During the year I was in art school, I was asked to draw exactly seven family-related pictures. I always drew a slightly different set of people, and the process was nerve-racking.

Do I include my dad? We haven’t spoken in years. I hate drawing myself. Must I? Aislinn is family, but she’s not related by blood or a legal adoption. Can I draw her anyway? I want to.

My family has changed drastically in the past couple of years, and I finally know what to draw:

_____

I only wanted to go horseback riding last weekend because my husband had never been. Though riding was a big part of my childhood, I considered myself one of the countless girls who were totally into horses when they were young but never pursued it beyond my childhood riding lessons. I am hemmed in on all sides by responsibilities at work and at home, and I had no room to entertain the notion I had the time or resources to make horse-back riding a hobby again.

I grew up riding horses and showing them in 4-H. We actually leased one for a time. His name was Royal Reverie’s Rhythm. Well, that was his show name. At the farm where I rode, we called him Shadow. He was an American Saddlebred… a tall and slender horse, a deep brown color that faded to black in his legs, nose and tail. He had faint dappled circles in his coat, which shone beautifully in the summer and became snuggly soft in the winter. Sometimes he acted more like a dog than a horse… he’d nuzzle up to me and would get excited when I pulled out apples or watermelon for his snack. He loved his ears being rubbed to the point where they were almost scrunched up in your hand. And while his ears were rubbed, he would rest his muzzle on your shoulder, his big head growing heavier and heavier, until he began to drool and his teeth dug into your shoulder bone.

We grew to know each other well. I knew what to do to encourage him during a tough practice; he knew I would always reward him for his hard work with a bath or extra treats. During shows, I merely had to loudly whisper, “Shadow, come on, boy… pick it up!” And his powerful legs would immediately begin to turn faster, like a set of bike gears, proof his pointed ears heard my voice and understood its command. On super hot days, when it was too humid to practice, I’d walk him like a dog on a leash, letting him graze while I sat in the tall grass next to him.

Though I had collected trophies, spent hours upon hours at the barn and claimed riding as my passion, life got busy. High school, sports and my boyfriend (who is my husband now, so I guess it was an all right tradeoff) began to slowly creep into my barn time. Shadow faded like his namesake when the sun sets, fading into the background until I finally had to give him up. We ended our lease, and I stopped riding. I don’t know what happened to him. The lot where the barn used to be is a vacant space now, over grown with weeds. I can’t even make out the shape of the arenas anymore, the ones we had ridden endless circles and serpentines around.

So while I was excited to go horseback riding with Cody at our friend Lindsay’s farm, I was resigned to the fact it wasn’t a talent for me anymore. It wasn’t even something that I knew how to do well… this would merely be a simple trail ride and it would be over. Horseback riding was a pastime that I had let pass me by, something I had let disappear into the craziness of my life, much like the arenas I had known so well. Life had grown in around it, and I wasn’t sure I could root it out again.

The second we entered the barn my heart did a little flutter. The hay, the oats, the musty smell of the outdoors hit me. I saw three horse heads bob up and down inside their stalls. While Lindsay moved about, giving them water and hay, I watched. I could watch them all day. The way they snuffed air through their nostrils, flipped their tails, stomped about, tried to get attention. I used to watch the other girls practice when I was in 4-H… I loved watching the horses’ muscles flex under their shimmery coats, their pride at knowing they were being shown off, the beauty of their power, the obvious connection they had with their rider… all of it. I listened as Lindsay spoke to each of them, patting them on their noses.

After they ate, Lindsay took Ricky, a stout 22-year old mare, out of her stall to groom. I helped Lindsay, easily remembering the order in which to groom a horse before putting a saddle on: curry brush, the hard rubber brush that you worked in circles like a massage; stiff-bristled brush, to clean out the dirt and dust; the soft-bristled brush, to groom her coat into a final shine.

Within minutes, the saddle and bridle were on and Cody was ready to mount. I watched, excited to see my husband get even a taste of something I had loved so much as a child. He smiled wide as he got used to the feel of the 800-pound animal swing to and fro as she walked. In the next half hour, he had gotten her to trot and then to canter, a very slow gallop. All without falling off. I was proud, and he loved it.

It was my turn. After Cody dismounted and handed the reins to me, I used the step stool to put my left foot in the stirrup and swing my other leg over. I adjusted and gave Ricky a nudge to encourage her to walk.

I fell into step with her in my mind. As her body moved from side to side, my own naturally balanced itself. From my years of English-seat riding, my heels went down, my thighs turned in, and my back stayed straight, something my trainer had constantly reminded me to do. She’d be so proud. After a few loops, we sped up into a trot, during which I posted — coming out of the saddle slightly every time her outside leg came off the ground and then coming back down on her next step. The wind blew in my face, and I felt closer to the fall sky than I had all season. I brushed past overhanging tree branches; their dry leaves tickled my arms. Encouraged by this freedom, I gave Ricky a solid kick in her belly. Responding, she jumped into a canter.

I did remember. I remembered how to lean forward and back as though I was on a rocking horse. I remembered how to guide her around turns, ask her to slow down, ask her to speed up, speak encouraging words into her ears, which were swiveling around to hear what she should do next. I remembered how to halt her, have her walk backwards, keep her running when she wanted to stop.

I remembered how it made me happy. I remembered how to savor it, how not to panic when she stretched her legs just a little more and pushed us just a little faster. I remembered why I couldn’t get enough of it as a girl. I remembered why I had spent hours cleaning stalls, polishing my saddle, cleaning the bridle, grooming Shadow for hours before shows, training my body to communicate to my horse underneath me.

Because next to running, not much else provides such a sense of freedom and movement for me as riding a horse. It makes sense that the recesses of my mind would not let go of something I still sometimes crave. I remembered because I never really forgot in the first place.

Later, as we were rubbing Ricky down so she could cool off, Lindsay turned to me.

“You know, you can come riding here whenever you want,” she said, patting Ricky’s steamy neck.

My mouth fell open. “Really?”

Lindsay shrugged, smiling. “Sure. I mean, this old girl barely ever gets ridden because I’m so busy. You’d actually be doing me a big favor. She needs the exercise.”

I smiled wide. “Of course,” I said. “I’d love that.”

The clear water is infused with inky stains. They bind together as they drip down the paper towel until its translucence is gone and only a murky cup of soapy broth is left. I crush the rest of the liquid from the towel and return my hand to the speckled window sill.

Fingerprint dust was never meant to be cleaned up. It simply exists without fear of eradication.

Wiping the repaired window is a moment of reflection for me. Two weeks have passed since I came home to find a brick had scattered thousands of glass shards across our bedroom floor. We picked the newly fixed window up from the repair shop, a week later than expected. The dust was still intact, scattered only in places where the double-pane glass had been replaced.

Getting robbed is nothing new to us. Our cars were broken into a combined five times in one year. My tools and money were taken, my girlfriend’s windows broken and ignition left laying on the floor mat. After the third unsuccessful hot-wire, Jami finally opted to sell her goddamn Honda.

I never locked my doors in the Midwest. I left windows open, and cameras in the backseat. I never dreamed of paying for security. In many ways, I’m a rube.

That all changed a few years ago. We both wanted to live in a city that breathed the same hot air we did. Growing tired of long commutes and lazy Fridays, we knew a mid-sized locale wouldn’t cut it. We asked for metropolis life and we got all the shit that comes with it.

The spent condoms and used needles were indication that this was a different neighborhood. When homeless people began leaving jars of piss by our driveway, I was almost pleased. Living here was giving us street cred. Our stories to people back home were met with surprise and occasionally envy. This was an adventurous side of life.

Within a year, it got old.

The drama and sirens were a staple of our lives. I no longer seemed to notice the fringes of crime taking place. We lived in a neighborhood where houses went for almost a million and yet hookers stood on the corners like a God-given right, cigarettes dangling from their leathery scowls.

That time already seems so long ago. We moved for financial reasons, but losing some of the crime was an added bonus. I did my research and got to know our new neighborhood well. It wasn’t downtown, but it wasn’t Mayberry either.

Most of our friends here have been robbed at least once. Three days ago thieves kicked down one couple’s front door in broad daylight. Last year another couple’s shed was ransacked twice. Then a crackhead jacked off on their front porch.

It’s easy to tell yourself you’re acting wisely. We locked the doors, kept the blinds drawn and tried to keep our things out of sight. That morning, I went running and Jami took the dog to work. An hour later, I returned and did a double take passing through the living room. The TV was gone. I tried to call the police but my phone was gone too. I had to knock on four doors before someone answered to let me call the cops.

I’d like to say I acted something more than complacent, but after the initial shock of seeing a man-sized hole through my bedroom window had worn off; this was familiar territory. The police showed up almost an hour later They asked questions. They dusted for prints. We were making jokes by the end of it.

Revenge was on my mind for a week, but in the end, I knew whoever had broken into our house would never be caught. There’s a feeling of helplessness when someone takes a part of you, even a superficial piece.

I replaced my phone and covered the window with plywood. I met with my girlfriend during lunch and told her what happened. She confided to me that it rattled her all day. Despite being targeted in the past, the sting of having your home invaded was greater than anything we imagined. It was like being stabbed with boxcutter. The damage wasn’t in the wound, but in the act itself. Weakness is in your heart, not your frame.

At night, when noises ripple throughout our 80-year-old home, my ears twitch. I listen for footsteps. I open my eyes and look for human shapes. My instinct is not fear, but preparation.

There is no false sense of security in my life. I know what people are capable and how the world works. We chose to live in the city, and almost every day I wake up satisfied in that decision. I love my home and I am willing to accept the consequences of its location.

My dog will not stop farting. It started about four hours ago. When I hoisted her into my arms to take her outside to play, a stuttering fart escaped her back end. I recoiled; she looked at me and tilted her head — the confused dog look. We both laughed.

OK, that’s not really true. I laughed; she ran circles around our living room.

Since then, Trego has assailed my nostrils with every type of dog fart you can imagine. They started out loud, defined. More recently, they’ve reached my nose without alerting my ears. Every once in a while, I hear a little puff of air escape her digestive tract a few minutes before it reaches my nose.

And all of this is really gross.

So I looked it up on Google. I searched “Dog Farts.” (She totally just farted again. Just now, as I typed “Dog Farts.” Seriously, this is getting disgusting.) And I found this:

And here’s the thing: I think it’s hilarious. And I’m GLAD she’s farting.

Without Trego’s flatulence, I would never have spent the last few hours giggling every time I thought about this Walter stuffed animal demonstration video on YouTube:

And I would not have reached this conclusion: I love my dog.

OK, I knew I loved her before I discovered Walter, but now I know know it.

There’s something about accepting someone’s gas that makes (she SO just farted again!) my heart melt.

It has always been this way for me (and AGAIN!).

When my friend Jeff’s girlfriend talked about luring him close with kisses when she needed to pass gas, then pulling his head down so she could fart in his face, our other friends were a little bit grossed out. I just asked him to tell me the story of how they met — again. Theirs is still one of my favorite love stories.

And my first boyfriend’s flatulence was endearing (I know it’s messed up; stay with me). He had a habit of announcing his farts. We’d be watching TV, or grocery shopping or deciding what to have for dinner and… “I farted.” He was almost proud. I know he was teasing me when he refused to replace “I farted” with “excuse me” when we were in public, but I liked it. Because I liked him.

And those are just the farting love stories I can remember right now.

I am expecting company in the next couple of hours, but I’m a little bit glad that my living room stinks. And is littered with dog toys (all of which were in the toy basket this morning). And needs to be de-woodchipped after Trego chewed up a couple of sticks from the yard. My living room… my entire house… no, my entire life shows evidence of Trego’s existence.

I just can’t stop smiling about that. Because I love her, even when she farts.

I am currently in the last, rather exhausting phase of writing my thesis. It has to be done by the end of the year, because I’ve started a new job that will pick up speed in February and therefore will only allow me to work on my PhD for these last couple of months of 2008. This is a lot of pressure, so I had to come up with some ways to deal with the inevitable panic attacks, anxiety, pessimism and other heartache. When I’m feeling low, I need things that help me stay sane and grounded and hopeful. They needn’t be big; just small, ordinary, everyday stuff. I try to remind myself of them as often as possible, and to make them an integral part of my ordinary days. As a precautionary measure, if you will.

Here goes.

The first thing would have to be music. I tend to forget this option, for reasons beyond me, but when I remember, it’s immensely effective. Try to listen to this and NOT be in a good mood! It’s impossible. Singing helps too, as does making music. I play the piano, and even though I get frustrated with my inabilities at times, it’s a good and easy way to take my mind off things. Moving those fingers AND torturing myself with worry – not an option. Unfortunately, I’m not always home (i.e. near a piano) when things start to get rough. I should probably invest in a small flute or something…

Another thing is (re-)connecting with friends and family. This can be hard, because sometimes the heartache is related to someone who’s part of that circle. Nevertheless, there are only few things that can lift my mood as easily as writing a letter to an old friend, or talking to her on the phone. Other than receiving such a letter, that is.

Crafting is very good, too. Making things, painting, drawing, photographing, working with soapstone or wood, that kind of thing. Now, this sounds as if I had my own little studio going on here, doesn’t it? I wish. With a 1-year-old around and a PhD to finish, it’s more like stolen moments during naps or in the evenings, in the living room.

That’s an important lesson, by the way. It doesn’t matter where, what time, or which medium – as long as it takes my mind off the thing that set me off in the wrong direction, it’s good. It’s necessary. It’s simply good sense.

The hard bit is to let go. To let myself allay outside pressures with things that on first sight seem merely selfish, idle and most certainly utterly useless. They are not. If I kept going without taking breaks, at full speed, regardless of the other things I am or want to be or need, I would be exhausted in no time. My body would let me know by giving me a little pain here and there. The people around me would let me know because they care (and because I will take all the pressure out on them, won’t I?). My son would let me know, because my anxiety is his.

I guess it’s a matter of simple self-care. Nevertheless, so many people – virtually everybody I know – feels guilty when taking care of himself in that way. Often including me.

We should all make our ordinary days more enjoyable by doing one little thing we like every day. Even if that means the house won’t be as clean, the garden not as tidy, some e-mails unanswered and so on. Priorities, people!

“Hey Mr. Williams, you want to play on our team?” asked Kevin.

I wasn’t really sure if I wanted to. I didn’t have appropriate footwear or clothing, and I was carrying around my walkie-talkie. As the director of an after-school program, it is imperative that I have one. I (and all of my staff members) carry walkie-talkies to communicate when children move to a different area of the building, or when parents arrive for pick-up. I sometimes get calls to deal with behavioral situations. The point is, I have to have it, but having a walkie-talkie in your hand is not conducive to playing in a touch football game.

So I did what any good supervisor would do: I set down my radio, and asked a staff member to let me know if I got a call.

“Alright, Kevin, I’m in. Whose team am I on?” I responded.

Kevin tells me I’m with him, and I join the ranks. At first, all I could think about was how I was not getting around to check on other areas of the playground. I also needed to see how things were going in the gym, and run by the computer lab. In my mind, there was so much to do. But to Kevin, there was only one important thing:

“We’ve got to get past that bench to get a first down,” he said.

Within a few plays, we had the first down, and not too long after that scored a touchdown. All of the things that I needed to check on began to diminish, compared to getting that next first down. Soon I have given up on getting to the gym or the computer lab, and I am completely in the moment. I haven’t had this much fun playing football in a long time.

Eventually, the game dissipates, but they want to keep playing. So we have an impromptu football mini-camp, during which I talked about the finer points of being a wide receiver: running good, hard routes and catching the ball with your hands. I was suddenly transported back in time about 15 or 20 years, when throwing the football with my brother and our other friends was a daily ritual.

It was a blur of down-and-out patterns, post patterns, and out-and-up patterns. I threw more passes in 45 minutes than I have thrown in the last 4 or 5 years. I taught them how to position their hands correctly, and to cushion the ball as it is caught. And they ate it up. You would have thought that I had just taught them some revolutionary new football tactics that had never been discovered.

I really did discover something that day, and this might sound silly. I re-discovered what it is like to be a kid again. For those 45 minutes, I was carefree enough to only worry about the next pass thrown. At one point, I even ripped my pants, which just means that I was playing hard. Or maybe I am in denial about the fact that I am only getting older, and I am nowhere near the athlete that I once was. What is funnier is that I actually talked to several parents before I realized that my pants were ripped. Nice.

Playing football on that day helped me to remember that life is supposed to be fun. Sure, there are deadlines and responsibilities, but there are also times where you just need to set your walkie-talkie to the side and enjoy yourself. Just try not to rip your pants.