Tales and tails

My mule Fenway died on June 1, 2018—the day before my 39th birthday. It was terrible, and unexpected, yet apparently painless and instant. I loved him so.

I can't continue blogging without mentioning him, as he was the mule behind Brays Of Our Lives. Through my relationship with Fenway Bartholomule I found my voice as an author, my confidence as a communications professional, and my gratitude, in a time when I was overcome more often by sorrow than by joy. Today, I'm almost ridiculously happy most of the time—wonderfully fulfilled, wildly optimistic, and constantly grateful for all that is right in the world even while so much is wrong. Racism, environmental devastation, climate change, the kyriarchy—I acknowledge they're real and that I must play a role in dismantling them, but also that I work better with a joyful heart.

I've sometimes wondered if I should have kept Brays Of Our Lives going in those years after I got busy doing paid work, writing not for my big brown mule but for my nonprofit employer. I loved the journaling aspect of being a blogger, and I loved the ease with which Fenway's words flowed off my fingertips. I loved the connections it sparked—with entrepreneurs, with other writers, with ideas and movements, and with readers all over the nation and world, including some who've become dear friends.

It would feel wrong to blog on Brays Of Our Lives now—that is Fenway's space. It always was and it always will be. It was about scenic trails, fragrant hay, and the tuneful rhythm of bare hooves on pavement.

A lot has changed since Fenway started blogging from Bent Barrow Farm—a new job in 2013,  a divorce at the start of 2016,  a new relationship since the next autumn, and my oldest daughter grown and launched into the world in 2018. This is going to be a place for my stories—mostly stories of animals and family, which is what I'm up to these days.