post christmas

It’s nice to have a new year, a new start, even if it’s really just a turn of the calendar; even if it’s only starting over somewhere old and familiar.

Grand Canyon gazing

Little Gen was waiting for me right where I’d left her. She had the apartment clean, Christmasy, and smelling like tacos. The traditional Christmas dead tree branch was hung with lights in the window. 

I made my pilgrimage to the Rio Grande river for sand to fill my farolito bags (a New Mexican tradition of weighting candlelit paper bags to light the way to the Christ Child.) My Jewish friend Nomi dutifully folded the edges of nearly fifty paper lunch bags in preparation. That’s a true friend.

Farolitos in place, we were on our way to the Old Town festival of lights and live nativity. I celebrated my one year anniversary of knowing the Franciscan Friars of Don Juan Diego Friary by surprising Brother Max with a big bear hug. Then we were almost recruited into the live nativity, but were saved at the last second by a group of children.

So it's been strangely normal coming home. And definitely too soon to be on the road again, but here I am.

After a brief layover, Nomi and I have gone to California, thus completing our east to west coast sojourn. Every time I come to California from some other part of the country (which isn't often) I feel suddenly angry. It's something to do with the warm, moist air, the sunshine, and happy people everywhere. It's just not fair that one state is hogging all the goodness of a temperate climate. 

The air here revives me, so I'll soak it up as long as I can. I spent this last weekend in some horse country east of Santa Barbara, once again asking myself why I live in a desert with no ocean. 

Today I'm back with some old friends of vaulting, the very ones who introduced me to this great sport. Yesterday I was privileged to catch up with some riders who have made great strides in their abilities; one woman who was barely able to sit up on the horse is now up on all fours performing the flag with one arm and one leg raised; and a young man who doctors said would never walk is now standing on the back of a horse.

It's this kind of evidence that keeps me coming back. And it keeps me moving forward.

Off to another ordinary day of miracles…

OneArmGirl 

i'll be home...

Turns out, miles and miles on interstate highways are not all that conducive to writing. In fact, I now believe the genius of Jack Kerouac is not what he wrote, but that he made the time to write at all.

Otherwise, our cross country pilgrimage has gone rather well. We've visited various holy sites such as Stake N' Shake and a museum with Evel Knievel's X-rays. Spoiler alert, the man broke a lot of bones.

But the high point came with an unexpected detour in Carthage Missouri to a place unceremoniously called Red Oak II.

"Oh, you really should go if you have time," our rosy motel hostess said.

"What is it, exactly?" I asked, unconvinced.

She couldn't really say, only that it was some kind of model old town and that you just had to see it to understand. And I'm not sure why, but I decided to take the bait.

I'm so glad I did. Red Oak II is indeed a collection of 20s era buildings re-created into a small town of a bygone era. The man behind the imagination is Lowell Davis, a painter and general renaissance artist most famous for his farm life depictions. The little town is complete with church, jailhouse, and general store, but as a painter might dream it, in an array of vibrant colors.

Mr. Davis himself came out to greet us when Keeper the dog got the attention of the town pack. He then offered a tour of his personal dwelling and painting room, even humoring me for a photo on his porch which couldn't have been more story-like if I'd written it; the dog and cat posing like seasoned models for portraiture.

It was a beautifully warm day for December, and we were the only people in the town, aside from the few locals who make their home there. Scattered about the grounds, we found rusting automobiles and a small plane. It was quite the collection of junk, really, but arranged so thoughtfully, it left me feeling I'd stepped into a life-size doll town.

The visit to Red Oak II more than made up for other disappointments of off season closures and one very unfortunate gas station dog-poo-stepping incident. I don't want to talk about it.

It just goes to show, some of the best and worst things in life are those you stumble into...

It's good to be home. A very Merry Christmas to you and yours,

OneArmGirl

alpaca kissing

Ever since leaving my busy fall schedule (which I was more than happy to do), I feel like I've fallen into an activity vacuum. One week, I was teaching eight riding lessons, and the next I was laying on my parents' couch thinking about whether I had enough energy to stand up and get the nail polish remover. These kind of abrupt schedule changes just aren't healthy.

I was full speed ahead and then I just stopped. Now I'm having trouble rebooting. If I don't even have to make my own breakfast, how am I expected to be productive the rest of the day?

I'm seriously starting to think my parents' house is some sort of land-locked Bermuda Triangle where no one would care if you wore the corresponding shorts all day, every day. 

What is it about this place, I asked myself recently, that makes time seem to stop except for the hourly reminder of the clock chimes, which only really serve to sooth me back into a nap. If there really are clock chimes--I might just be imagining them.

We've discussed road trips to local destinations like Washington DC, Gettysburg or Baltimore. But none have tempted us back to the road.

"Let's go see alpacas," Nomi suggested several days ago. Apparently she had discovered an attraction much closer to home.

It proved more difficult to actually find the alpaca farm, and mid-venture, we changed the plan and decided to go trail-riding instead. Thus began an extended jaunt through the Pennsylvania countryside, stopping intermittently to ask for directions along an unplanned trail riding treasure hunt, complete with old farmer missing teeth.

In the end, we never found the place we were looking for, but stumbled on another nice riding outfit along the way. How many times does this happen in life?

It was raining the day we actually visited the alpacas, who seemed largely unconcerned about muddying their silky coats for future scarfs and winter socks. They were keen, however, to take the treats we offered--but somewhat less keen to take them right out of our lips. Then one of them spit on Nomi's, leaving her face glittered with grass particles.

"Let's make alpacas the theme of our road trip," Nomi suggested.

"I don't think so," I said.

OneArmGirl

in transit

Hello. It's me, the author of this blog. You may remember me from a previous time when I posted regularly on Thursdays. At least it was on Thursdays, then it started slipping to Fridays, then Sundays, and then just skipped weeks altogether. Funny thing about procrastination, it gets worse over time because you just keep putting off addressing it.

But I'm back now, with great intentions of being more reliable. I've finished my therapeutic riding program and am now unofficially/officially a registered riding instructor. If only I had some students, some horses, and an arena. Minor details.

In the meantime, I thought I'd drive back across the country. But this time, not only will I have Keeper the Dog, but I've acquired an Israeli to drive with me. A one-armed girl, a dog, and a Jew went on a road trip...sounds like a bad joke, right? And I'm well aware that it is not politically correct to call someone a 'Jew,' but Nomi has a great sense of humor, so I think she'll forgive me.

We started off our grand adventure in New York City, where else? First we caught a Heidi Latsky dance rehearsal on the Upper West Side. They were re-working a piece they had previously performed, and mid-rehearsal, over break, Heidi bemoaned the lack of disabled dancers in the company. They discussed how they might recruit a deaf man who was the friend of another dancer.

"He's not really deaf," one dancer piped up, "he's just hearing-impaired."

There was a collective sigh, at which point I giggled and everyone turned to look at me.

In what universe had I dropped into where people are valued based on the severity of their disability? 

After rehearsal, we took the obligatory trek over to Times Square. Both of us being more country-lovers than city slickers, we left 42nd Street as quickly as possible and took refuge in the relatively quiet Little Italy. There we were joined by two Jewish guys in a meeting arranged seas away in Israel. Sounds like the plot for a comedy, right? One of them had such a strong Brooklyn accent, I was sure he dropped right out of Newsies. They had us eat cannoli in an abandoned park and play fuze ball at a local joint. Felt like a local...at least, I think.

But now, and for the next week or so, we are tucked away in Central Pennsylvania, where I'm mooching lodging (and food) off my parents.

And catching up on some blogging, of course. So, there you have it. Didn't miss a thing.

OneArmGirl

mold

I'm on leave, you might say. We have a week long break in our teaching regimen, so I took the opportunity to visit some dear friends in Boston for a birthday bash and inner city duck hunt. Don't worry, no ducks were harmed in the writing of this blog.

I write to you now from my parents' house, tucked away in the rolling hills of central Pennsylvania. And as I've had some time, I'm thinking over the last two months on the 'farm' in Connecticut, wondering what it all means.

Very soon, it seems, I will have a paper (or electronic statement) that certifies my ability to teach a riding lesson to people who are differently abled, and never have I felt so inept.

The longer I study, it seems, the more I feel I don't know. Not to mention, of course, that the kind of riding I am expected to teach has not been a regular part of my life for nearly 20 years--yes, I had to stop and calculate that. Stirrups, reins? I've spent the better part of 5 years trying to get away from those things. If you are thoroughly confused at this point, please refer to this post.

I feel like I'm being expected to fit into a mold that I just don't fit. And lately in my life, if you haven't noticed, I've been of the mindset to dash molds to the ground like dishes at a raucous Greek party.

I came in thinking I wanted to be a therapeutic riding instructor, and now I'm not sure if I want to be physical therapist, personal trainer, or human movement specialist. What?!

So, I've had to ask myself, why am I here? Why did I come to this program in the first place. I needed certification to work in the field--But somehow along the way I got excited about learning.

So, how does a person make her way through life, learning from others without losing herself, her personal mission and values, in her education? Oh, education, you sneaky devil, how many a pure mind have you confused.

Wait a second, isn't this blog about a girl with one arm and disability?...is probably what you are asking yourself at this point. Excuse me while I reseal Pandora's Box.

Now, about those ducks...

I suppose it's easy enough to say 'Just be yourself'...it's the process of finding out who that is that takes time and not a little bit of aggravation.

OneArmGirl 

a post to you

In three and a half years of blogging, I don't think I've ever been this slow to produce a post, which speaks to the schedule I've been keeping. Still, to you my faithful readers, I apologize. 

I am still here in Connecticut, though I'm now more than halfway through my time here. Tomorrow I will have my final teaching evaluation and, hopefully, pass into the wild world of certified instructing. Or certifiable. It's a fine line.

So, in honor of such an occasion, allow me to share with you a photo journey from the past several weeks...

Learning to wrap a bandage.

Crossing on the ferry.

Taking a break

Underside view of a flying pegasus.

Sometimes you just need a new perspective...

OneArmGirl

the main attraction

It's notably humorous to be in an environment surrounded by people with 'unexpected' bodies, cognition, and social acuity, and still be recognized as the odd one.

I'm greeting riders in the participant lounge, and a tiny boy with Downs' Syndrome peers up my empty sleeve, curious where my arm got to.

I'm waiting to assist a young man with limited verbal ability to mount his horse, and he turns his face to Finneas and plants a firm kiss on my tiny arm.

I'm standing in the middle of the arena, honing my teaching skills, and a young woman who was barely able to overcome her own fear to get on the horse, points toward me and calls out, "What happened to your arm?"

No matter where I go, I'm still different. But it's OK, really; because I like being myself.

But maybe it's not about being different; maybe it's just about recognizing that we are not the same, that we each have something unique to offer.

More than being odd, the program participants are starting to recognize me as familiar. As I enter the pre-riding zone, they run toward me as if I were the Pied Piper of horsemanship; but it's not horses they are anxious to see.

On the trail, one rider, eyes fixed on me, twists his head almost completely backward to get a longer look. I'm certainly amused, and strangely flattered, that in the midst of all the excitement, I'm still the main attraction.

I stifle a smile.

"Look where you are going," I call after him, "or you are going to fall off your horse."

OneArmGirl