Jaci Dawn

I cried out to God and God answered me.

Sounds like something the Psalmist would write. I love the Psalms and often live my life through them. The Psalmist (usually attributed to David, King of Israel, but sometimes some unknown author) speaks of my struggles, despairs, hopes, and dreams. They are the most human collection of essays and poems in the Bible (preferably in King James, but either of the Revised Standard editions will do: English or American. All other translations lose their poetic value in my opinion – and the poetry is important. It’s like trying to read Shakespeare or John Donne in a “modern translation”: it doesn’t work).

Enough on the Biblical: I cried out to God. I sat in a lawn chair,catching as much Vitamin D as the weather allowed, and I called out.

I Need Healing. I need to move forward. Not “on”. I know I will never move “on” – I lost a child. I cannot stay in this Valley of Death forever. I sit and do nothing. I take pleasure in nothing. I am fading I have grandchildren, a daughter, a daughter-in-law, and a husband to live for. I *need* to create. I need *something*.

In general, that was what I prayed. Or Thought (being Methodist by up-bringing, I rarely pray out loud. Prayer is more of a thinking way of communicating with a Being you believe is able to even read your mind). A good Being as somehow an Evil Being cannot read your mind, but only interpret your actions. Theology left up to debate, I suppose, but a theology that has never left me and has always worked for me.

I don’t know how many days or hours later that I received an Instant Message from a contact I had spoken to several times two years ago. I first met her three years ago, around a campfire at an outdoor beer place. She was dressed in jodhpurs and boots and was drinking with other women dressed similarly. They were sweaty, tired, and horse-dirty, but they were smiling and friendly. They were not the snobbish sort of horse people you can run into, the ones with too much money or too much prejudice in a certain breed of horse (although they did have that prejudice). Down-to-earth people.

Dusty runs a non-profit Arabian horse rescue. I love Arabians, but I rarely love Arabian horse owners. There’s a certain snobbery that comes with horse people who love a particular breed over all others, and Arabian horse owners can be among the worse. But that wasn’t Dusty or her companions. I checked out the rescue a couple times, went to a volunteer orientation, took a few photos, and even painted a couple paintings for an auction to raise money for the rescue. But it wasn’t the time. I have this small, still, inner Voice that tells me things like that. The timing was all wrong.

And whoever was supposed to call me never called. So I just let the idea fade away.

But here was Dusty on my Instant Messenger. Wanting to meet. Wanting to talk about art, sponsorship, and horses. Ah, horses. Arabians.

I drove out to the rescue for the first time in almost two years. I talked to Dusty. I told her where I am. I am the one who is broken and needs healing, not the horses. She brings in a lot of broken horses. She rescues from auctions and private owner surrenders. She gets horses that have been so traumatized they may never trust again. Most are Arabs, but some are not. Some are damaged physically as well as mentally. She gets people to sponsor a horse ($150/month) or feeding the lot (say, $20/month). She campaigns for donations for vet bills and auction bills (she might run an auction bid request to save a particular horse for $900 – just an example). She brings in mares with foals, mares in foal, and old Arabians past their prime with plenty of life still in them. Retired endurance horses. An old horse with Coggins disease (it’s awful: the horse walks on its ankles). Old pets sent to auction and horses “too wild” for the current owner.

We talked. We toured the facilities (again, but one-on-one this time). She gave me her vision. She doesn’t care if I don’t want to muck stalls. The idea is to paint the horses, create a marketing plan with horse posters and paintings (“anyone can take a photo and make it look great” – Dusty). Ceramic mugs. Things to get you excited about helping out horses with no other recourse than the auction.

THE AUCTION.

This is where horses are bought and sold, right? And killed. You didn’t know that? Meat buyers haunt auctions. There are legitimate buyers who go to auctions, but there are always meat buyers. They buy up the horses that don’t get bid on and load them into trucks bound for Mexico and slaughter. It is inhumane. I can’t even go into how awful it it=s: someone’s old beloved pet pushed into a truck with dozens of other frightened animals and hauled hundreds of miles in crowded and dark conditions.

Horses are highly intelligent, highly emotional. They connect with humans like cats or dogs. They are inherently gentle giants.They are ballerinas, dancers, jumpers, racers, lovers, competitors, and always friends.

Dusty is only one rescue and she works specifically with Arabians (although she takes in the occasional non-Arabian). Arabs are the aristocrats of horsedom. One of the oldest breeds. The purest breed. The breed that everyone else uses to strengthen their own horse lineage. They are small among breeds but mighty in genetics. They are unique. I’m not going to bother with how unique they are right now, but they are unique and the foundation of many a current horse breed.

The point of this blog is this; I accepted the idea. I accepted the commission. I stepped out of my comfort zone (we’ll talk later about the imposter syndrome). I am going for it. Horses. Healing. Art.

Arabian Horse Rescue Education. You can give via Amazon. I encourage you to follow on Facebook.

No art to be posted at this point in time/