Kristine E. Brickey

This morning the winds  have blown sections bare and left  drifting in others.  Visibility  last night, zero, this morning  crisp, clear untouched snow  A sliver of moon  watching from behind moody  clouds, hiding secrets.

"How was the Festival?" So many have asked since I returned from Lexington. Three full days of horses, liberty, learning, and awestriking performances inside Kentucky Horse Park's Covered Arena. It's impossible to answer, to fully explain what happened in such a small time away from home, surrounded by like minded people where horses and their needs take precedence.  How was the Festival?  Quite possibly, life changing. I've committed to showing Cinder at Liberty Fest 2023, not because I like showing, but because the decision will motivate my diligence in our at home Liberty work and baby step progression to my ultimate goal: riding Cinder at Liberty. Each time I ride, I focus on less rein and more inner/leg/body/mind communication and guidance. As we weave our way through autumn trails, colorful leaves cascading upon us, I imagine the rides that require no bridle. A dark blue neck rope hangs inside my trailer, awaiting use, but I imagine it's thick braided pr

In September of 2020, Reality's Chance Rescue & Sanctuary traveled to Michigan's Upper Peninsula and rescued a group of Mustangs from what has been described as heinous living conditions. Five Mustangs. Panel corral. No free access to water. Clearly undernourished. Footing of at least a foot of, well, let's call it mudnure.  One of those horses was my own sweet little red mare, Cinderella's Story, aka Cinder. One of the others was Cappy, the sorrel paint I've recently begun working with at the Rescue. Cinder and Cappy have very different beginnings and middles of their stories, but I'm hoping they can both have a happily ever after ending. In order to build understanding and empathy for Mustangs and the power of rescue, I'd like to share Cappy's story. According to Cappy's paperwork, he was rounded up in Oregon by the BLM in 2016. His birth year was estimated at 2010, meaning Cappy lived wild on the range for at least his first six years. He was

 *Things have seemed a bit heavy lately: many dear friends suffering injuries and losses, and despite all the very positive accomplishments and days in general, I've found myself weeping at the slightest things.  I created this piece in July while attending the New Orleans Writing Marathon, the first since 2019, since 'the pandemic' closed down the world.  I've edited it a bit with possible family readers in mind, and though it might punch you in the belly somewhere around the middle, it ends on a beautiful note. It means a lot to me, and I hope it offers someone who might need it right now some peace and hope. 4:10PM @"The Seance Room" upstairs at Muriel's in Jackson Square w/Janice, Kate, and Jessica "Channeling Spirits"     Channeling the spirits. This was what I opened myself up to while on my way here from Michigan. Wearing my  pendant of ethereal, spiritual connection enhancing stone, I had readied my heart, head and notebook. Yet, these ar

Today is July 23rd. He would have been 29 years old today, officially as of 9:56 PM, the minute all 8 pounds, 12 ounces of my son made his arrival via c-section. Weeks overdue. Induced. All day labor. Emergency cesarean delivery.  I remember the moment he 'popped' out (literally, I heard the sound) and was soon after laid upon my chest. Somehow, I'd done it. My son was finally in the world with me. As my body's blood pressure dropped dangerously low, Robbie was scooped off of me and the doctors worked to save me. I survived his birth, and somehow I have survived his death. Twelve years, two months, and one week without him today. It seems impossible, but one thing I have learned the hard way is how much I am possible of each day.  People have told me too often how strong I am, and though I appreciate the thought, I know that nobody knows what they are capable of until they need to be capable of things they'd never imagined. 'Before', I couldn't imagine i

             I wished for a House of Dreams, but forgot that nightmares are dreams, too. Locked inside my head, unable to wake despite my screams, I moved forward, unable to go back. Sunflowers grew upward around me, trying to cage me inside their tree trunk sized stems. As their heavy, seeded flowers appeared overhead, the world around me darkened, hurrying my feet even as I tripped and stumbled over unseen roots. Colors full of meaning swirled, misty moisture collecting upon my face and bared arms. Raging red tinted my hair, firing images of war inside my head. But then, Orange optimism rained upon my cheeks, softening the powerful red, and I stilled, mesmerized with the changing tone. Wanting more, I tipped back my head and waited as Indigo descended upon my face and chest. Imagination filled me with mysteries never dreamed of before. I could have happily stay there forever, soaking them in. Yet, before I’d finished that thought, Blue floated around me, filling me with purpose and

 A line drawn in the dust The weeds had taken over my flower beds. Gone from home for only a few days, I returned to see amber waves of seeded grass stalking my poppies into submission. Coneflower and Indian Blankets, still green, but fighting for future purple and red-headed blooming were barely discernible inside weedy cages.  With a sigh, I surveyed the wreckage and headed to retrieve gloves and mini-tiller. It was already hot and it wasn’t quite eight a.m. There had been record breaking heat while I camped in Ohio, and clearly it hadn’t been easier here at home. Lugging the tiller over, I decided to first make an effort to clear some of the knee high stalks clear of the rotating blades, hoping to diminish the number of times I would need to stop, remove the pins, strip away gobs of matted stems glued with dirt, replace the blades, restart the temperamental machine, and continue. The flower beds silently begged me to hurry. Tugging at handfuls of grass made me feel like the un

Cinderella's Story, aka Cinder, officially became mine on April 25th, 2021. Since bringing her home on that lovely Sunday afternoon, there have been numerous adventures. All of them, each day we've spent together, whether in or out of the saddle, bring us to a deeper level of trust and understanding. One day, I will write our story, my personal "Cinderella's Story." For now, this small, incredibly significant story is one I absolutely have to share.      Friday, Cinder and I joined Rose and Indy for an 8.67 mile trail marking ride. Originally, I'd planned on camping but life has been crazy and too, too busy so I put myself on hold. The ride was perfect. Cinder took it all in: high winds, Milford Rd traffic, lawnmowers and deer, bicycles and dozens of campers setting up in the Kensington meadow.       After our ride, Cinder followed Indy's example and rolled in the sand before easily loading into our slant load two-horse trailer for the hour plus drive home

Some days are marked on the calendar with a sad face. Those are the days I know for certain are going to be extra grief-y, more difficult, blue days. Birthdays. Most holidays. Death-iversary.  Some days, however, hit out of the blue.                                                            My daughter is home for a visit. The other day, we were going through some boxes. Memories. Pictures. School work and report cards. Stories written in clunky kindergarten letters, phrases, and imaginations. It was lovely. I had prepped my heart for the job at hand. I was ready.  I don't do pictures anymore, but I loved sitting on the floor of my office, listening to K oohing and ahhing, laughing and sighing. Occasionally she shared a particularly interesting photo (in the olden days we actually printed pictures kids), and I was good.  I was fine. It was fine. Everything was fine. But then, K laughed. Hard. She pulled out the 'self-portrait' drawing Robbie had done, crayon, that chunky m

4, 3, 2, 1...days remaining until May 16th, until it is officially twelve years since my Robbie died. I have been busier than usual this year, unsuccessfully trying to convince my heart that it's not so bad this year, this impending death-iversary, that I'm not really spinning or dwelling on that most horrible of days. I am a liar. Robbie is in my thoughts every moment, awake and asleep. I don't wake screaming like I used to, and I take that as a win. I haven't broken down in the middle of Meijer in years, another mark of progress; but the memories are swirling, stirred up and whooshing inside of me now for weeks. I used to tamp them down, made it into a cheer in fact: Tamp it down, tamp it down, waayyyyy down! Poor coping device, by the way, always ending in explosive episodes when least expected.  So, no more tamping, but definitely brushing aside, like a wispy spider web string as I walk under my red maple to check my flower beds; but even brushing can only work so l

Wednesday began beautifully, an early trip to bring Chad back from Sparrow after his successful surgery the day before. It was a great morning, and in early afternoon the sun broke from the clouds to warm the outside air and begin drying muddy pastures. Eager to enjoy the unusually warm March weather, my steps were light as I went to my horse tack stored in the trailer, grabbed Cinder’s halter and lead, and headed to where she stood in the center paddock.  She always lets me approach, but I’ve noticed lately when I have the halter she isn’t as bright eyed and excited. I want her to come to me, for it to be a mutual connection, so I took my time, allowing her to walk her one or two steps before moving around her shoulder and urging her to draw to me. For awhile, Cinder stood at the back fence, calm, yet not ready to commit. Rather than rush her, I released a sigh, breathed away any negativity, and stood beside her watching the back fields together.  All was calm until her inquisitive na

     Dreams are bringing my lost ones back to me this week. It has been wonderful and difficult and each night fill my heart with soft melancholy and joy.       Sunday I spent a beautiful day with my Aunt Judy. We relaxed and chatted, laughed and remembered Robbie. She sent me home with a framed multi-photo that I'd given to my sweet Polish Grandma years ago. There are six pictures with Katie, Robbie, and I and each makes me smile even as I write this post. I wondered later if this visit was the catalyst for my dream.      That night I dreamt of Robbie. He was young, maybe 8 or 9, and we were together searching out a new martial arts gym for him, debating one over another. In the dream, Robbie was thoughtful and charming as he used his 'but Ma...' skills to convince me it was worth driving an hour each way to the gym he preferred. It was in Linden. I have no idea where these details came from, but in my dream it didn't matter. I woke, and it took a few minutes before I

          Today I am feeling rather lost and mucked down. Literally, mucked down in my pasture earlier this morning when I went out to take care of my horse and donkeys. As I pushed my feet into muck boots I could feel the angst. I shouldn’t have to wear these in February. I shouldn’t need to fight my way through sucking mud one step and the next fight to retain my balance as my skating rink pasture tries to land me on my ass.      Ironically, the inside of my barn is oozing water from around the south wall, my donkey’s stall floor seeping water from beneath, and yet…my water source, the red handled pull up never failed me yet well yielded nothing. So, insult of all universal insults, I had to tromp back through the mucky, ice slicked pasture to fill buckets with water. Normally, water inside the barn isn’t needed because my equines prefer to stay outdoors; but today, because of the warm wet downpours Mother Nature shared yesterday, I needed to bring them inside to eat and dry off befo

Fair warning, I need to be brutally forthcoming today. Please read or don’t read as necessary.  I’m not ashamed to admit that this post has been a victim of procrastination. Today is the two year anniversary of losing my brother to suicide. I am not ashamed of that either. Shame is, by definition, a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior. Shame is, in my opinion, why my brother got so wrapped up in and twisted by his thoughts that he lost sight of everything and everyone positive in his existence. Overcome by shame, he was unable to focus on all of the reasons he needed to stay. There is no logic in his death, though he must have logically felt he had no other options. Shame is tied to Guilt (the wasted emotion of a previous post). Shame is felt for things we do that we wish we could retrieve. When we shame ourselves or try to use it against others, it is a controlling device, an attempt to prevent future behaviors that cause

A couple weeks ago, I was urged to create a series of 'Emotional' posts after sharing my draft about Grief. Shame was thrown at me, as a topic not as a tool for persuasion. Last week I struggled day after day to write the post. I tried to force my ideas onto the page, yet nothing was clicking, so I finally decided to leave it alone and wait. Which brings me to this morning. After a convergence of 'wow, last week has been a bag of suck' from fellow artists, friends, and even my husband, I decided that today I would forge ahead, get back on the proverbial horse. Though I hadn't written my Morning Pages in ten days (a daily act according to the Artist's Way by Julia Cameron), I made myself pick up my pen and journal as soon as I rose. Next, the procrastinated Chapter 3: Recovering a Sense of Power. I'd intended to read it last week, but as I've admitted, ended up unmotivated. It was as if the Universe collided with my doubts and set about, as my dad used t

Lately, the topic of guilt has come up too often for me to ignore. Time after time, my lovely, kind, put others before themselves friends have shared situations that leave them guilt ridden.  For instance:       I need to visit my (mom/dad/grandparent/friend/etc.) but I'm really dreading it because (they treat me so horribly/I really can't afford it/they never appreciate me/etc.) but if I don't go I will feel guilty.       I have to (fill in the chore/task) for my (fill in the relationship) or they're going to be angry and I feel guilty when I tell them no. My normal response to friends who lament feeling guilty about something is to profess, "STOP IT! Guilt is a wasted emotion."  I say this confidently. I say this with conviction. I say this with the firm understanding of an incredibly important point: the only people who seem to feel guilty about things are the people who shouldn't feel guilty. The actual guilty parties flit onward, without a blink of