Call me literal (I might not answer because that’s not my name), but I never understood why anyone would beat a dead horse. Coming from a long line of people who learn things the hard way, it took physically fighting a horse to get up from the ground and the ominous words of a stranger for me to figure it out. “It sounds mean, but we’ve beat the hell out of a horse to get ‘em up,” were the wise words of a kind man who had driven for miles to help us try to lift my mother’s horse from the ground using straps and a front-end loading tractor.

I say my mother’s horse, but as you know, my mother is dead.

In fact, just days earlier my dad had shared the news with me: “your mom left the horse to you in her will.”

Some of you may be wondering why there was a horse in the will to begin with. I’m not sure I can answer to anyone’s satisfaction, but I can provide some context.

Until I was about 5 years old, my parents kept horses on the farm where my father was raised. Memories from this time are scarce and arrive only in little glimpses here and there. With eyes closed tight, I haul the remnants of a distant moment from the depths of the well of my heart: the aromatic speckles of dusty, warm sunshine emanating from a sandy mane.

Though I recall little about them, both of my parents grew up around horses. In her heyday, my mother was an avid trail rider and had always loved animals with the eagerness of a reckless child. So, the story goes: after my grandmother died, my mother needed something more to live for. My father, a carpenter born on the 25th of December in the year 1946, would have done anything to make her happy. He built several structures (the same way he builds everything: with a hammer & a nail) for shelter, hay, and a tack room for the horse. One fine summer day, I came home from a trip to Europe to find a horse in the yard.

on 120 velvia

Though I wouldn't have chosen it for myself, our relationship to the horse built a bridge between my mother and me that allowed us to shared many touching moments that gave me a deeper level of understanding of my mother. Our relationship to the horse built a bridge between us and in a way, I think that may have been the point.

My mother’s joy was most palpable when she put on pants “for the first time in 35 years” so that she could ride her horse. It was a big deal.

*disclaimer: My mother, a storyteller, often used hyperbole to draw emphasis to her point. I do not know if it had really been 35 years since she put on pants just like I don’t really know that the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck 8 times when I was born (that seems a bit excessive to me, is the umbilical cord even that long?); we don’t get to know everything.

when i thought she might not come back

on 120 velvia

Just about everything I learned about riding happened in real time. Sandy (of course my mother named her that) certainly had moments of defiance, but I learned that if I was more stubborn than her, we could work well together. Besides, we wanted the same things for the most part. She wanted to eat as much grass as possible as soon as she could get to it. This was okay by me, except that I didn’t really like hanging out in ditches along the roadside. If we pushed a little further down the road, there would be fields of grass to graze on while I lie on a blanket reading or writing or taking photos or collecting plants & rocks.

These were among the most precious moments we spent together: wandering through the woods, startling deer and armadillo, upsetting all the dogs in the neighborhood and racing passersby in their automobiles. When she broke into a full gallop, our bodies drumming in harmony against the wind, she brought me the closest I have ever been to feeling free and the closest I will ever be to taking flight.

Still, it is her smell that I will miss most.

the woods as a cathedral / the fading day as stained glass

on 120 velvia

when i say i love it here

i mean every rock

every tree

the dirt and the slow trickle of drying-up creeks

even the way the land grows again-

entire ecosystems destroyed for development and mass production-

crooked wildflowers in a scathed landscape

resistance as hairline fractures of hope

a thought recurring

Since learning that my mother had, in fact, left me the horse, I started looking into boarding options. I was told that a friend of mine’s family was moving forward with their plans to purchase land for a horse farm and I was eager to discuss it with them. In the meantime, my father and I talked about moving her to our family farm a few miles down the road.

when we were free

Friday, March 14th was an extraordinary day. It was the last day of class before Spring Break, the weather was marvelous, and good fortune brought about a couple of random but meaningful interactions with dear, old friends.

I don't often get calls from folks needing a ride all the way out here in Chappells, but when I do, it’s probably from a holloway. jon and David had been out by the Saluda River photographing the Blood Moon the night before when their trucks, by some mysterious means, got stuck in the mud (Sasquatch?). After spending the night in the cabin, jon called me to help him get to their lake place to retrieve the tractor (how are there already two tractors in this story?). Despite their misfortune, I was overjoyed to spend a few minutes in the car with one of my favorite humans. And to watch jon driving the old tractor off into the great wild yonder? Glorious. I took the experience to be a good omen. Perhaps I should have noticed that something was off when I saw that my climbing shorts were ripped right down the crack, but at the time I found the situation charming and took it as another good sign.

the impossible weight of it all pt. I

This is also the day that I had planned to meet Sarah in the park for a picnic lunch, except we literally couldn’t find each other. Picture it, the two of us hootin’ and hollerin’ on the phone trying to describe our locations to each other: “I’m in the grass below the suspension bridge-” met with “-I’m ON the suspension bridge!” (we were not describing the same bridge). Our time allowance for lunch had dwindled down to mere minutes by the time we actually found each other but we came back together after work and were finally able to catch up for the first time after having both recently lost a parent.

Sarah and I met in the 7th grade at Edgewood Middle School in Coach Floyd’s class (no relation). We wandered in and out of the same crowds and music scenes when we were young, but we really came to know each other during our first year of college at PTC. We found that we had a lot of similar life experiences & family dynamics growing up. Now, within months of each other, we are experiencing these eerily similar complex emotions regarding the death of our most complicated attachment figures. Our mutual understanding, this rare language we happen to share, feels profound and divinely designed.

The beauty of the whole day culminated that evening in the simple presence of being by the lake with the last light of the night and all the animals: three dogs, a cat, a horse, a goat (and two humans). The beginning of a new season coming to life. If this were a movie, we would queue the cheesy montage.

the impossible weight of it all pt. II

Saturday morning, March 15th, day one of spring break, I woke up to a phone call from my dad: “Something’s wrong with the horse, she won’t get up.”

blood moon

A young father dies from cancer. Someone's AA sponsor relapses & tries to kill themself. A girl cuts her hair in a manic fever.

Have I misread the signs?

11:50

little turtle

The day my mother died started like any of the days leading up to it: tending to the animals out at the lake, driving to Greenwood to sit with family for a while, driving to Greenville for work, and usually stopping back through Greenwood before heading home for the day.

While I was there, the doctor pointed out that mottling had started occurring up her left leg, we knew she was getting close, but there really is no way to know how long it will take someone to transition completely (& who or what determines that? Is the transition complete when the heart stops or when the brain stops or not until after all remnants of that physical body are consumed to help power the functioning of another body?)

It won't surprise you to learn that once I arrived, I had gotten swept away by the workday and missed the first call from my father. Returning to my office a few minutes later, I realized there was an incoming call from my brother. “11:50” were the only words required for me to understand that my mother was gone. She had been gone for 8 minutes. I found myself suddenly preoccupied with counting the time, as if her last breath was just the last breath until the next breath; a long pause between inhales and exhales in an endless meditation.

17 minutes. Somehow it still feels reversible at 17 minutes.

The space around me suddenly felt big and empty. I found comfort in knowing that the rest of my immediate family was there with her and that both of my brothers had seen her take her final breath- the second most precious moment in her life.

I figure I must have been in shock, but being a Floyd, it was my duty to throw myself into my work and avoid feeling any emotion whatsoever.

Earlier that morning, Karen had reminded me of an art reception in Clemson where Elizabeth Snipes, along with several others, would be exhibiting and talking about their work. If you've ever heard Elizabeth talk about making art, you know how healing and comforting such conversations can be.

This is how I came to see Andrea Feeser for the first time in several years- a span of time marked by a number of significant losses in both of our lives. During our conversation at the reception, she shared that she had discovered a new genre of fiction that she loved which she called “gothic western.” Over the years, Andrea has given me the gift of many books, resources for research and opportunities to collaborate on projects. This has been the nature of our relationship since I had her for graduate level art history courses a decade ago. She was instrumental in helping shape my thesis research. My point? A book recommendation from Andrea Feeser is the gold standard.

Our book, Red Rabbit, follows a gang of misfits on a perilous quest to collect the bounty for the alleged extermination of an accused witch. Red Dead Redemption meets Lord of the Rings (with strong tones of Wynonna Earp and Hell on Wheels)!!! Beautifully written gore describing the moment a man is stabbed to death: “he looked down to see a red rose blooming on his white shirt.” A chaotic demon wreaks havoc as he closes in on the gang, burping up frogs all along his journey. (The demon can burp up a frog that will crawl into the mouth of his kept familiar so that he may take possession of their body.

I thought about this story a lot during the weekend when the horse went down.

'Beating a dead horse' expresses a desperate attempt to rally her to get her ass up. They aren’t built to be on the ground for extended periods of time. After too long, with their limbs deadened by their massive weight, they just can’t get back up. The vet had actually called it when he came out on the first day: “once a horse is on the ground, they go in the ground.”

He gave her an anti-inflammatory injection with an extra syringe for repeating the dosage the next day. We spent the rest of the weekend propping her up, rolling her over, cleaning the mud off her face, pushing her, pulling her trying to keep her blood flowing while digging and scooting trying to create space and traction. By the end of it, she wasn’t willing to try anymore.

The impossible weight of it all.

While digging in the mud beneath the horse at the height of the struggle, I found a small treasure beneath her legs. It was round in form, dark with a touch of yellow, and looked manmade at first glance. As I brought it closer to my face, I started to make out the shapes of little outstretched claws. The smallest turtle hatchling Karen and I had ever seen scraping for life beneath the dying weight of a thousand-pound horse. Continuing my work, I held the tiny turtle out to Karen who, squealing with excitement, set it free at the edge of the barnyard in the direction of the lake.

I brushed my mother's hair a lot when she was dying. It's something she would have us do when we were kids. And when I say "us," I mean I still run into grown men that were her former students who will say "man, I used to brush your mama's hair at recess!" It is one of the last things she was able to ask for, and of the things she did ask for in those final hours, it was one of the only things I could actually do. Her hair was eerily similar to Sandy's mane and I found that brushing the horse brought me a lot of comfort after my mother died.

processing

Losing the horse was like losing my mother all over again. As I sit in the quiet of her absence, I can't help but wonder, why did my mother ever stop doing the things she loved?

love letters to friends

I have come to think of these essays as love letters to my friends and want to explore ways to make this space feel engaging, collaborative, & supportive of all our amazing projects & stories.

Mail me a letter! Let's share music and movies and books!

Easy starter prompts:

Rose/Rose/Thorn/Bud involves sharing

two roses - things you are grateful for

thorn - a place that you have felt stuck

bud - something you are looking forward to

Send me your go-to karaoke song for my “imaginary friend serenade” playlist on Spotify so I can imagine you singing to me (in a totally regular, normal way).

And because it brought me so much joy, I must share with you a letter from Sir Nicholas Jones:

“My Dear Friend Haley,

It’s 7:49 on the morning of February 23rd. I’m sitting at my desk feeling messy, tired and emotional. It’s still quite cold here. Snow lies on northern parts along the drive in as of last night. I’ve looked ahead and learned that the last frost in this area isn’t until April 11th (Bur!). You know, this has been my first adulthood winter. Winter as I knew it growing up, that is. Gosh, Haley! a clear night sky filled with stars and a full moon casting down their light onto these snow-covered pastures and hills in Deep Gap, NC…

Never have I felt my awe become so inspired. Alas, I do yearn to toil in the dirt this spring. I have high hopes of growing a butterfly garden.

I am looking back over the letter you wrote me. It gives me warmth and care to recite your hand-written words in my heart. In all honesty, I feel like it has been difficult to experience emotions these last few months. Fulfilling the means of survival is demanding sometimes, however, being back on this mountain with a year of seasons ahead of me, I again feel the opportunity to gaze inward.

I’ve turned thirty-seven. Those sacred numbers seem to be bringing a lot of emotions to the surface. They seem to be tied to purpose and the various lives I’ve lived already. I think I always worry about the amount of good I’ve done. I will say with certainty how uncertain the future will be but I’m excited for the part I will play.

Well, I guess this is as good a segue as any. Haley, your mom died. According to a statistic I’ve read recently, we have our parents in our lives for an average of 50 years (from a book called “High Conflict”). As your friend, I would that you were average in this metric. I also wish that I could be there and share in your friendship at a time like this. I hope that these words are as helpful to you as yours have been for me.

I recollect the example of the love and care you had for your mom. I count myself lucky to witness you creating a portrait of her, Peanut & Jack(?) How you navigated your relationship continues to inspire me.”

beating a dead horse

love letters to friends

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