Moonlore - Publisher's Essay

Flying Close To The Sun

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."
~Mark Twain

I'm a risk taker. How did I not know that until now? Playing it safe. That's my picture of myself and yet....that's not how I've lived my life.

Our personal mythology --that luscious, fertile, wild trip through our ego -- molds us to its perspective. "I'm smart" or "I'm stupid" become self-fulfilling prophecies, as do "I'm plain" or "I'm beautiful." What we believe influences how we act and the decisions we make. So how could my self-image be so wrong?

Because I didn't always believe it. As a youngster, I imagined myself as daring and bold. My decisions were made accordingly.


With cowboys as my heroes, I raced my pony (later my horse) along narrow paths, jumping logs and plunging into the lake without hesitation. I dreamed of suicide races, so named because of their danger, and steeplechases. I was going to be a jockey and win the Kentucky Derby, a rodeo queen, a horse trainer. I wasn't short enough to become a jockey or sophisticated enough to be a rodeo queen but horse trainer, that I am. I've climbed on more rank horses than I can count and trained more champions than I remember. But there was more.

In the floods of 1969, when Malibu Creek overflowed, there I was, wading through waist deep water to free horses locked in stables and deserted by their caretakers. Only one other dared to brave the swift water with me. Together, we saved an entire barn of forty horses from certain death by flinging open their stall doors and chasing them up the hillside. If I expected accolades, they weren't to be. The owners were furious. "How will we catch them?"

My own fury grew over the next few months. Better a dead horse than a loose horse? Why wasn't their anger directed at the owners of the barn, who'd bailed without protecting their horses? Why didn't rescue personnel include these beautiful animals? No one was concerned with their well-being, and no one could be held accountable if they died.

There was only one way to gain a different outcome. I formed an informal fire and flood equine rescue team. I recruited friends with horse trailers and those who could handle scared horses. We planned how to respond: who would man the phones, who would bring halters, who could provide emergency stalls, who would keep track of what horses went where.

We weren't always welcome. The fire department was afraid our rigs would block their access on narrow canyon roads. We went anyway. We understood their mission was to save homes and people. We had a mission too, and, despite their reluctance, they admitted we were good at it. We saved every animal we found and sometimes we saved people too.

In Bell Canyon, the fire line raced up the hills, crested the top and slowed but kept up its relentless progress. My last trip was to the top of the furthest hill. There I found six horses. The wind had shifted, blowing smoke in our faces. We could feel the heat and hear the crackle of the fire. I loaded four, but that was my trailer's limit. My daughter looked down the hill at the red flames licking their way up the cliffs. "I'll lead them." She grabbed two lead ropes and disappeared over the opposite edge. I jumped in the truck and began the slow descent along the winding road. Speed was what my heart wanted but logic said the horses would flounder and fall if I whipped around those corners. I tried to spy my daughter as I negotiated each tight switchback. Occasionally I got a glimpse of her or heard the horses crashing through the tinder-dry brush. We both reached the canyon's bottom at the same time, her panting hard from the effort, my heart racing because I feared losing her. But no horses were lost that night, even though their barns burned.

Our work was slowly noticed. First they quit opposing us; then they tolerated us. Eventually they worked with us, and our rescue team became formally recognized.

Reading the above paragraphs, I realize my second mythological premise was the lie: When I became a mother, my decisions shifted. I had responsibilities and gave up risk taking. But if that was true, then how did my daughter and I end up atop a ridge full of fire?

With that in mind, I went back over other major decisions I've made:

As a child of the fifties, I was told there was no reason for a woman to go to college. A woman would only waste that education when she married. I enrolled and graduated with honors. I tried marriage, against my better wishes, and left when he became violent, despite pressure from family and church. Divorce was unacceptable to them, even though I knew I would die if I stayed. As a divorcee -- a group 1970s society scorned as sluts on the prowl -- I raised two daughters alone. I became a feminist and plunged into domestic violence advocacy as fiercely as I plunged into rising flood waters or raced wild fires. I even bought a house in an era when women barely had their own credit. Terrifying. These were all terrifying and filled with risk.

And yet I did them. Each new decision, each setback made me stronger. And I kept risking: fighting and winning an insurance battle after the 1994 Northridge Earthquake. During that debacle, I quit my accounting career and plunged into the unpredictable field of writing, once again finding safety in insecurity. I also rounded up a few enthusiasts, and we founded Moondance.

But the most important risk I ever took was far different. On the surface, it seemed safe enough. I loved. Deeply and well. There is no finer risk, no better dream than that. Trust was implicit. He wouldn't hurt me. I wouldn't hurt him. So important, that. I could relax, enjoy, allow myself the freedom to roam. When I opened to him, I opened my body, yes, but it was more: I opened my soul. There were no barriers. We touched and laughed and whispered our secrets into the night. He was my sculptor; I was his clay. He formed me in myriad ways, each new facet honed with honor, reverence and respect.

As with any love, the risks were enormous. The loss of love is what we fear the most. It is what hurts us most. It drives us to the brink and sometimes beyond. Despite my best intentions, hurt him I did and he hurt me. We didn't mean to, didn't want to, but there it was. When the crucial point came, when he had to leave, when he asked me to leave with him, I failed. I played the role of the coward. I didn't go.

It takes courage to live a great love.

How did I not know that until now?

By Loretta Kemsley
Publisher/President
Women Artists and Writers International
Writer, Editor and Editorial Coach

Loretta Kemsley's Personal Portfolio: Women's Writings
http://lores.lair.moondance.org/