun, and I know it’s time.

Now he is nosing through a half-flake of forbidden alfalfa – a legume hay too rich for donkeys, with its dark green leaves and flat, dry purple flowers. I’ll give him more this evening, too. Consequences be damned. Screw the nutrition and weight issues. The hell with long-term health risks.

Since he is up I take him a sweet slice of watermelon and some peppermints. He trumpets an increasingly rare he-he-he-haaaaawwww when he sees me coming with his blue plastic dish. Enjoy your treats, buddy, and a little shoulder-scritching, too. Enjoy everything you can – life is short.

I’ll move the truck and trailer in the morning – today it feels too much like treachery.



Today is about enjoying the day.

I have a short talk with him and tell him his troubles will be over soon, that he should relax and enjoy everything he can. If there are any things he had been meaning to do, unexplored corners of the yard, he should take care of those today.

I think of all the things he’s never liked, things he will never have to put up with again. He’ll have no more weather in the hundreds, salty from sweating behind his ears. No more huddling on the porch of the run-in shed for days on end during storms, with no dry place to lie out under the stars. No more gnats biting the insides of his ears bloody, and no more flies irritating the fronts of his legs. And no more fly spray, which is almost as bad as flies. No more loading or riding in the trailer. No more being tied to anything. No more hoof picking. And no more arthritis. No more pain.

Next is a good brushing, warm wash cloths to clean his ears and under his itchy tale, and all the treats I can think to give him. Marshmallows, peppermints, apple wafers, a banana — a new thing, which he enjoys, and a big handful of common sow thistle from the front yard, which I had been meaning to get around to picking and giving to him. Today is not a day for waiting for the perfect time, or putting off until later. Today is for experiencing everything right now.

I double up on his medication at lunch, which isn’t wise in the long run, but there is no long run, and it might make him feel better right now.

And I check the oil, which is fine, and move the truck and trailer.

Later, running errands, six huge Fuji apples, and three bags of fresh, crisp carrots from the farmers market shop. Just five dollars and ninety-one cents. Why haven’t I done this more often? Oh, right… Too much sugar. Not good for donkeys. Well today that doesn’t matter.

At bedtime I hand out bowl of the carrots and apples, a few pieces at a time to avoid choking. They were worth pinning ears over. I find myself wishing I’d fed him more carrots and apples.

I remember his vet’s words from a couple of years ago, when I’d mentioned that maybe I should put him on a diet, get some weight off… “Just let him enjoy being a donkey.” I pretty much followed that advice. He got treats, and a bit of alfalfa with his responsible grass hay. I wonder, what if I’d given him more carrots, more apples…? A happier, but shorter life? Is the trade-off worth it?

There is just one more arthritis pill left in the bottle. Good timing, I suppose, to run out exactly to the day. I didn’t plan that. In any case, it isn’t going to do him any good to take it tomorrow, so I give it to him now. Because why the hell not? So what if it causes kidney damage?

They get more alfalfa than usual for the night, and I head back to the house.

Before turning in I confirm my checking balance to be sure there is enough to pay the vet and hauling company, then set the alarm for daybreak and try to sleep.



The day begins like any other. Michael has already made coffee by the time I get up. I have to figure out what to wear. The cats are excited to go outside.

He is out at the barn, eating. Eeyore. Our little brown donkey. Like his namesake, he is a mopey sort of character. Capable of delight and mischief, but for the most part pretty sure the world is not quite a safe place.

I leave him be and have some coffee and a handful of Brazil nuts for breakfast.

There are so many details… I will need to have two checks ready, one for the driver, and one for the trucking company. I will probably need Kleenex, so I fold a few into my pocket. Must have a manure fork handy — I wouldn’t want to have him go down in a pile of poo.

And now he’s lying in the shade under his pecan tree. I let him rest.

There’s 200’ of water hose lying around out front, and I reel it up so it’s out of the way. Check to make sure the gate key is where it belongs. If I couldn’t unlock the gate… We will need both halters. I can’t ask Clementine to wear Eeyore’s halter when I take her out front afterward.

He’s on his feet now, so I go out to say good morning.

He chomps through the first apple and handful of carrots, all diced into bite-size chunks, in no time. There are more in the fridge, and why shouldn’t he have them all? For an instant I can’t find the apples. The big, crunchy Fuji apples I bought at the farm store just for Eeyore. They can’t be missing! Not now! There’s a brief frantic search, and then there they are right in front of me.

We can lose our centers so quickly. I take a deep breath, and exhale. It’s OK…

I cut up another bag of carrots and three more apples, in a bigger bowl this time, saving one apple and another bag of carrots for Clementine. She will be on her own after this morning, and will need plenty of attention and pampering.

8:01 a.m. An hour until the vet is to arrive. What might a donkey want to do with his last hour? What if I only had an hour left?

I cut a tiny bad spot out of a carrot slice, because no one should have to eat even a tiny yucky bit of carrot in their last hour.

The pragmatic voice in my head tells me to drink plenty of water so I don’t pass out. “Go to the bathroom now,” it says, “so you don’t have to leave anymore once you go out back again.” It’s always there, arranging things, being logical, unaffected.

A few friends who have advised me throughout this process text me now to wish us well. I reply, and realize that in all this time I never taught my my phone how to spell Eeyore’s name. I probably meant to get around to it. Someday.

With just a few minutes left I halter him, and lead him out through the front gate, and he drags me towards the nearest grass. Just then the vet’s office calls. He’s delayed 30 minutes. A lucky thing, too. I wonder for a moment if they don’t “accidentally” delay all euthanasias by 30 minutes, knowing everyone needs a little more time.

Eeyore spends the extra time out front, grazing and eating more treats. He used to be afraid to go out there. Today he was dragging me around looking for the best grass. I finally just toss the lead rope over his back and let him enjoy his freedom. What is he going to do? Limp off down the road? He’s not particularly interested in company. He’s busy with his donkey business.

Actually, he’s looking pretty good, walking around, grazing under the trees. But I remind myself that he’s on triple the normal dose of pain meds, and that he doesn’t have the strength to reliably get up from lying down. And he’s been getting steadily worse. He gives a good impression at the moment, but can’t go on this way.

It’s a lovely way to spend his last morning, grazing freely, eating all the forbidden treats he enjoys so much. I’m glad he can go on a morning like this, not down and struggling, frightened and hurting.

Meanwhile, Clementine is furious. Locked in the back, behind the gate, while Eeyore eats all the grass and all the treats. Not fair!!! I give her a few carrot and apple pieces (still mindful of her long-term health, at least). She takes them greedily, and goes back to pawing at the ground, kicking the air behind her, and banging the gate back and forth in her teeth. Not!!! Fair!!!

The vet, Dr. Chandler from East County Large Animal Practice, who has helped us all these years, turns into the driveway. He explains everything, and gets out what he needs. Sedation first, then an overdose of anesthesia. Yes, “blue juice” really is blue. You never want to mix that up with anything else. He is kind and skillful. Eeyore goes easily – drowsy, and then no more. Less traumatic than having teeth floated. I try to get up from squatting down after it’s over, and things go fuzzy. Even with all that water I drank. Back down to the ground, until after a minute I can stand.

Dr. Chandler gives me a hug. I thank him for helping Eeyore out, and he thanks me for giving Eeyore a good life. More tears. Sadness, but also relief.

I have arranged for an hour’s pause in the day before the truck comes, so that Clementine can come to her donkey-mind understanding of what has just happened. She can see from her spot at the gate – he is just on the other side. I let her stand there and look. The pragmatic voice says “Take a break. Have some Gatorade. Get your checkbook and a pen.” I do as instructed.

Back outside, I lead Clementine through the gate for a closer look. She looks, sniffs, and walks right past. Grass! I let her eat for a while. She shows no concern or interest. She’s out front, and there’s grass. That’s all that matters.

It’s getting near time for the truck. I ask her to come back up near the gate, but true to her donkey reputation she refuses to budge. I screw up my courage to drop her lead rope for a moment, and run back to the gate for the bowl that’s still half full of carrots and apples. Finally she’s willing to follow me back. I give her another chance to see her friend, and although she clearly notices him there I can’t discern any reaction. She lets herself be coaxed through the gate, following the bowl. The padlock is slimy and spit-covered from her earlier escape attempts. I click it shut so she can’t shove the gate open and get in the way.

The hauler arrives on time. He introduces himself – Jesus. Nice guy. Soft spoken, courteous, thoughtful. I can see at least two horses through the narrow gaps of the sides of the truck, which is tastefully enclosed to shield folks on the road from this harsh reality. I thank him for doing a tough but important job. He tells me he’s been doing it for 20 years, and it’s hard work, long days, but he likes it. I write out both checks and go inside, leaving him to his work.

Even as I’m hearing the truck engine and wench motor in the distance I discover an injured bird in the garage – a juvenile Phainopepla. It must have escaped from Miss Kitty after she brought it inside. Its wing is injured, but it’s bright-eyed and lively.

I put it in a cat carrier for the moment, and after the truck leaves I go out to check on Clem. She has been knocking a trash can around, dumping old hay everywhere by the side of the house. She’s perturbed, but it’s hard to tell if it’s about Eeyore, or about being kept from all that grass out front.

I put everything away, give Clementine a few more treats, and get the house closed up, grab my car keys, and take the little bird to the Project Wildlife triage center. They are hopeful about its recovery.


Later Michael jokes that we can say Jesus took Eeyore away. There is humor even in difficult times.


Vale, Eeyore. 17 July, 2014