“Don’t trust your horse on a slack rein? Well, he doesn’t trust you with a bit.” ~ Anna Blake

How many times were we reminded to hold on tight as children? Hold on to the rail. Hold on to a parent’s hand. Hold on to the dog’s leash. Hold on to the carousel pony. Hold on tight!

We grow up and gain strength. Tight becomes confining. We continue holding on even when a tight grip chokes the life out of things. We feel safer holding on. Our hands become strong and somehow we think maybe, just maybe, if we hold on more tightly, life will proceed closer to the way we expect it to.

Yesterday I rode my mare on a trail ride through the desert. If you have a moment would you mind doing a little rain dance? Clouds built up yesterday afternoon and I’m hopeful, but last year’s monsoon season was such a bust I wouldn’t mind all the helpful intention we can get! But, let’s get those hooves back on the trail.

Rocky is a bold creature and a well-seasoned trail horse. Two fellow boarders asked us to go along so Rocky could lend their geldings her courage. She likes to lead. As we started out, three fawn-colored bully-looking dogs came charging at us, right off their property. The gate was open. I told them they were good doggos, to remind them of who they are (another tip of my helmet to Anna). I stopped Rocky, who was unfazed by the barking and gallumping, and looked at my fellow riders to make sure they were doing okay. The dogs’ owner called them in and the three turned tail as a unit, maybe slightly disappointed that we weren’t all that impressed by their charge. I called out to them and told them what very good dogs they were as they trotted back to their house. One looked back over his shoulder at us from the other side of the fence, slightly cowed. I think they got in trouble.

We continued on our way. Rocky is a fast walker. Behind her was the beautiful Morgan, Legado, and bringing up the rear was Stewart Little, who is a sturdy and small Gypsy Cob. I had to remind Rocky to help me check on our cohort and to keep her pace leisurely. “Just squeeze the rein a little,” I told myself. I reminded myself to allow my pelvis to be carried along by Rocky’s hind legs. We descended into a little gulch and Rocky broke into a trot. I had only sat deeper and asked her to walk without taking up any contact on the rein. Legado followed suit and his rider needed a moment to calm him. I made extra sure to prepare Rocky to walk carefully through the next few dips we encountered. It took extra asking on my part, and I don’t doubt I held the reins more tightly than she would have preferred, but she did what I asked.

When the trail smoothed out again, I felt a little tug. Rocky had asked for her rein back. I gave it to her. A little voice in my head said, “She pulls on the reins! She refuses to give to the bit! Keep contact!” My hands said, “Give it to her. She asked nicely. Trust that she knows what she is doing.”

Next time I hope to remember to ask consistently for what I want so she doesn’t have to guess, or make her own choice when it’s best that we work together. I’m certain we both like it better that way.

Maybe just a little too damaged to fulfill
the dream.
Whose dream is it anyway?

Pure folly,
and an unfair imposition to place
on a creature so fine as the horse.
Herein lies a scuffle between longing and love.

How I long to retreat between the warmth of hay-scented hides,
warm and facile, flicking flies away, multi-tasking skin.
Horses’ alert rhythms seem protective, insulating, a shield against the
noisy, grasping, gasping world
of us humans.

Global threats urge me to curl, quiescent,
to freeze and wait.
“It shall pass, it shall pass, it shall pass,” I whisper to myself, less in fear
than in blank comprehension of my perverse happiness
at having a convenient excuse to avoid grocery shopping.

Fear and love.
Herds of horses, provoked by necessity, will run,
a thundering cloud of beauty-dust,
leaving me longing for four hooves and fleetness.

Work and love.
Hordes of humans long for their chance,
that moment of brilliance, an opportunity to hold tight.
We might inadvertently forget to breathe.

I’ve turned myself inside out believing dream after dream,
yielding not to the magnitude of such wonderous construction,
but holding up my imagination like a mirrored shield.
Hungry for an embrace, I’ve allowed seductive images to envelop me,
and even as I struggle to emerge, I stumble.

Tired and clichéd, I hesitate ~

not wanting to wallow,
though I long to stretch my hide against the sand,
to roll satisfyingly,
closer to dust.

To stand apart and stand within,
to urge a way of being by
being true to my soft urges.
This is not so easy, this path is laden with mole holes and ego.

The other side of the field is not so far away.

My horses watch me.
They shy and withdraw, as I do.
They echo my boldness.
They know best as to how to be a horse, and of course, as always,
they are right.

Gut punched. Stick the knife in and twist it.

I don’t want to spill my guts.
It’s a small tragedy, but it’s mine.
I want to cry and wail
and let the pain go in one massive explosion
then watch the skies clear as dust settles.

My plans were made and I’d saddled my pony,
a practice run for next week.
I thought I saw her looking wistfully at her companions out on the trail.
Desert spring songs are joyously enticing all things nascent.
I figured getting us aging mares out on the trail once or twice a week
would be good for us.

Imagine my disappointment.
It feels like a bodily betrayal, a stab in the soft underbelly, an insult to my intestinal fortitude.
If this is what it takes to bring the tears so be it.
Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears.
You can say it two different ways, you know.

Still, I’d rather pull that pain around and laugh at it
than sit with it.
At the moment it isn’t giving me much of a choice.
You can laugh until you cry.

Platitudes are an easy fallback and distracting.
Trust my gut my ass.

When the love is too large
and it spills messily on the floor
and you are two years old,
strapped to a high chair,
you cry,
watching it lonely splat
all over the floor.
You toss your plate of overcooked spaghetti
to join it
then stop your tears,
your breath,
and peer downward.
The pause is needed.
The wails might overwhelm the masterpiece:
love and spaghetti.
When this happens the dog comes scampering over,
hastily lapping up both, heartily,
bringing brightness ~
until you are scolded,
but you know your love is safe in the dog’s belly.

When the love is too large
and your offerings form into words
that don’t stick
and aren’t caught,
words that float past unanswered,
not sad,
words that settle on a bluebird’s wing,
then fly
on the proverbial
wing and a prayer.
You hear them,
safe in flight,
as birdsong.

When the love is too large
and boys grow tall and somewhat frightening
because you can no longer run faster than they can
and they look at you differently,
(scared themselves,
of themselves?)
maybe it is too soon.
Love alights on round-backed ponies
in fields and novels and shiny magazine photos.
Black birds on sun-dappled hide.

When the the love is too large
even as years pass,
it lands heavily with a thud.
No innocent dream can carry it forever,
try as it may.
This is when the heart grows tentative,
taken over by a frantic quest for answers.
Careers, degrees, marriages, divorces,
children, hangovers, mistaken recognitions,
fears of love lost or love never found.
Exhaustion.
Resignation.

Love is there,
grazing,
prancing.
Just the right size.
They come to us
in this place and time
because we have earned our way.
Both of us.
Instinctually, unavoidably,
we are pulled
because the fit is inevitable
and perfect.
Our love is great enough
to carry them.