The Horse that said 'No'

One of the rare treats of living in Wellington is the weekly winter horse shows. The producers of the evening have made it surprisingly user-friendly by including an M.C. that warms up the crowd from the center of the arena, fire jugglers performing along the stands, and a live band that plays classic rock, just in case you're not that into the world of equus callubi.

We make a point of attending at least one equestrian event a year whether it be polo, jumping or dressage.  So, there in February before the West Palm Beach heat returned, we ventured to the Saturday night jumping competitions.

Usually there is a track of jumps, moats and rails that challenges each contender to be the fastest and knock down the fewest bars.

This time there were only 4 jumps. One was a wall that they heightened with each round. After two tries if the wall isn't cleared, horse and rider are out of the running.

One by one, eliminations occurred, the duos left the arena as the wall grew higher and higher. (It was made of Styrofoam blocks to resemble bricks).

At 6'4" the jump seemed impossible. But still 2 contestants were left in the competition.

Mid-air, then cleared it.

 The height of wall reached  7'2".

There went the horse. His rider urged him to the wall and the horse slammed his front legs ahead of him to a dead stop in front of the wall. His master visibly displeased, swung the animal around to make a second attempt.

Galloping fiercely toward the wall, the horse again dug his hoof heels firmly into the turf and to the crowd's great astonishment

distinctly

shook

his 

head 

from side-to-side as if to say

  "NO!

 I AM NOT GOING OVER THAT WALL!"

The horse then veered sharply to the right avoiding the 'brick' barricade, flinging the horseman off the saddle. As the rider dangled on the side of his mount, audible gasps from the stands expressed fright that he might lose grip, fall and be trampled. 

To our great relief (no doubt to his, too) the horseman recovered with no injury to his body. I can't say the same for his psyche from the dramatic and disappointing defeat. But, hey, he came in second,  and lived to tell it.

Nothing coming over the wall

 It was the most audacious thing I'd ever seen a thoroughbred do. This creature broke all the stereotypes that purport that horses have a small brain!

What a night at the Equestrian arena! We're definitely going next year!

Incredible Shrinking Me

"Narrow is the mansion of my heart."

So said St. Augustine.

"Enlarge Thou it..."

I read on in his surprisingly relevant, though ancient autobiography, The Confessions of Saint Augustine.

If this house of my heart were any smaller, it would hold no air to sustain me. Suffocating, I grasp and clutch and crave things, beauty, possessions, that make it a cluttered, selfish, little hovel.

This small space.

"Enlarge Thou it, that Thou mayest enter in," he writes on.

My own stunted heart teeters on arrest when the notion of generosity comes knocking. This strange guest at my door, uninvited.

I.
want.
so.
much.

Do I let this newcomer in? Do I allow altruism in to remove the piles of hoarded trash that make it hard to move around, to live, let alone give as I was intended to give?

Sweaty palms unlatch the lock and slowly let the breeze of benevolence move the stale air of a closed, windows-shut-tight, curtains drawn, dark abode.

Then something unusual happens. The pent up air stirs, flows, then escapes as if from a vacuum-packed can, this windowless solitary confinement prison cell.

 My arteries, clogged with discontent and greed, on the brink of failure, plagued with chronic arrythmia, might benefit from the defibrillation of giving.

Blinding light accompanies this uncommon guest. I rush to clean the newly revealed dust and move the messes into already bursting closets, no where to hide it all. Exposed. Ashamed. I shrink to the size of my surroundings until I am spent, small, and overcome by the utter despair of stuff.

The saving of my self-centered, withered soul is to give. Open handed, what I have, little as it may be. Not just tangible gifts, like change to the beggar or coffee to a friend. But forgiveness to a relative, and mercy to my teenager, the benefit of a doubt to my husband.

So renovate this dwelling place of my life-source. Add a room or two. Not to fill with more purses or sets of dishes,

But. To. Fill. With. You.    Great, Generous God.

And dazzle me with the heart-flipping joy that comes with seeing the smile of a homeless person. Let me sense the long overdue relief of a friendship restored.

Enlarge my heart, to make room for all You are and want to be in me.

And maybe someday my cardboard shack-of-a-heart might make it into an issue of heaven's House Beautiful magazine...

My Summer Memories

Hers was The real Voice.

Radio and recordings didn't do justice to its nuclear sound.

I discovered that the first time I heard Donna Summer sing  live; her vocal timbre as large as the Santa Monica mountain range with peaks and vales just as wide.Not only did her voluminous voice turn heads,

it stopped birds in flight.

At a rehearsal for a women's conference in late '80's, Donna told the story of how she was singing  in the courtyard of her Westlake Village home (named "Holywood Ranch"). A bird flying by stopped mid-air and jerked his head toward her at the sound her striking song. She wasn't boasting. She was matter-of-factly relaying an unusual experience. Her crazy-big vocals just happened to be the main point.

Most remember her belting out Bad Girls, Last Dance and On the Radio. I connected to some later songs: Dinner with Gershwin, Forgive Me and Everybody up to the Dance Floor.

She also had a lesser known gospel side. During  the women's conference performance, where I sang back-up, she joked how we four resembled an Oreo cookie--she and her African-American sister flanking me and my Caucasian friend.  We sang Gospel classics like Operator, Give me Jesus on the Line, I Anticipate A Miracle, and I Worship You Almighty God. Man, could she sing the last one! I remember accompanying her at Gateway Foursquare church in Agoura Hills where both our families attended.

But my gospel favorite was "His Eye is On the Sparrow".

Here's the chart I wrote to accompany her when she  performed at a black mega-church in L.A. Her personal assistant, Gina, had asked me to write it.

We musicians joked about how we'd like to have a 'Gina' - she cooked, drove the kids and kept Donna's schedule together.

I fought rush-hour traffic from Thousand Oaks to Crenshaw, got lost in the worst part of South Central LA off the10 freeway, (not far from where they had the Rodney King incident a few months later) and made the rehearsal an hour late. I repeated the drive the next morning to play at Fred Price's charismatic church service,  which was an experience in itself!

She invited my husband and me to the induction of her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The reception at a nearby hotel was delightful with its made-to-order pasta station and coffee bar complete with whipped cream and raspberries. I remember lots of beautiful people and Hollywood buzz in the room. Someone thought I was an actress. Ha, mother of two that I was. She was busy with several interviews and photo ops, but still made time to come by our table to say 'hello,' joke with my husband and make small talk. She had a great sense of humor and was so down to earth considering the super-star that she was.

Her husband Bruce Sudano was friendly, very grounded, and a musician/songwriter in his own right.
He would sometimes call Donna by her real name, "Adrian."

I was honored to have sung and played with her, but was so out of her league, in more ways than one.
What we did share were things dear to my heart: faith, music, and children of similar ages.

Most obvious was our artistic and economic disparity. Did I mention she was a painter? Forgive me if this next story is a little gauche. (Read my daughter's blog for a more tasteful and spiritual take on her memories of Donna: http://aprilmccullohs.com/donna-summer-how-i-knew-her#comment-250).

One afternoon while rehearsing at Donna's house, I complimented her very large embroidered rug (that incidentally covered only half of her enormous living room). She casually commented back,
"Thanks. I'm thinking of changing the rug out for the Spring. "Do you do that?" she asked me.

Before I had a chance to give an awkward answer, her husband, Bruce came to the rescue and deflected the conversation. I was spared from having to explain that I was lucky to have one nice living room rug for my 2-bedroom apartment, much less two to change out seasonally!

She possessed a kind of humble obliviousness to certain things; mostly how staggeringly great her own voice was.

Now she's made her debut appearance in Heaven. I wonder if it included a duet with Whitney Houston,  Ella Fitzgerald or other great singers gone before her!

I bet the sound of her epic voice is turning heads everywhere.

Even stopping angels in flight!!

The Art of Falling

Clumsy is what I am.

Spatially impaired.

All my life I  have physically slipped and tripped so many times I think I've nearly perfected the art of falling.

 My mother even sent me to Charm School!! What  I remember at age 11 or 12 was going to the department store sponsored classes (Was it The Broadway?), getting a lot of cool, free Bonnie Belle cosmetics, picking out outfits upstairs for the fashion show and yes, I remember being taught how to walk properly on the runway.

Little good that did!!

Stumbling, losing balance, reeling backwards and sideways, running into doorjambs, and hitting my head on low ceilings, etc, etc. I have practiced these so often that they have become a dance-step, a hip-hop move, a gymnast's tumble and cheerleader's flip.

Family reinforced my malady every time I broke an heirloom plate or crystal glass. :(

Yesterday, while working an event, walking too fast, my heel skidded sideways about 24 inches, then righted itself, leaving a nice black tire track on the Pergo floors. "Oh! You Ok? .....That was a graceful recovery,"  a kind bystander reacted.

And there was the time I fell backwards off a 3 ft high stage while playing a 5/4 time jazz version of 'O Come All Ye Faithful' at a Christmas Eve service. Groovin' to the music, my heel missed the platform and I plunged backward. To the great surprise of the pastor sitting behind, I landed on my feet. Went right back on the stage, took a flamboyant bow and joined the band to finish the song. The worst part was trying to recover as if nothing had happened. Attempting to mask my mortification, I smiled weakly and kept playing the keyboard, freaking out inside.

It is so tempting to blame high heels, sticky soles, slick floors, narrow doorways, and low soffatts. My knee-jerk reaction is to make excuses, to find fault in exterior circumstances or make others the scape goat - instead of taking responsibility for being careless and negligent.

And so it is with our walk with Christ.

It's all about learning to gracefully recover from our failures, flaws, and faux pas. To own the error, bungling ways, humanness, and personal penchant for selfcenteredness.

It's getting back on the jumper horse after catapulting headlong into the turf. (Which I have done). It's shaking off debilitating shame when we have fallen for a familiar temptation. (Which I have also done ). It's allowing the grace of God to get us up again...
                                                             
and again.....
                                                                                                                  
and again.

Do we fall on our faces and just stay there? Do we allow shame and hopelessness to keep us paralyzed in our spiritual journey? To keep us enslaved to sin?

What if ,when we fall, we fall at the foot of the Cross .....allowing mercy to raise us up again?

What if, while we are laying there injured from the crash, we get on our knees and confess, find healing and the will to stand?

Of course, we should never take the grace of God for granted and premeditate rebelling knowing He forgives. Although He restores and rehabilitates, consequences remain. A hard fall always leaves a mark;  a scar we wear all our lives.

That, I believe is perfecting the art of falling; a necessary discipline in walking with Jesus.

Took the slippery slope

Displaced trust and hope

Empty promises abound

Still in spite of it all

Mercy caught my fall

Before I ever hit the ground

When I fall

I'm falling at Your cross

Perfecting the art of falling

I'm falling on my knees

Perfecting the art of falling

Fall at the feet

of Jesus

Tents and Tabernacles

I've been here before. Standing in a high pitched tent with the people of God. 

 As the music starts, I sense Him near. Feeling His indescribably sweet presence. Heavy like the arbor of tree branches. Warm like the hearth of a fire. We bask in the anticipation that something epic is about to happen. Standing on the cusp of a new spiritual work.

38 years ago it was a grey big top. The shelter and temporary church where the 'Jesus People' transitioned from the Little Chapel to the new 4000 seat Calvary Chapel sanctuary.  We were caught in the tidal wave of God's move then. Swept away by a force we had no control of. Grateful and honored to have been included. Some of us sang, played instruments, preached, hosted radio shows, lead Bible studies, street witnessed in Hollywood and Huntington, or just picked up cigarette butts around the church grounds. 

All the while we fed on the Word. We worshiped arm in arm with brothers and sisters, overwhelmed with joy and blessing.  

 (My parents outside the tent  Easter 1972 or '73, Costa Mesa, California)

Today it was a white open sided 5-peaked tent. We took our weekly church staff meeting offsite to celebrate the newly acquired 132 acres in Martin county. It was an unusually cold late April morning; in the lower 50's as we gathered for breakfast, worship and prayer to dedicate the place. Asking God to do mighty things with the land.

There's something powerful that occurs when God's people purpose to build a house for his Name. (I Kings 5:5). Solomon did it and the crowd could not stay standing at the dedication ceremony because of His glory in that place.

When Moses went to the 'tent of Meeting' to meet God the cloud of His presence was visible to all of Israel as they watched from their own tents. The invitation for his Face to shine upon them was for each and every one,  not just Moses (Numbers 6:25). God wanted to meet them all in their earthly abode.....and so we did today.

And here's an amazing side thought: This earthly tent, our physical being, is meant to be His dwelling place. Our bodies, the temple of God!!! And together, we are living stones built up to be his Church!

God has shown up in tents and tabernacles all through HisStory. I witnessed a great work in the 70's with the Jesus Movement.

And I'm gonna stand back and watch it all happen again...

Half-time & Humidity, Heaven & Hell

Half-time.

Not the show between football's 2nd & 3rd quarter where Madonna, Nicki Minaj and Cee Lo break it down. But,
that age bracket between being younger and older.
Mid-life, middle age, hot flashes. When the latter exists with the dense humidity of Florida weather it is

Not a good combination.

It's this panicky sense of suffocating when brick-oven heat of the body, waves of warmth emanating from flushed skin, is met with the torrid dampness of breathless air. You are trapped! Confined to a locked sauna, simmering in a lidded pan of steamed tomatoes, capped tightly in a bottle of hot sauce.

Hot flashes + humidity = personal hell.

Funny that the Bermuda triangle isn't far from this southernmost part of the continent, the purported portal into the devious place. We live in precarious proximity to Hades.The conjectured doorway of that burning abode is way too close for comfort. It's so hot here, I wouldn't be surprised if some canal connected us to it, some underground steamy river lead to its hungry gate.

Florida was not made for women in mid-life.

Not sure if it was made for any human form. Maybe for armadillos, anhingas and alligators. But not for Homo Sapiens.

The masses only migrated when the miracle of air conditioners became widespread in the 60's. Northerners came to escape their eternal winters. Only then did the climate become tolerable except for during the short winter months.

God knows how the native Americans and the early twentieth century settlers survived it!! Perhaps because they stayed coastal. But even an Atlantic beach residence is belying. No climate relief there. Just more sultry air with a generous pinch of salt. Not like the California coast where the Arctic current tempers the arid land, and turns desert days into refreshing evenings.

The A/C runs 24/7 except for the sweet month of February when the hot wet air leaves for a few weeks. One can open their windows , enjoy gardening and outdoor activities without becoming a ball of sweat or having to resist the indecent urge to lift your blouse to air your belly or the temptation to toss the top off entirely.

So 10 months out of the year the ceiling fan saves my sleep and the thermostat on 75 saves my days. I will survive the hormonal havoc somehow. My Massachusetts/California bred mother
said that living in FL was like living in a warm, wet sponge. She could only stand it for two years, then fled back to San Diego.

Maybe someday I'll hop a plane home to California. You'll find me in Balboa, Laguna or Huntington. Just try to pry me off the beach. I'll stroll the shore and when the internal heat wave assaults, I'll be cool and comfortable thanks to that heavenly Pacific breeze.

The Self-Medicator's 23rd Psalm

Were we not saddened to tears at the report? Dumbfounded in disbelief? At the loss of our sweet Whitney and her powerful "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" voice?

My mind refuses to picture the sight of her sad end. How did she come to this? How do we get to that?

Years ago, after my breast surgery when my 5 children spanned age 2 - 14, I was prescribed Tylenol with Codeine for pain.

Man, that little pill not only relieved my soreness, it totally took the edge off of mothering!!! I could handle the kids' constant noise and needs. It smoothed out the irritations and stress of the day. I could see how someone could get used to that, get addicted to those things. How easy to become the subject in Mick Jagger's old song:

"She goes runnin' to the shelter of her mother's little helper
And it helps her on her way
Gets her through her busy day"

Even my daughter in L.A said most her friends take something to help them tolerate their toddlers.

There go we all, but by the grace of God!

No judgement to Whitney or anyone else for self-medicating to level their physical imbalances. But we who are a part of this Prozac-Nation, would be fools to observe this tragedy and not to search ourselves. Not ask a few questions.

Why do we all feel so bad that we crave a moment's feel-good no matter the cost? Are prescription drugs really less harmful than illegal substances? How did our mothers and grandmothers cope? And for those like Whitney who were brought up to know Jesus,

is He really enough?
Is Jesus really enough?

Those of us reared in similar Baptist churches and who probably memorized the 23rd Psalm might ask ourselves,

Is He really the Shepherd who gives us relief and rest and peace?

The Self-Medicator's 23rd Psalm

The Lord is my Xanax.
I shall not panic.

He makes me lie down in green pastures
He restores my soul

He leads me to do the right thing
Walk the right road
Say the right things
For His name's sake

Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of depression
I will take no Prozac,

For Thou art with me
Your rod and Your staff
Your boundaries and disciplines
They comfort me
Secure and ground me

Keep me safe

I will not seek any other place of comfort or relief
Run to any other Shelter
Drink from any other cauldron of deceit
Salacious substitutes of the true Comforter
Dubious shadows of the genuine Helper
Shackling, chaining, sometimes to untimely ends

Thou preparest a banquet before me
In the presence of those who'd do me harm
When danger is all around, I feast on Your utter goodness

You anoint my head with oil,
I can't contain my happiness
Percolating joy
True fountains of gladness
From deep well springs
I'm alive with joy!

Surely goodness and mercy will follow me
All the days of my life
And I will really live
Dwell, thrive in His heaven on earth and Beyond
in the House of the Lord
His Presence with me
Forever, Celexa-free!!!

Pray, Pray, Pray

Every New year it's the same resolution. And it's about February when 2012 resolves fall by the wayside, drop off the radar, are lorded over by laziness. For 2012 I had promised myself

To PRAY more.

Not to R E A D more books about prayer by spiritual greats like Charles Spurgeon (12 Sermons on Prayer), Jack Hayford (Prayer is Invading the Impossible), Andrew Murray (Intercessory Prayer), Stormie Omartian (The Power of the Praying Parent/Wife/Woman/etc.), A.W.Tozer (The Pursuit of God), Beth Moore (Praying God's Word) to name a few...as good as they are...

B u t, to P R A Y more often

Just T A L K to G O D,
All day long,
Everyday.

"Pray without ceasing, Pray at all times. Paul the Apostle said. "Be constant in Prayer". Jesus said, "...they ought always to pray, and not lose heart." And He repeatedly invites us to persist, to trouble Him, ask, seek, knock.

In short, the parables describe a praying person as a perfect nuisance.

It may not be okay with your husband or housemate, but it's okay with God to be a nag!!! I'm allowed! :) :)

Daily concerns can assault like rapid-fire weapons. Preying on my tendency to indulge my emotions to settle in on knee-jerk reactions of
anger
fear
worry
blame
anxiety
coveting
resentment
manipulating
conniving, (Geez, I'm messed up!)

Resisting the onslaught by appealing my Maker sends the fretting flying, freeing me to enjoy peace
tranquility
contentment
kindness
gentleness
a deep-seated joy.

God's presence comes and quiets, calms, and clears my cluttered brain. And a hushed heart can hear prayer's answer, the next step, the clarion solution.

Quite often answers don't come.....and then there's the deep well of waiting.. '.Wait on the Lord.'
(Romans 12:12) This is where He sculpts, shapes, and performs surgery on the sick parts of my soul until I am situated to see some new glistening facet of His heart and magnificent perspective on His ways. And a fresh revelation of who He is is what it's all about. That is life!!!

Persisting in prayer is not ordering Deity around. It should never be 'spiritual lust' as Oswald Chambers writes in My Utmost for His Highest. "Spiritual lust makes me demand an answer from God, instead of seeking God who gives the answer." (pg 38)

Remember in The Help when Aibileen is thinking about adding the 'separate bathrooms for blacks' issue to her prayer list: She says, "Cause that's the way prayer do. It's like electricity, it keeps things going". (pg 23)

We are mistaken to expect the answers to be revealed as lightening or thunder. They can appear so subtly, so interwoven in the normal conversations and occurrences of our day, we miss them and risk joining the ranks of the ungrateful.

Eat.Pray.Love.
is a fine worldview.

But Pray. Pray. Pray is better.
I have no problem eating ....and loving is as necessary as breathing.

Tragic events and personal crises get us praying easily. Weren't we surprised to hear LL Cool J open the Grammy Awards with prayer in response to Whitney Houston's untimely death? Pray on LL Cool J!! Along with the rest of us!

But most times, my self-sufficient, prideful, I'll-do-it-myself-my-way, autonomous, independent person bristles violently at the selflessness and submission required for prayer. Even though it is more vital than any other earthly activity.

So I will keep trying to make praying the first and foremost habit to form and maintain for February,
this year, 2012...
and the next...

and the next.

Old 2011- New 2012; Old Friends - New Friends

Enjoyed a sedate, yet sparkly New Year's Eve with

Old friends:

Holly Johns and family whom we met the first day of our kids' school in 1998...and...

New Friends:

Barry and Donna Stephan who moved in last year two doors down.

My last minute decision to have a New Year's Eve party had a hidden sequence I hadn't realized till typing just now, paralleling the night perfectly:

A night where we look past on the old year
and

forward to the New:
old friends - new friends.

At this point some may want to skip the dry personal anecdotes and move down to a slightly more interactive Beatles parody. If you went to the party, keep reading.

Breaking the rule of never practicing new recipes on guests, I served three new dishes: spanakopita, caprese salad and Creme Brulee. After a small adjustment of adding more feta to the second batch of spanakopita, it improved. Thanks to Holly, we had corn chips, homemade chili and wonderful chocolate dipped cookies to round out the New Year's buffet.

A rousing game of white board Pictionary tied up when Shelby Johns and I on opposing teams yelled simultaneously

"SMOG!"

to Donna's skillful sketch of lines in the sky, smoke from a chimney pushed up against a mountain. (My California roots with visions of a rusty San Fernando valley sky should have brought it faster to mind to win). Rather than do a tie-breaker, we amicably ended at a 15 /15 score.

Cody Johns rattled out "Hit the Road, Jack" on piano while we sang along.  Marcus Johns accompanied Shelby's beautiful Mariah Carey-like vocals while others constructed a fire out of 2010's Christmas tree in the patio fire pit. Pyromaniacs that we are, a heart-stopping "FUMP' made us jump as it ignited (couple drops of gasoline does the trick) and scared the daylights out of the new friends.

I justified forcing my Beatles parody of "Yesterday" on my captive guests prefacing that it was appropriate for New Year's and to which some middle-age contemporaries in the room might relate.

You remember the tune...:

Yesterday
All my wrinkles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they're here to stay
Oh, I believe in yesterday

Suddenly,
I'm not freezing like a used to be
Global warming has come over me
Yes, climate change comes suddenly!

Why I have to grow, I don't know
I couldn't say
Pounds keep piling on
Now I long for yesterday -a -a- ay

Yesterday
Looks were such an easy game to play
Now I pay big bucks to hide my grey
Oh, I believe in Yesterday
Hmm..hm, hm ,hm ,hm ,HM, HMM.

Martinelli's in champagne flutes. Tim switched OFF Lady Gaga singing in her spider-web, black cage-like-hour-glass costume. (NOT how we want to ring in the New Year, thank you.) Then switched back to watch the ball drop and kissed each other at midnight!! Two am bedtime.

On to tomorrow and year 2012 full of newborn, fresh experiences.

Happy New Year my friends!!!

Old and new.

Tell me about your New Year's celebration......

Winter in My Neighborhood

The fog rolled in this morning. I woke to see it, damp and gauzy.

My mother once pointed out how the mist quiets everything as it lays like a down comforter. I have appreciated that nuance ever since... how it muffles the morning noises: the clunking of car doors as neighbors leave for work, the traffic and birdsong, as if God depressed the huge una corda pedal on His piano and every earthly sound wave was subdued and dampened.

The lamb's wool atmosphere creates the acoustics likened to a recording booth where

tones hit a wall,

resonances recede

harmonics are rendered one dimensional.

Fog signals the arrival of Florida's winter. That's how one knows the season has turned. The mid-day warmth hardly indicates Indian Summer's end, as temperatures still hover in the low 80s and air conditioners run strong.

Another clue showing the change is the long silver trailers full of eager thoroughbreds, geldings and warmbloods arriving for the Winter Equestrian events.

That's when the expansive fields, sleepy barns and trainer's quarters come alive after summer's hot lull.

We who live in this British-named town welcome its winter visitors as they heed the call:

Wellington Calls! 

Jumpers while the sun is setting

Turf is tossed where hooves are treading

Palms and pines stand straight and tall

Hopefuls for the cup, they traveled

Roads of air and sea and gravel

Wellington Calls!

Morning glow on fields and ranches

Fog lays low on green expanses

Softly shrouding barns and stalls

Trainers from the mist emerging

Reins and horses gently urging

Wellington Calls!

Polo's afternoon attraction

Crowds erupt with loud reaction

Cantering roars like cannonballs

Riders, ponies bump and pivot

While we race to stomp the divots

Wellington Calls!

Regal Dressage elegances

Hunters clear the rails and fences

Embrace the speed, renounce the falls

Audiences line arenas

Hats, high boots complete the scene as

Wellington Calls!

Hopeful hearts for purse and prizes

Pain rewarded, dreams realizing

Chance to grace museum walls

The equine captivates and courts us

Both spectator and skilled sportsman

Wellington Calls!

Angela Shaw

(Inspired by Will Oglevie's Aintree Calls)