Horses, Spas, and Inner Peace

When I think of a spa, I think massages, facials, cucumber on the eyes.... Now the Miraval Spa and Resort is incorporating "inner peace" treatments with equine therapy.  Makes me think of my character Mariposa's journey in my novel The Butterfly's Daughter.  Though Mariposa, broke and broken, could never afford to check into the luxury Miraval Spa. 

I am intrigued by this.  I love horses.  I find them elegant, noble creatures. As a young girl, a favorite book was Black Beauty.  And who doesn't love horse films?  I love them all: Seabiscuit, War Horse, Into the West, Black Beauty, and my all time favorite, The Black Stallion. 

BUT I confess I'm a little afraid of horses. A lot afraid, actually.  I do not enjoy horseback riding.  When I was a little girl, I had the traumatic experience of a horse--an enormous horse named Big Jack-- running away with me off into a field.  This enormous beast tried to get rid of the skinny 8 year old like a pesky fly, rubbing against a tree and a barbed wire fence! I was finally rescued, too scared to even cry, holding tight to the horse's mane.  My parents insisted all their children learn how to ride so every week I had to take English riding lessons.  I got sick to my stomach every time we drove into the stable.  Even though they always gave me the "gentlest horse" (which usually meant the oldest one that could barely walk) I cringed when they said to me, "Don't show them you're afraid."  Really?  The minute I got on a horse and put my boots in the stirrups that horse would swing its head around and I could see the big eye giving me the once over.  It would then turn away with a snort and my heart sank because I knew that horse had my number.  In truth, my favorite part of riding lessons was getting dressed in the clothing.  I loved the jodhpurs, long black leather boots, and that adorable helmet. 

My father once purchased a gorgeous, chestnut brown horse, a thoroughbred, he called Renrew (the reverse of his name, Werner).  The horse was nuts. Really wild.  Only my father could ride him.  Now I ask you...  What compelled a man with ten children, a pediatrician, to purchase a high strung ex-race horse?  I was afraid to even go near Renrew's stall.  One day Renrew escaped from  his stall and went charging out of the stable and raced down the interstate.  I heard tales of how he bucked and farted for miles along I 95.  Miraculously he didn't get hit and Daddy sold Renrew shortly afterward.

That era was the last time I rode a horse.  Today I still love the idea of riding a horse.  There is nothing is more majestic than watching a horse run across a field or a beach (which is probably why I love the movie The Black Stallion so much.  The film was low on dialogue but high on beautiful, emotional viewing.)

So I'm wondering if I shouldn't book myself into the Miravel Spa and try some Equine Therapy.  The instructor, Wyatt Webb, uses horses to teach people how to break out of negative patterns and to live instead in “present moment time.” 

I studied Equine Therapy when I wrote The Butterfly's Daughter.  It is an effective, unique treatment program that provides the opportunity to care for and work closely with horses.  In doing so, it addresses issues of trust, commitment, self confidence and more necessary for recovery.  A person, especially a manipulative one like Mariposa, might be able to fool another human, but she can't fool a horse.  They're tuned in to our energy.  A trust must be established and it is this deep connection that is often a first step toward the patient's emotional growth and recovery.  Equine Therapy's been around for a long while and has proven helpful for those suffering substance abuse, eating disorders, mood disorders and other psychiatric and addictive issues.  The therapy proved powerful in the context of my novel. 

Yet I'd never considered the benefits of equine therapy for my fear of horses.  Now I wonder if perhaps I can overcome the trauma caused by Big Jack and Renrew? Maybe I should check into the Miraval Spa so that at last I can ride a horse and get in touch with my inner peace?  I sincerely want to try.

And if it doesn't work for me, I am, after all, at the luxurious Miraval Spa. I can still get that massage.

What's In A Name-- Or Signature?

                                                               MAM at Book Signing

Many people comment on my "beautiful handwriting" while I sign books. I always thank them, and it's heartfelt.  Yet, each time I hear that, I look at my handwriting, both amazed and amused, remembering how the nuns hounded me as a child to perfect the "Palmer Method" of  handwriting.  I always thought I had a chicken scrawl compared to my mother's gorgeous script!

Mama used to doodle on paper as she read the Sunday paper, watched television, or was lost in thought.  She'd often write her name, Elayne, with calligraphy-like swirls.  I remember how I watched, enchanted, sure I'd never be able to achieve such glory.

Daddy was born and schooled in the early years in Germany.  His handwriting was the fine, European slant that I never even aspired to.  Werner was a pediatrician back in the day of house calls.  He was always in a hurry, always scribbling in the small, leather notebook, a new one for each month, that he kept in his vest pocket.  (Yes, remember the vests? So handsome. I wish they'd come back into style for men.) Whenever I peeked into it, curious what he was always writing about, it was almost a shorthand of words and prescriptions.  I couldn't read a word.

When I was a young girl, I used to follow Mama's example and write my name over and over again, testing a hundred different ways to loop the capital M or the A of my name, how to dot my i, or how to stylize that final e on Alice with a flourish.  Even then I dreamed of being an author and wondered what it would be like to sign my name on a book I'd written, all by myself.  It seemed so big a dream, yet so very real I felt I had to practice for it.

Is there something to the debate as to whether handwriting is tied to genetics or observation/training?  Certainly hand shape, how one holds a pen, etc. is hereditary, but what is inherited and what is learned?  From my own personal experience of my family--I am one of ten siblings and thus a large sampling-- I have to believe it is, in some part, hereditary.  I've observed that there are two distinct styles of writing in my family, and both males and females fall into one or the other.  I get a kick out of seeing the individual signatures and discovering which "camp" he or she falls into. Now I can see a division occurring in my own adult children as well.  One daughter has a script similar to one of the styles of my family--but interestingly, not mine!  The second daughter and son both have the odd, tight penmanship of my husband. 

It's rather sad how penmanship is almost passé today.  How often do we receive letters from family members?  Even Christmas and birthday cards are fewer and fewer as internet cards and invitations increase in popularity.  With emails and texts, it seems handwriting, even signatures, are scarce or considered obtuse. 

Like most things concerned with nature or nurture, the answer is that our handwriting probably comes from a bit of both genes and education.  Regardless, I believe our signatures reveal a peek into our history.  Do you write more like your mother, father, sister or brother?   Did you have to study penmanship?  And, do you think you have beautiful penmanship?  If so, who do you credit?

While the nuns may have hounded me to get the angle of my pen correct, I maintain that it was my mama, Elayne, and my awe at her gorgeous doodling, that influenced me the most.  Here's a poem you'll enjoy on the subject:

Handwriting Analysis

by Katrina Vandenberg

On the first day of fourth grade, Mrs. Hunter
collected our penmanship samples to save

until June; by then, she said, we'd write
in the handwriting we would have all our lives.

Though she probably read that in a book
on child development, I was so excited

I could hardly stand it. In nine months
my adult self would be born, she would

send me a letter; in the ways she swooped,
careened, and crossed her t's, I could

read everything I would need to know.
We were writing ourselves into the future.

We came closer each time we turned
the silver gears in the sharpener near the door,

the wood shavings tumbling inside,
smelling as if a house were being built