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Centaur  |
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Not Willing to Fall Fifteen minutes ago, I got into my car and my husband questioned my sanity. “Are you crazy? Do you really think it’s a good idea to go there in your condition?” But my mind was made up. Only death could keep me away. Now, I drive along Watts Farm Lane with gravel crunching beneath my tires. The road bends to the right and starts down hill. Resting at the bottom, a white barn with green trim awaits my arrival. The surrounding board-fenced pastures contain twenty horses of various sizes and colors. My eyes dart to the fourth pasture on the left, my horse’s home for the past five years. Standing in the far end, Ritter grazes peacefully. His tail snaps like a whip then swishes in a repeating motion, effective for holding the biting flies at bay. I sit in my parked car and breathe deeply, trying to curb the nausea building in my stomach. I hear my friend, Mary Kim’s words in my head. “Yes, I’ll take Ritter. I’d love to have him.” I open the car door, count one… two… three… and breathe in deeply. On the exhale, I force myself to stand. The knight’s sword thrusts deeper, almost bringing me to my knees. I steady myself and take another deep breath before hobbling to the barn’s double doors.
The smell of dust combined with the sweet scent of timothy hay and molasses greets me. Add the aroma of worn leather and even a little manure. The barn smell has always been like a spiritual experience for me−a confirmation of having left one world and entering another. The cheerful chatter of barn swallows echoes in the rafters. Juan, Mexican immigrant and dedicated barn help, sings while he works in the rear of the barn. He looks up then steps out of the stall into the center aisle to greet me. “Hello! You been sick?” It shouldn’t surprise me the only man in a barn full of women boarders didn’t hear the news−especially a man who struggles with the English language. “No, Juan.” My voice cracks and at the same time tears well up in my eyes. I try to hold them back but a few escape and spill down my cheeks. Juan’s brow rises, his hand tightening on his pitchfork. Sensing his discomfort, I pull myself together and manage to choke out an explanation. “I had an accident with Ritter a week and a half ago. I fell off and broke my back.” “Oh no. You ok?” “Not really. Mary Kim’s gonna be Ritter’s new mom. I’m giving up riding,” I say, looking down at the wasted hay scattered on the floor. “I’m sorry, Julie,” he says and goes back to mucking the stall. In the tack room, I open Ritter’s trunk and sort through the contents, making sure everything is there. Blankets, saddle pads, leg wraps, and more. All of it belongs to Mary Kim now. A box full of horse stuff that I collected and meticulously cared for over the last six years. I took up riding immediately after my second daughter was born. Diagnosed with a mild case of post-partum depression, I needed something in my life other than motherhood. As a kid, I was desperate to ride horses, but never did so I decided it was a good time to learn. After the first lesson, I was hooked. Being at the barn was my therapy. Around horses, I fully absorbed the present moment. No thoughts of dirty diapers, Ferber method nap schedules or dreaded night-time feedings. One year later, I bought my own gentle giant, a Hanoverian gelding complete with a fancy German name, known around the barn as Ritter. I became someone other than “Julie, the stay-at-home mom” and I embraced my new horsewoman identity. After I finish organizing, I leave the tack room and follow the sound of Juan’s pitchfork scraping against the floor. “Juan, can you get Ritter for me?” I call. He pokes his head through an open stall door. “I can’t do it,” I say and he nods. A tingling sensation in my face warns me of the oncoming flood. I limp behind Juan to Ritter’s pasture, longing to lead my horse one more time. The gate creaks then groans upon opening. Marching across the dew-covered grass to Ritter’s side, Juan slips a leather halter over my horse’s head and leads him back towards me. One word pops into my mind every time I watch Ritter move. Elegant. Even after five years of looking at him, I’m still entranced by his beauty. Measuring 16.3 hands tall, his withers are even with the top of my head. His body is a rich reddish-brown (called “bay” in horse lingo) blending into black at the knee and complemented by a luxurious midnight mane and tail. Three of his lower legs are white, as if he lost one sock. On the right side of his belly, the missing sock is found, masquerading as a white spot the size of volleyball. Back in the barn, as Ritter saunters behind Juan, his steel-clad feet clop in a four beat rhythm down the cement aisle. Once in the grooming stall, Juan attaches a cross tie to the brass ring on either side of Ritter’s halter and leaves me alone with my horse.
I present my open palm under Ritter’s mouth. His lips scrabble across my hand in search of peppermint candies. When he finds none, he licks my forearm with his sticky tongue. This time, I don’t wipe away the slime. Soul-filled eyes, the color of dark chocolate, connect with mine. I rest my cheek on his muzzle and his grass-scented breath warms my shoulder. He doesn’t pull away−amazing for the former head-shy horse who was a champion at leaping backwards if anyone reached for his face. Rummaging through the brush box, I pull out a rubber, oval-shaped curry comb. Starting on the left side of his neck, I rub in mini circles as if I’m applying wax to a car. Dried mud rises from his body in a dust storm and the dirt particles stick to my lips. “I’m gonna miss you. Mary Kim will take great care of you so there’s no need to worry.” I say, rubbing circles down to his left shoulder. My body’s weakness threatens to bench me but I focus on my task while saying a silent prayer for strength. I continue rubbing along his barrel, over his haunches to the dock of his tail and then make my way around to the other side. It’s a routine I could do with my eyes closed. But this time, my eyes are wide open. Was I willing to take the chance I might fall again and possibly injure myself worse? No. The answer was confirmed every time by thinking about my two little girls. Making the decision to quit was easy. There’s a good equestrian rule for guidance: you don’t get on if you’re not willing to fall off. Soon, the curry comb is replaced by a stiff bristle brush and then a softer one. I run my fingers over the short hairs on Ritter’s back, feeling the natural oils of his coat. I smooth the fly-away strands of his mane before resting my hand on his withers. “Ritter,” I whisper. His ears prick forward and with bent neck, he turns to look at me. “What happened wasn’t your fault,” I say, “I’m sorry I scared you.” I lean in and kiss him on the soft spot marking where his nose morphs into his top lip. My breath catches and tears stream down my face. My body slumps and I wrap my arms around his strong, graceful neck. He stands still like a palace sentry guarding the moment. Patting him once, I call for Juan. Standing next to the pasture, I wipe away the tears and say my good-bye. Ritter’s chest presses against fence, the top board straining against his weight. He extends his giraffe-like neck and nuzzles my pocket. Some things won’t change, I tell myself with a smile. I rest my hand just below his forelock. Then I gently push him back. “I love you, buddy. Be good to your new momma.” Turning away, I hobble along the drive back to my car. As I open the car door, Juan sticks his head through an open stall window and calls out, “I pray for you, Julie.” I pray, too. I pray I can hang on to my belief that change is a preparation−some sort of a cleaning that makes room for the next good thing arriving on the doorstep. And, I pray I won’t be so blinded by tears and painkillers that I miss the entrance.
The End |
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