It's not the horse....

Today I get really scared and discouraged for a few minutes.

I am anxious today and don’t know why. I just am. I’ve grown to accept these waves over the years. Today I’m going to feel like shit. Tomorrow will be better. Put the key in the ignition and go. It’s just always been that way.

I go to work. I love the kids, how they effortlessly distract me from my arbitrary self. I am running to replenish paint. They make miracles and giggle. We listen to Soul Sister by Train. They sing along and paint their Starry Nights. There’s a part of me that never wants to leave this room.

And they pay me for this. They should be billing Blue Cross for my therapy.

Class ends and the kids head out. One of the para-professionals, the veritable rocks of this elementary school, says, “Go ahead Jane, I want to take the kids out for recess, before writing and vocab.”

Writing. This is a kindergarten class.

I sneak out a few minutes early and head to the farm. I have put two carrots in with my boots and helmet in my car. I will find a way to make friends with Flash. Bribery is an age old tool.

I pull into the farm. My Honda’s suspension is rocking. I know my Dave is going to tell me from now on to take the truck. I like my little Honda, though. I’d love to tell you it’s about being green; but quite frankly, I got sick of driving around an enormous vehicle that resembled a school bus, only black. My taxi service days are over now, anyhow.

Still, that sharp spark of longing.

I head down to the barn. I give Flash his carrots. He is wildly receptive. Go figure. But the really cool thing is I stroke his forehead, and like a human being—his eyes droop with peace.

“I know what you like,” I say and laugh. Finally. Carrots and a forehead stroke; I can do this.

A little whisper of a girl comes in and puts Flash’s bridle and bit on. I watch. Once again I marvel at how fearless this tiny girl is.

“Wow,” I say. “You girls are something else.”

“Well,” she says shyly, “I’ve been doing it awhile.”

“You’re still very good,” I say “Are you competing?” I’m learning the drill here.

“I am, thanks,” she says. She hands the reins to me. I bring Flash down to the ring. I hold the reins tightly to myself; I keep myself perpendicular to Flash. I’m in charge.

Maybe.

My instructor is waiting for me. I bring Flash to the block. I mount him and still have difficulty getting my feet properly in the stirrups. I learn the hard way today that this is important. One’s stirrups hold the weight of your balance. Ignore this, and it is as if you are standing with no ground under your feet. You will fall forward, grasp the horse’s mane in total fear, and wish you had tried Tai chi instead of this. This is where today’s moments of terror and bruising self-doubt creep in. Big wave of discouragement, and the once again, ‘what the hell am I doing here’ feeling takes hold. I hear my dad’s voice, ‘shake it off, Janey. Shake it off.’ I’m trying. I know I’m easily discouraged.

I post up a bit. Bounce awkwardly a lot more. Then finally I tell Pam, “I’ve got to watch you, I won’t understand what you’re telling me until I see it.”

She smiles. “Okay,” she says. She mounts Flash with no mounting block. Brings him to a trot and posts up with a grace that is nothing less than beautiful. I swear Flash is smiling. I know he’s got to be relieved not to have my hopelessly awkward body on his back for a few minutes.

“Okay,” I say. “I want to try again.”

She dismounts, and I bring Flash over to the mounting block. I climb on his back, struggling again with my outside stirrup. But I know now, I’ve got to get this right. Take my time to get it right. Slide my boot in and brace my heels back and down. Lean back in the saddle and rock forward to Flash’s gait.

So much easier said than done.

Pam begins to talk to me about things other than my form. I slowly, slowly relax, because God knows I love to talk. And Pam is nice and easy to talk to. I just try to rock with Flash’s gait. I can’t get him up to a full gallop because I’m still afraid. But we move, talk and I practice rocking back and forth. It’s a subtle movement; hips forward not the upper body, heels down, up, brace the saddle and back down. It’s not an acrobatic movement, not even near a contortionist’s, it’s simple.
But I’ve got to relax, follow Flash’s lead, and trust. This is my struggle: trust and feel the horse under me; move with him not against him.

We could be here for a long while.

“Jane, take your feet out of stirrups and lean back and walk the ring a few times. He needs to cool down.” I want to ask from what. But I do it. Pam drops back to the far side of the ring. I give Flash my weight, lean back and just let him walk. I lean over a couple of times to pet him.

This I can do.

I dismount much more easily now. I’m sure there’s a graceful way to do it, dismount, but I just want to not feel like I’m jumping off the Empire State Building.

“Can I take him up to his stall?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says. I lead him as another sweet girl from the barn reminds me. “Grip the reins with one hand, and hold the slack with the other, you don’t want to trip on reins—they’re longer than you think.”

I make a strong mental note. This is definitely something I’d do. I lead Flash into his stall but have trouble turning him around.

We stand together like a couple of dunces in the corner of his stall.

“No,” the girl says. “Turn him around. I lean my body into him in this small space and hold my breath. He follows. God damn is this one nice horse. I get his brushes and brush him lovingly, ever watchful of his feet, while he eats
There’s a kind of Zen thing in this barn. Kids mill in, largely ignore me, but are always willing to help if I have a question. Cats are everywhere, as well as two border collies, who bark little, and wander about leisurely.

It’s blissfully quiet. Being an elementary school teacher, I relish the quiet. Children are noisy and well they should be. Noise is expression, and with young kids it’s often joyous, but loud. My biggest issue with education these days is that with mandated testing, schools are beginning to hearken back to a Dickensian like drudgery. However, like most teachers, at the end of the day, I appreciate the quiet.

I talk to Flash while I continue to groom him. I tell him what I’m going to make for Dave for supper, how I miss my kids terribly, what funny things the kids at school say, how I really like my colleagues, but hate the administrative politicking.

Flash eats and listens. I walk out, lock his stall, and tell him good night. The anxious buzz that was in my head this morning muffles and stills.

I think I’m getting it, maybe just a little bit.

I hope.