Love is Red

Love is Red

It never ceases to amaze me — the connection between women and horses.

This photo was made in Montana two years ago. It was early, early morning. The girl in the image is a real cowgirl. She works with horses for a living — and by living, I mean in more ways than just as an income. The mare in the image is her horse. I love that about the image, because the emotion is real and you can feel it, even though you can’t see the cowgirl’s face.

When a woman connects with a horse, it is different than a man. Not better. Not worse. Just different. Women and horses share something on a deep level, something untouchable by logic. Maybe it’s the intimate knowledge of what it’s like to be prey. Maybe it’s the instinctual comfort of two beings sharing an sentient journey. It’s expression is beauty and love realized and I’m honored to be able to tell the story of that expression through my lens.



hinges don’t mean
a thing until
they break
and let the
closet door swing
let the
front gate droop
warning visitors
of the disrepair
then the barn door
falls open
freeing the horse
to run about crazy
in the yard
so you go to
the Jeep for
a halter
and just then
the hatch fails
down striking
you on the head
you of where
you are
falling apart

Be a Better Procrastinator

Be a Better Procrastinator

make it a practice to:

at every opportunity:
take time to digress
revel in getting sidetracked
stray from the appointed
deviate from the common
mosey away from structure

allow yourself to:
veer into passion
rove toward jubilation
prowl after pleasure
swerve around happiness
stroll with delight

do not ever be guilty in your:

The Prince Behind Me

The Prince Behind Me

All my life I’ve waited for just one prince
the one in stories
the charming one
the one who will save the day.

All my life I’ve waited for just one moment
the one that changes everything
the magic one
the one that will make it all worth while.

All my life I’ve waited for just one word
the one that means the most
the simple one
the one that means I am loved.

Today, as I walk in a simple circle
I’ve found the one
within myself
in that one moment
the one word
walked behind me
his name was Horse.

There is an interesting story to go with this poem.

I wrote it on January 18, 2014.

IMG_5396On November 22, 2014, the guy in the picture came into my life from a neighbor. He was billed as just a horse. That’s all I was looking for … a horse. A horse that I could ride and feel comfortable on. I agreed to “try” him weeks before he was delivered. During that time, there was poor communication between his seller and myself and just before he came to me, there was a moment when it appeared he would be delivered to another home. I was fine with that, because I knew if he were the horse that belonged with me, he’d find his way here.

He did. In the middle of the craziness of selling one farm, putting together a temporary place to live, and dealing with a world of real estate closing hell. He showed up in my round pen. I met him. I rode him. I fell in love.

Since, Prince has proven he is more than “just a horse.” (They all are, really). He has proven to be a healer — for me and for others. He is EGCMethod Coach Vicki Jurica’s go-to guy on the ranch when a client needs a healing experience. He is truly amazing.

Call it prophecy. Call it fate. Call it a wish made to the universe. He is my Prince.

Twisted – Chapter 1

Twisted – Chapter 1

Chapter 1 In Progress

I didn’t wake up this morning thinking I would take someone’s life. I woke up thinking about the smudge on the kitchen linoleum.

But that was before the tornado. Tornados change things.

I look up into the tree nearest me, the tree in my front yard, the tree I parked my truck under every day, the tree a truck now appears to be attempting to climb and failing, the tree that now creaked with every sway breeze. It’s limbs were splintered, odd looking now with unnatural lengths and bizarre angles.

This can not be real, I think. I feel utterly detached from my body as if I’m ether or vapor.

I stand up and approach a truck that looks like mine. It is mine, I realize. I know that inside of the truck is my best friend. I know she is dead because her head is gone. I can see that a limb from the tree has erased her face. Her name was Sunny.

The glide up to the truck in the tree. I float myself up the pile of limbs and debris the truck is resting on to reach through the shattered back seat window. Sunny’s purse upside down on the seat. I take it. In its place I shove my purse. I lean forward toward the front window which is also shattered out. I take off my ring, the ring my husband gave me 18 years ago and pick up Sunny’s lifeless hand. I try not to notice the blue tint of her skin or the blood that is drying on her arm. I look away as I slide the ring over her knuckle. I then let myself slide down from the truck and float back to the curb and sit down with Sunny’s purse.

Rain begins to fall. I can feel it cool and wet against my face. It is light and pleasant in an odd way. I pull the purse a little closer to me.

A flapping noise catches my attention, drawing it away from the sad sound of the water line behind me and the worried calls of a woman down the street looking for Henry. I looked up to see a piece of linoleum caught in the broken branches of the tree across the street. The tree that once hid the house of my neighbors the Heshers. The house that I had always wished we would have bought because of the charming front porch and the big deck in the rear.

That was all gone now. The house and the deck.

I stand up, feeling my body for the first time in what seemed hours. I look down. My shoes are stained with drops of blood. My jeans are ripped above the knee on my right leg and the open seam oozes a bloody dark color. I feel no pain. That seems wrong somehow. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I reach down and pick up the purse beside me, put it over my shoulder and walk toward the flapping linoleum.

“Henry!” The voice is loud now.

I look up into the open sky and the openness comes crashing in on top of me as I feel the absence of the houses and trees in what once was my neighborhood. The world seems so huge in this moment, as if it the sky expanded, ran wild past its boundaries and swallowed up all the houses and trees and people into its dimension.

I reach up to grab the linoleum shred out of the tree, but it is beyond my fingertips even when stretch to the limit of my tiptoes. As I reach, the purse slides down my arm and catches in the crock of my elbow. I hike it back up again and fall back onto my heels still looking up. The breeze moves the linoleum just enough so I can see the smudge nestled neatly where two lines in the pattern merge. “Damn it,” I say. The spot mocks me as though I were Lady MacBeth. I jump up, reaching with everything I have. I miss. “Fuck,” I say.

“Hennnnrrrry!” The voice is breathless now.

“Henry’s dead,” I yell back. “The fucking tornado ate him!”

The fucking tornado ate my life, I think.

And then I smile.