Kristine E. Brickey

 It was the agreement we made. He was supposed to live forever, or at least as long as I did. But today, February 27, 2023 at 12:30 p.m. I had to let my sweet Nick go to greener pastures.  He was the best donkey, his presence here on my little farm all Robbie's idea to keep Snickers company. Those who know me well probably remember that I first met Nick the day my son died, that Robbie was supposed to meet me at Turning Pointe Donkey Rescue that day so we could meet Nick together. But Robbie never made it there, and then my world fell apart.  About a month later, I brought Nick home. He had been terribly abused, nearly starved to death when TPDR's then president found him tied to a post inside a burned out barn in Shipshewana. Physically, he was improved, but emotionally and mentally Nick was still broken, wary, afraid, and cautious.  Today, I laid in the barn with my ailing fifty plus year old friend saying good-bye. I remembered moments from our thirteen years toge...

Anyone else out there a New Amsterdam viewer? No? Guess the show isn't what matters so much as what happened while I watched the most recent episode. I woke early, an ache and discomfort in my neck and shoulders keeping me from falling back to sleep. Figured I would watch the dvr'd episode, one of the final in the final season...one of the best, in my opinion.  So I sat in the dark, television glowing, the only light in the deep dark of a January morning. A group of doctors on a spur of the moment guided hike up a mountain, resulting, of course, in a fall by the guide, life threatening. In the other plot thread, a doctor operates on a dear friend's only son, additionally hampered by life threatening radiation exposure. Life, or death. The hiking doctors must amputate the guide's foot to free her from the boulder pinning her down, in order to save her from certain death as a rock slide is imminent. The heart surgeon must stay to revive the boy's heart while the radia...

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...