Proximity: nearness in relation, occurrence or place time and order. Push-pull for me to go on an overnight with a friend. Henrik is here from Denmark for a clinic. Because of the snow this year, I can't ride and neither can Jackie. I am the grandmother clock pendulum. On one side is the attraction to be with humans who have verbal conversation but the other side is my lifelong rash from proximity. Horse clinics are a soup of pathetic fallacy: words that give human feelings or qualities to animals. Am I any different? Don't I come face to face with my own fear of emotive claustrophobia in each horse? Man from Blue Mountains, he says he lives in the most beautiful place in the world and the elevation is 3,500. I do not tell him that I lived in the most beautiful place in world at 10,000 feet on a forest service road, Flat Tops, Rocky Mountains. Instead, I tell him about Kalypso running straight into me, me flying threw the air. He says that it takes only one time to get killed. He wants to give me advice. With horses there is ten different types of advice per quarter inch. I watch Henrik, I watch the horses and riders, I wait to go home because I didn't drive myself. But eventually we do go home and I did survive. Today, I take Kali out and keep her out of my space. I am the capital R for Respect, and she is the little r. I make a plan to longe two times a week and the other days Kali will walk shoulder to shoulder with me and after we get to the end of the driveway, we will cross small creeks, we will circle sage and bitter brush, go up through the blue gate and around Rod's out-buildings and she will not knock me down. Beau will walk with strength and Kansas will settle down and not be the princess. By the time I am done with all three horses, picked up poop again, filled buckets again, swept the barn again, I clean the pen Josie and her new baby sleep in. I toss the old water across the barn's cement apron and give Josie clear, cold water. I give Josie cob, soy and a pinch of horse vitamins. The baby boy sleeps in the 20 gallon, blue hay bucket. He is a white-beige with a dark stripe down his back. He reminds me of his uncle long gone. When I pick him up, I wonder how long I can keep him with us. I name him (yes, I name him) Carl Junior.