The Power of Story: Initiation into Vaultopia

The Power of Story:  Initiation Into Vaultopia

 

Stories are letters.  Letters sent to anybody or everybody.  But the best kind are meant to be read by a specific somebody.  When you read that kind you know you are eavesdropping.  You know a real person somewhere will read the same words you are reading and the story is that person's business and you are a ghost listening in.

John Edgar Wideman, Damballah

 

Let me tell you a story.  For all I have is a story.  Story passed from generation to generation, named Joy.  Told for the joy it gives the storyteller and the listener.  Joy inherent in the process of storytelling.  Whoever understands it also understands that a story, as distressing as it can  be in its joy, never takes anything away from anybody.  It's name, remember, is Joy.

Trinh T. Min-ha, Woman, Native, Other

 

                The other day (an evening in mid-January), a cadence tugged at my ears.  In the middle of a delightful conversation with other mothers sitting with me on the bleachers, I mentally shoved the tug away; I don't get many opportunities to be out and about because of my health, so I relish my time at the barn for yet another reason.  But the cadence became insistent.  I knew it represented something that matters a great deal to me.  Slowly, I shifted my attention from my group to find the source of that rhythm and all it signifies.  I found it out in the ring, surrounding the young vaulters as they stretched and did strengthening exercises on the mats.  It circled about their heads, tripped around the bobs of sit-ups and push-ups.  It enveloped them in something that could bring them together even more tightly as a unit, as a team.  I've written about the supportive nature of Technique as a whole as of the vaulters individually.  But this cadence, this voice, worked to create amongst them so much more.

                Storytellers used to hold one of the highest positions in all cultures--a position so vaunted and necessary that those who held those positions were considered to be the closest thing to heaven.  They literally held the future of not only each and every member of their society in their hands (or mouth, to be more specific) but the future of the society itself, as a whole, in the same breath.  They achieved this by knowing the past.  Without the stories of the past, without history, societies cannot continue as such--the absence of the stories which knit individual lives into a larger entity, a society, by connecting individual stories and moments together by offering paradigms that explain said experiences and give them context, meaningful context.  In my master's thesis, I wrote that stories function as a mother's comforting arms in the dark of night, shushing the fear and telling us to hold on, letting us know it is okay to hold on.  . .

                "And in the Land of  . . . " Jake continued in the cadence of story, story chanted and created orally, not read.  And I sighed with true pleasure, leaning back to hear how he planned to knit these kids together, allowing them to work in groups on horses and barrels instead of just individually.  Both Cambry and Jake come to coaching with insane natural talent for teaching, so I do not know if this storytelling, which has become a pattern at the beginning of class, is a deliberate choice to create in the team a sense of society, shared society, or if it seemed the right thing to do, but either way, the effect on the vaulters is palpable.  They perk their ears at certain phrases, at paricular parts of the story, and they show obvious delight when they are personally mentioned and woven into the story as themselves--the self perceived by the coaches.  Ari looks down, hiding the dimple in his upper cheek--the dimple that, when it shows itself, signifies true joy.  Dillon looks up, gazing at the storyteller with a grin that on every level shows his new zest for life, the absolute joy of not only being there but of belonging there.  Ian lifts his shoulders and tosses his head with pride, pride at succeeding at a younger age than the other boys but also pride in his social role in the group of cheer leader and self-designated assistant coach, a talent that comes quite naturally to one so young.  The girls, whose names I do not know quite as well, sometimes blush, sometimes giggle, and always look to each other for the return nod and smile, giving them permission to relish being singled out in positive and beautiful ways in the story. 

                The vaulters are too young to sit through a college discourse on the function of story in a society or a text-book explanation of the role story plays in a freestyle performance.  But this storytelling tradition Techinque uses teaches these crucial lessons in ways that will allow them to become part of the air these kids breathe without needing to explain why.  It allows Cambry to announce a theme for each of the trot teams and not have to explain the place the "story" plays in the theme and ultimately, therefore, in the routine.  But without that knowledge, I very much doubt the kids would connect to their part and its place in the whole as quickly as they seem to be understanding what the coaches ask of them.  This dynamic reminds me of an analogy Toni Morrison uses for story--telling a story is the act of excavating the site of memory and mixing "findings" or facts with imagination in order to find a truth--in this case, the truth is the routine, it's overarching storyline, the arc of its trajectory, as it were.

                These stories also create the coach-vaulter dynamic.  Every story in the world has at the very least two characters:  the storyteller (sometimes the narrator serves a double role and is the storyteller as well as the narrator, but not always) and the story listener.  Without the listener, the story could not exist as story.  It might exist as language, but not as story because a story MUST be heard (in most cases in a modern world, hearing comes through the act of reading).  Indeed, some argue (I among them, agreeing wholeheartedly with Jacques Derrida that the reader's/listener's role AS recipient lies in its role as signature, the storytelling situation being a contract, the last line of which is the signature of the listener/reader, signifying the reception of said story).  It is just that simple and so much more complicated than that.  But in this case, the storytelling establishes the coaches as the holders of knowledge, skill, and information necessary to success in this sport that combines the best of humanity and beast.  While the story is light-hearted and fun and told in a manner that connects to these young kids, Jake creates his own position as coach by being the storyteller, by BEING the storyteller, not reading a story or narrating another's story.  He gives the team the structure it needs:  it gives each vaulter a signficant role to play, and it gives the kids the structural paradigm that allows them to trust the coaches and their choices for them.  I think that Technique's relationship to story and its own story allows for the miracles I've witnessed in this barn and the events that originate in the barn.  I love, also, that the parents are invited to listen in, knowing that this story, this letter, is not addressed to us, but is addressed to someone specific, a someone dear to our hearts.   As far as team dynamics go, I believe this is one of the best ways to create a positive team dynamic, a finer way seldom seen.

                Keep the stories coming!

Burning Off the January Gloom

Burning Off the January Gloom

Los Angeles has a weather pattern that has become a social phenomenon.  Native Los Angeleans call it "June Gloom."  For a Colorado native and long-time Utah resident and, perhaps most significantly, the daughter of a meteorologist who taught his children to love the changing seasons, "June Gloom" baffled me.  in a nutshell, the ocean currents combined with the jet stream patterns create foggy, misty mornings and brilliant, sun-filled afternoons.  The metamorphosis from fog to sunshine is called "burning."  The sun literally burns the fog away.  It seemed to me the best thing L.A. had going for itself weather-wise--really, the only thing it had going for itself in the weather category from my perspective.  But, to use a cliche`, I digress.  January is, for me, the gloomiest of months.  It had nothing to do with the cold, snowy weather patterns that usually dominate the Rocky Mountain west in January (this winter being a huge exception); I quite enjoy the snow and cold temperatures (which might explain my position on the "June Gloom"ers in L.A..).  And it has nothing to do with setting unattainable goals and failing to stay the Resolution Course.  Indeed, I do not believe in New Year's Resolutions for one reason:  it seems to breed a laziness (yes; laziness).  You may wonder how.  Allow me one more digression.  Over the years, I have noticed a behavior pattern--an alarming one, really:  as a culture, we put off important, sometimes life-changing, indeed, at times, life-SAVING changes in behavior, until January 1st, even if we need to make the change in June.  And because we do this, we often allow the more insidious problem of excusing detrimental life choices in our light banter about the inevitable failure of New Year's Resolutions.  This is in no way to say that goals and resolutions are inherently bad or that I can come up with a totally new paradigm for the concept of a new year, and I may yet change my mind about this . . . but, for now, this is my position on the proverbial resolution season.  So . . . that is my soapbox for the year.

Back to my January Gloom:  it derives from my love of the holidays.  During November and December, a general warmth characterizes our society; January, then, represents to me the return to the slightly colder mood of the country--maybe even the world, but definitely the country.  I find myself switching from a fully engaged "Hi!  . . . I'm doing well, and you?" exclaimed in a single breath, the letters and syllables tripping off my tongue in their hurry to connect with humanity to a two-breath greeting that, in its tone, announces the end of holiday joy:  "[breath in, deeply] Hi . . . . [tilt head to right, chin coming to rest on the chest by the end, eyes downcast, and slowly, painfully, exhale as the word pushes itself out of you, this time the letters and syllables tumble in slow motion down the larynx] I'm fine" so that the "fine" sounds thusly:  "f
                                                                                                ii
                                                                                                  ii
                                                                                                    nn
                                                                                                    e."
That is my yearly January Gloom, and I dread the end of the holiday season every year because of this recurring gloom.  But not so this year!

The barn in Saratoga Springs, the barn itself, practically hums with excitement as the new year, new schedule, and new opportunities play out.  The middle group, the trot teams, come to the barn bursting with energy and focus.  The "Fire" and "Ice" teams (so named because of the horses they ride, Miss Fire Opal and "Iceland") begin the year with tryouts.  Technique Equestrian Club enters a new phase this year.  Because the team is relatively young as athletic teams go, the coaches and those in charge feel it has enough depth of talent and commitment from both the athletes and their parents/families that Technique can climb to even higher heights than it has so far, which is saying a lot.  When you take home the majority of first place slots in the men's divisions and have a healthy showing in the women's divisions, climbing to greater heights can seem a bit daunting.  But not to Technique.  Excitement permeates the team in anticipation of what comes next and of what could be.  Under the direction of the creative and technical expertise of the coaches and longers, Technique is growing into a more formal vaulting club.
   

At a parent/coaches meeting in November, Cambry announced that Technique has reached the point that it needs a formal board of directors, a president and all positions that entails, and that specific guidelines and requirements will be put in place for competitive vaulting.  Our president is Brian Winther, and rest of the Board will be decided at the Technique Banquet on January 14.  We are also all looking towards Kentucky and the benefits and costs of going.  Part of this involves getting the vaulters to their competitive best performances and the creation of multi-vaulter performances.  To this end, Technique is holding the aforementioned tryouts,

When I mentioned that to my son, absolute panic ensued.  I assured him that he had already "made" the team (if you commit to two classes a week and to competing, the coaches will make sure you excel to your personal best and they place each vaulter in the right class/on the right team for them) and that the tryouts simply meant that the coaches were assessing the compatibility of vaulters on each team.  This means that they are looking for the group of vaulters that work and look best together in order to create the double and triple routines.  This, combined with advice I borrowed from Tara Winther (she explained to Ian--and thus I explained to Ari--that not making the multi-person squad simply meant that the other(s) had a more important position--the person who has to know all the parts of the doubles and triples routines in case they had to step in for a vaulter who couldn't make it to a particular competition) calmed him down.  And the fact that Cambry and Jake decided to use class time to assess the skills and compatibility of the vaulters instead of holding formal tryouts erased most of the panic. 

Watching the "Fire" and "Ice" teams venture into the heretofore unknown (to most) arena of doubles and triples has been educational and delightful.  I enjoy watching the kids not only perfecting their own moves and creating challenging and exciting free-style routines and working together on basic "team" moves but also helping each other achieve their best performances for the assessment.  I cannot think of another situtation in which athletes wanting to compete at a national level (and some even aspire to the international level) helping the same team mates they are up against in a tryout situation do their best in those same tryouts.  It truly speaks to the spirit of this team and its coaches and longers.  While each vaulter sincerely wants to be the best they can be, and while each vaulter sincerely wants to take first place in each category in which they compete, they also and equally desire their team mates to achieve the same, even if they are competing for the same first place or the same position on the squad. 
   

The positive and creative energy bursting through the barn in Saratoga Springs and the graceful leadership of Technique has managed to burn off my January Gloom this year.

 

Saving Wish

Saving Wish

　

Technique began a new era of kindness. Kim expressed it best in the newsletter when she explained how she and Cambry came up with the idea. I won't steal her words, but you should ask her the story if you did not get the newsletter. Here is their plan: because they are so grateful for the many opportunities and blessings they've had, they decided that they should rescue horses. However, they knew that such an endeavor would require resources and help they simply could not do themselves. But they knew they could count on the Technique family. Knowing this, they went ahead and sent some feelers out to find a horse to rescue, secured a stall (donated by the owner of the barn at which we work out and take lessons), and asked for the help of the vaulters.

Perhaps more quickly than they thought, Wish entered the lives of Technique coaches and vaulters. Pictures and more about Wish can be found in a different place on this website, but I want to focus on the vaulters and their support.

Their help was a no-brainer. These kids work hard, and they have learned to work, a skill I fear their generation is losing quickly. We cannot find anyone in our neighborhood to PAY to help with our yard work because of my illness. But the vaulters of Technique begged to clean out Wish's stall, to walk Wish, to brush Wish, to befriend Wish. Our son, a young boy we have to beg to clean his room, begged every lesson to be able to muck out a stall. Our four-year-old begged to help. I seriously find myself astonished at the willingness to work, to be selfless, and to love that these kids show week after week, day after day. Many donated hard-earned money to help feed Wish. What better lesson could these young athletes learn? Indeed, what better lesson could their parents and peers learn? Because we cannot forget the time donated by parents waiting while their children worked with and for Wish; the plans put on hold, the events skipped, the relaxation on a weekend forfeited. And all for a horse. And, amazingly, all done absolutely willingly and happily. We want nothing more than for our children to learn to be good people, people who make a difference on this planet, in this community, in this country, and in our world. I believe Technique provides a remarkable beginning and path for that kind of life.

I realize that athletes in general have better self-discipline than do non-athletes (with the obvious exception of musicians). I realize, also, that they develop a work ethic in the way that they discipline their bodies, their eating, their time. But I do not think that other athletes learn the selflessness of saving an animal. An animal to whom none of them had a previous relationship or knowledge of. They simply jumped to Wish's defense and rushed to make a horse's life better. Wish was so well cared for by Technique that he has already been healed and adopted. And Technique, wasting no time, is looking for another horse to rescue.

Preparing for Regionals

Before I encountered Technique, I thought of Equestrian events as the epitome of posh and snobbery. I thought of the famous images of European royalty atop gorgeous horses participating in Equestrian sports. What I find at Technique could not be more different. Well, except that the ways in which the vaulters treat each other and themselves, the horses and their coaches, royal etiquette and royal treatment couldn't better express their behavior. What makes this even more amazing is that this all occurs during the intense weeks leading up to Regional Competition in Las Vegas the first week end in November. One might think that at this time, at least, the vaulters would focus inward, not caring as much as they had about the other vaulters as they could very well compete against each other in this competition. Amazingly, the opposite happened.

When Ari, who had been vaulting for exactly one month, came home one day and announced he was going to compete in Las Vegas, I hesitated. I knew he was improving with each lesson, but I had been ill and unable to attend a few lessons and was not sure he would actually be ready. In fact, I remembered Cambry saying that the newest vaulters would not be going to Regionals because they just couldn't be ready by then. I reminded him of this, but he said that Cambry had given him permission. I agreed, contingent on Cambry's approval. To my surprise, she said he could go. We went into vaulting hyperdrive trying to get him ready to go. Not to win. To go. We wanted him to understand that he was going for the experience and that he had already won by being allowed to go. I loved that the club had the same attitude. They prepared to win but emphasized the fun of the competition, the joy of vaulting intself.

One thing I loved was watching the older, more experienced vaulters each taking a younger vaulter under their wing and helping them develop a winning freestyle routine. I didn't worry at all that Ari would enjoy himself, that all the vaulters attending the competetion would enjoy themselves, because of the positive energy in the barn. This positive energy extended beyond the horse arena. The parents were equally excited and supportive of every vaulter there. We developed friendships that should last a lifetime. We talked about how much our children loved vaulting and how much this particular club had bettered our children's lives and, by extension, our own. Moms sat in chairs or stood with their younger, enthralled, children. Fathers stood at the bars, generally one foot up, arms resting on top of the most comfortable bar, watching their kids perform and practice with an intensity I loved. Our vaulting family really came together.

During an early cold snap in October, we huddled together as the kids ran, warmed up and huddled around the small space heater Cambry named Wally, much to the kids' delight. The cold did not affect the mood or excitement of the team. I got my first real introduction to barrel competition. Some older vaulters worked hard at putting together a routine that could lead them to place in Regionals. They worked on tricks that stunned me with their grace and beauty. And, to be honest, made me nervous a bit until I saw the control with which they executed each movement. I loved the mothers and grandmothers participating in helping them shape a beautiful routine. People brought hot chocolate for every one, we huddled together, and continued our support of our kids.

The coaches selflessly offered their time for individual lessons. Yes, we paid for those lessons, but we didn't pay for the kindness and concern each coach gave each vaulter.   In my previous experience with other sports, coaches may give extra time to some players, players they feel will be stars, but they don't work on developing a relationship in the way I see Technique doing. Not to disparage other sports or other coaches, but it is not possible to praise the Technique coaches enough. I mean that seriously.

 

Serenity in Saratoga Springs

Serenity in Saratoga Springs

Seriously, mom? You think we can afford horseback riding for Ari right now? Those were my first thoughts when my mother told me she had signed my son up for a free initial class and paid subsequent classes in what I thought was horseback riding. To be fair, it was what she thought was horseback riding as well; still and all, she had signed my baby up for something I couldn't afford to save my life and that he had wanted so badly for so long that I knew I would have to break his heart when I broke the news to him that we are, well, broke. To add confusion to the trepidation of sitting Ari down for a reality chat, I had no idea what to expect since my mom kept talking about gymnastics and horseback riding. Did she sign him up for both? Did they do gymnasitcs and then ride horses? Did the horses do gymnasitics? even went through my head at one point. So, on the appointed Saturday morning (already a problem for this night owl), we loaded into the car and headed for Saratoga Springs; my parents were going to meet us there to watch the first lesson as well.

To truly understand the mass of confusion I faced, allow me to let you in on a secret: I am extremely ill. I have two rare eye diseases (so rare, in fact, that I am the only person to have both at the same time); as a result of those diseases and the "cures" for them, I have been on chemotherapy for four years (I wrote this entry a year ago), have been on oxygen all day and night for two years, know the nurses in the hospital by name (and they not only know me by name but also my kids and their teachers). In addition to all the usual health problems that day, I had shingles on my back and, yes, it's true, in my eyes. I was not in the best of moods, but I had determined that if I could somehow get there, I would never miss a practice of any sport my kids do.

Back to the story: we're headed to Saratoga Springs, and the only directions we have are as follows: go to Saratoga Springs to the tan barn behind Wal-Mart. Luckily, that turned out to be sufficient directions as there is only one road that goes directly into Sartoga Springs. We found the Wal-Mart, turned into the parking lot and just drove until the lot ended, at which point we saw an unpresuming sign announcing Horse Vaulting Lessons. We turned onto a gravel drive, followed it around and up a slight incline and into a parking lot sitting between a large, tan barn and an Ivory Homes house.. People were parked willy-nilly, so we weren't quite sure what to do. As we turned off our ignition, my parents drove up beside us and parked kind of in the middle of the lot. We were over a titch to the side because we wanted to be under any form of shade possible. After lugging my oxygen tank out of the car, we slowly walked up a few broad steps, inlaid with horshoes, and entered the barn proper. As my eyes adjusted, my jaw dropped to see a young man standing on the back of a horse. Not on a horse standing still but on a moving, cantering horse. I took a deep breath and muttered, "not my baby. No, no, nononononononononononono! My baby is not going ot risk his neck with such shananigans. It is simply NOT going to happen." My mother, the one who signed him up for the whole thing, began fluttering in the way she does when nervous.

So concerned was I that I pulled aside a young man who seemed to be in the know and queried, "do you offer any kind of real horseback riding?" Ah, the tactlessness of the ignorant. Having taught diversity classes at the University of Utah, I made it a point to be open-minded about all new people, ideas, etc., but, apparently, when I think the safety of my children is involved, all intentions to be open-minded seemed to fly out the window. "I teach individual riding lessons, but I would not accept a student who hasn't had at least three months of vaulting first." Uh-Hhm I grunted with a strained smile and noncommital nod. I vowed that Ari would not be doing tricks like that, but figured that there was no way he would end up on the horse on the first lesson in such a vulnerable position. I figured it would be something like the first dance lesson in the movie Shall We Dance, where the men plod about with broom sticks and then watch a gorgeous, choreographed waltz by the experts as incentive to keep going. And that is what I thought I saw happening--so much so that I left for the ladies' room, and when I returned, my baby was on the back of a moving horse doing tricks. My heart leapt to my throat, my hand met it there, and then I really looked: my gangly, lovable, wonderfully awkward tween transformed immediately into a graceful, in-control, gorgeous athlete. Such peace radiated from him I couldn't believe it. He was meant to be here.

A woman attending with her granddaughter offered me her chair inside the ring a bit so that I could better watch my son (I found out two weeks later when we read the paper work that parents and non-vaulters are to remain outside the ring); I gratefully sank down, set my oxygen tank to the side and just stared at him. It wasn't until a young girl raced past me with Ari's coach being pulled along behind in her wheelchair that the fact she was in a wheelchair hit me. Thankfully. Had what I saw when we came in translated itself in total to me before I saw Ari on Opal, I may have had even more trepidations. I sat and watched for 90 minutes, the length of a regular lesson. At the end of the lesson, Cambry, Ari's coach, had somehow managed to get herself up on a barrel to spot some of the students while other students worked on a skill called "flying"--an entry for later. Finally, she asked the students to stand in front of her in a semi-circle and to tell her one thing they were proud of themselves for. I remember feeling such gratitude for that one question that I knew the club had my undying loyalty. I am a firm believer in teaching children to be proud of their work--not to be proud of things over which they have no control (the color of their hair, skin, freckles, etc.)--but to recognize the value of hard work, and her question required that kind of introspection. They each answered, and then they did a "break-down" chant and were asked to go and thank the horse who had let them ride her.

I liked the atmosphere of this place. We decided to allow Ari to continue in the sport if he verbalized a desire. On the way back down to Orem that day after his free first lesson, we asked if he enjoyed himself. Without hesitation, he piped, "This is the best day of the year so far." From my understated oldest son, that is a truly amazing statement. We returned the next week. Ari loved it. By the third week, we had decided that since he stretches every night and tries to run or walk a mile every day to prepare for vaulting, we should consider trying to add a second day of lessons. Our younger son, too young by one year to take classes, watches everything anxiously and practices at home with his brother. It truly feels as if my mixed-race, mixed-ability family has found a "social" home--a home filled with adults in charge, setting both boundaries and goals, and allowing the "children" to participate in setting some of their own goals, requiring true learning and effort, giving true feedback and praise when due, and offering heart-felt encouragement at all times.

That is the feeling of Technique Vaulting Club: Home.

Introduction to Me and to Vaultopia

Blog Introduction:  Dr. Shauna Lee Eddy-Sanders

Introduction to Technique Equestrian Vaulting Club

 This blog follows the lives of an amazing group of athletes who compete in what is called Equestrian Vaulting.  Equestrian Vaulting is gymnastics and dance on the back of a moving horse; it requires strength, coordination, commitment, and all the positive benefits of any sport, but it is unique in that the athlete is paired with a horse, a thinking, live being who can have a bad day, but bad day or no, these kids (and some of their parents) learn to love and care for horses.  The national organization is The American Vaulting Association; their web site is www.americanvaulting.org       .

 Cambry Kaylor coaches Technique Equestrian Vaulting Club (TEVC) in addition to being a full-time student in a competitive graduate program.  She competed most of her life as an equestrian vaulter until she was paralized from the lower back down; she was rehearsing a Paus de Deux routine with her partner when she fell.  Undaunted, she forged ahead, knowing that though she could no longer vault, she could still immerse herself in the sport she loves.  Knowing that she might not get many students because of her accident, she looked into becoming a vaulting judge (having petitioned to enter the judges program as the youngest judge.  However, and we are forever grateful, she found she truly wanted to coach. 

 Many a parent might wonder at the sanity of the parents of her students, but we not only know we are making wise decisions with our children, but we also know that because of her accident, both Cambry and her mother, Kim (who is the head longer--pronounced "lunger") go out of their way to create both a physically and culturally safe atmosphere.  In the blogs, you will come to know how amazing these two women and the other full-time coach and longer, Jake, truly are.

Introduction to Me, a First-Time Blogger

Honestly, I am so completely new to the blogging world that I find myself intimidated, and that, oddly enough, chipped so insistently at my confidence as a writer that I simply ignored it. Quite successfully for quite some time, actually. Until now. My sons recently entered the Equestrian Vaulting world (as the purpose of this blog is to introduce us all to this amazing sport, I will omit the otherwise obligatory definition and explanation of those implausibly connected words), and as a way of supporting them, their team, the coaching staff, the whole, big wonderful group that is the Technique Equestrian Vaulting Club and as a way of affording such an amazing experience, I offered to write the team blog. Were I a serious texter, I might be tempted to send an “LOL” message to those who know me best. I am not, however, a serious texter. And I seriously have no idea if my approach to this semi-daunting task will effectively not only represent the club and its members as well as the national organization to which we belong (The American Vaulting Association, the AVA) in an appropriate way, but I also wonder if what I write will qualify as a “blog.” Undaunted, I forge ahead. First with an introduction to myself (it feels self-aggrandizing to me to do so, but so much of what I write in the blog entries depends upon an understanding of who I am, some major experiences in my life, and the character of the club itself that I feel it is necessary to begin at the beginning, as it were).

I am a self-professed and self-diagnosed bibliophile. Nothing about books and the act and experience of reading, specifically reading books, ever manifested itself as anything but extraordinary to me. Every single physical sense I can identify, every sensory experience I can identify either comes to life or buzzes along with greater intensity when I encounter a book. Now, I do not rush about in ecstasy over EVERY book. That is quite a different thing. But when I choose the text, I have to say that, indeed, I do rush about (at least in my head) positively giddy with ecstasy. Lest you get the wrong idea: when I relish the experience of reading, I do not react in the same way to every text—nor should I. Nor should anyone, really. Reading about the Holocaust ought to be a radically different reading experience than reading about the whimsical world created in Uncle Wiggily’s Travels. But what the experiences of reading serious literature and guilty-pleasure books have in common is the tactile, sensory-laden encounter between the reader and the print medium. Thus, for me, the reading experience is reading and books rolled into one multi-faceted existence, and I mean existence, not experience—an existence in the normal sense of that word but also in that books have forever been my world. Ironically, my health quite literally gave birth to my existence as a bibliophile and my residence in a literary world, and it is now my current illnesses (alas, they are many and serious though I choose to see them as opportunities) seem to be working tirelessly to exile me from this world into which I was born, to take much of the sensual experience of reading away. Perhaps that is even the reason I began peeking at my book life as both an activity in which I engage and as an actual life.

Reading

I love the smell of newly minted books, and I love smell of older and rare books. When I walk into a bookstore, I always take a number of deep breaths, feeling connected to the scent of paper and bindings. Tactile: The texture of the covers; the texture of individual papers used by specific publishing houses; the ability a book in hand offers the reader to essentially narrate their thoughts, ideals, and passions through annotations. There is nothing not to like about books. I find the recent move in the globalization of our world to electronic books, electronic mail, electronic conversations with someone in the same house—indeed, in the same room—staggeringly sad. Because of this, I have resisted much of the technological advancements because the pace at which we live our lives in this beautiful, crazy world terrifies me to some extent. On the other hand, without these advancements and all it says for advancements in other areas that dramatically affect my life, I would not be here, I would never have met my husband, and, thus, I would never have had the family I have. Without these advancements, I would not be able to talk with my mother-and father-in-law (sadly, my mother-in-law passed away this past May, but that speaks to the immediacy of life in the 21^st century); my boys were able to establish a tighter relationship with their grandparents because of technology: Marvin’s mom and dad are Deaf, and we were able to allow our boys to talk to them on the video phones that preceded the mass distribution of skype. And my father has battled cancer three times (the third this past month) successfully because of technological advances. It is not that I do not benefit from or enjoy these advances. I just resist them when it comes to books and communicating with people nearby. I fear, to be honest, that we will lose just a bit of our humanity if we do not hold on to something.

One area I resisted (until now) was blogging. I figured that not a person in the world could possibly care about the minutia of my life—I hereby relieve anyone needing to hear what I am doing or thinking at any and every turn of that duty. I simply will not announce my whereabouts nor the content of my dinner. However, I am excited about reaching a small audience (our wonderful Technique Equestrian Vaulting Club family) and, hopefully, a growing audience of horse and gymnastics and dance lovers. I hope my musings will make somebody smile, but, more importantly, I hope that what I write will facilitate and even stronger bond (if that’s possible) within our vaulting community.

Some Background

All my life I had great vision. I mean really, really good vision (20/10 when I hit 40). And then I became very ill. A little over five years ago, I gave birth to our youngest child. During the very difficult pregnancy and the even more difficult delivery, I worried incessantly about our baby, but I could never find the words to ask the doctor about what I was feeling. Eight days later, literally the day after we brought our son home from the NICU, I woke up in screaming pain in my left eye--and completely blind in that eye. Because of the pregnancy and delivery, we worried that I was having or had had a stroke or an embolism; and so, my husband rushed us to the nearest emergency room. The ER doctor, while very nice and very concerned, had no idea what was wrong. She did know, however, that something was wrong because my eye was bulging out a little and I clearly could not see out of it, so she called an opthamalogist and got me an immediate appointment. We got back in the car and drove 10 minutes to that appointment. This doctor said very little, but he gave me the most thorough eye exam I have ever had and then disappeared down the hall for about five minutes, only to return with, and this is absolutely true, six huge tomes on eye surgery, eye conditions, eye diagnoses, etc., and spent the next 40 minutes trying to figure out what was wrong. He also took a picture of the eye and the optic nerve and everything around it. When he saw the picture, he practically ran down the hall to his office and called an eye surgeon who specializes in uveitis; within five minutes, I was headed down another five minutes and was rushed right in to see the surgeon. It only took about two minutes for him to correctly diagnose me with the rarest form of uveitis, posterior schleritis; and of that rare form, I had the more rare of the two.

The next two years I did everything I could to raise my children, continue teaching at two universities, and continue my volunteer work. But I was also put on the highest dose of prednisone allowed outside of a hospital stay, and I began chemotherapy. I lost all of my hair, but my eyesight began to come back. After a few months, my surgeon felt I could discontinue the medications, and I rejoiced inside. All of that medication made it impossible to nurse my baby, and I had loved nursing my older son. I really looked forward to the month after the medication left my system so that I could nurse him. Alas. That was not meant to be, I guess. Two weeks after I stopped the medication, one evening while watching the news, my left eye began to hurt and within 30 minutes, I was blind in that eye again. I called my surgeon, but he was in Hawaii with his family, and so I talked to his partner who asked me to restart the medication (take a double dose, he said) and meet him at his office in the morning, first thing.

So, I did.

When I got there, he examined my eye and said it looked normal for a person who had had a very acute episode on posterior schleritis. But I knew something was wrong, so I asked him to take another picture of my eye and the optic nerve. He did, and then he showed it to me, pointing to where the disease had been and to the scar tissue left behind (from multiple injections directly in to the eyeball of intense steroids). As he handed it to me, I noticed a bulge around the optic nerve and asked him about it. He stopped, looked closely, and then grabbed me by the elbow, shouting at my husband to grab our baby and our things and to follow us. Luckily, we only had to walk across the lobby of the Physician's Plaza to yet another eye specialist.

Dr. Cook came out immediately, leaving behind whatever he was doing. He brought some tools with him, looked into my eye, turned to his assistant and told him to get a wheelchair. Confused, I told him I was capable of walking, that while I had just had a baby, I was quite ambulatory. He held onto my elbow until the wheelchair arrived, sat me down, and then told me that I had a tumor on the optic nerve, and it was so large that if I were to move anymore, I would risk severe brain damage and possibly die. Quite sobering when one thinks back. He admitted me to the hospital, started pumping as much steroids into my system as it could take, and then scheduled me for surgery the next morning. He was not able to completely remove the tumor because of its location, but he was able to get two mentos-sized biopsy samples, and that decreased the swelling (he had to break my nose in about six places and add spacers in my eyebrow bone to accommodate the rock in my head and to buy us time to figure out a treatment plan).

I could go on in detail, but I will sum up: With the first surgery, some of my eyesight came back. With the third, I was unable to get any vision beyond light and dark. But I'm okay. I am still on chemotherapy, but much lower doses, now, and I am on oxygen because the autoimmune system in my body "forgot to read the textbook," as my primary care physician tells me. I did finally have to stop being a professor because I could no longer see well enough to drive (or to grade papers and prep for lectures). For the second and third years, I spent at least a week a month in the hospital as my immune system went crazy and attacked major areas (lungs, kidneys, bladder, etc.).

And then I found horses. I am still as sick as I have been, and in some ways, worse, because I was finally diagnosed with both lupus and MS, but I have not been admitted to the hospital for over a year, now, and I am positive (as are my doctors, though it baffles some) that it is because of the horses. That I am able to get out of bed for huge portions of the day, now, and spend time with my boys and the sport they love so much, is a huge blessing. My husband's family noted the difference, as well, and so his cousin, who breeds Friesians, gave us a horse--Bree. I am so very grateful for that; I can go to the barn anytime (as long as I get a ride since I still can't see well out of my right eye and not at all out of my left eye) and spend time with her. She joins my labs in their effort to take care of me, and she is teaching my family the value of work, of relationships, etc.

The Derivation of this Blog’s Title: Vaultopia

I absolutely cannot take credit for the christening of the term “Vaultopia.” That honor lies with Jake Fluekiger, one of the coaches, the head horse trainer, one of the longeurs, and one of the silver-level vaulters.  Not only does this talented young man do all of the above, but he also writes amazing children’s books (I’ve read one; it was truly fantastic) and, most importantly for me as a parent and most applicably for the title of this blog, he is a gifted storyteller. One of the blogs addresses that particular gift, so I will not spoil it here. Suffice it to say that Jake dubbed the club Vaultopia, inducted the vaulters into Vaultopia as citizens, and wrote the lyrics to the Vaultopian National Anthem.

I have been writing these entries for more than a year, now, and I decided it was time to just put them out there.  They are intended to help newcomers to the sport and/or the equestrian world navigate the new territory.

I am humbled, honored, and thoroughly excited to introduce this amazing sport, this even more amazing club and its participants/citizens, and to a magical encounter with the equine world. Sit back and enjoy.