Me, me, me

          Today, I rode three horses.  I keep noting these things because I am living a long dream.  I have loved horses all my life—except during a certain period of my life spent in college and pursuit of totally unsuitable young men.  I lived, dreamed, drew, begged for,  read about, wrote about nothing but horses.  And wanted one in the worst way. For almost five decades.

            Of course, I never knew what a horse really was.  Eventually, I had a few stable experiences that should have clued me in: a horse is usually not even woman’s best friend.  And now I own five of them, and expect that they will be the death of me; what else can you say if you consort with some aggregate weight of over 5300 pounds, a mass which operates on the fight-or-flight-but-mostly-flight principle?  None of them would ever dream of hurting me, which is why they would be so surprised to turn around and find me trampled into a mealy mess.

            One of the very exciting things about this morning is that I found myself not just walking, but actually running on the treadmill.  Like I’d turned a corner in a sickness.  Which Chaz also felt today, turning that corner.  But then she is actually sick (and no, she didn’t kiss anybody to get it).

            I guess I hadn’t realized how freeing it is when the kids finally take off on their own.  When that happens, they call you in to the quartermaster, take back your parent uniform and give you a bag with all your personal stuff in it—the stuff they’ve been saving for you for the last thirty years.  Like your brain—the part that’s allowed to think about what it wants to think about – withOUT constant interruption.  I didn’t realize how much I’d missed that for the last three decades.

            When beloved people come calling, you have to shelf yourself all over again.  As in the case of my Dad and sister’s visit: very short, so every minute had to count.  Or Gin’s – which was longer, but still so important, it all had to be used up carefully. And which included the Frazz – who added an additional layer of aural stimulation and restored the swiss cheese focus I’d forgotten that I’d forgotten.  Oh, and factor in the several changes of clothes it took so I could see to the horses without sending Gin into anaphylactic shock.

            I had guests for a little over three weeks, which was wonderful and wearing. And then I had to say good-bye to them, which was not wonderful.

            Alongside all that, I had two veins deconstructed, which meant walking around with Valium in my system, a tourniquet (not really, but almost) on my leg, a series of incisions that made me look like Frankenstein on a good day, and this constant little voice in my head that kept saying – wait – you can’t lift that.  You can’t bend that way.  You can’t kick that, either.  And whoops—you’ve been sitting too long.  Also, there was actually a blood-pressure machine at the clinic that tried to kill me.  I’m not kidding.

            So four weeks of not moving a lot, but making up for that by eating.  Celebratory eating.  And limping.  And being cut open.  And saying good-bye.

            I think today, somehow, I finally came out on the other side of all that.  The realization that I can now move and in moving, do pretty much anything I want, left me blinking at bit.  Almost nobody to fret about. No more even having to worry about if the living room is vacuumed (call before you come over).

            And so I spent three hours at the barn with no guilt.  Amazing.  A-mazing. A certain lightness of being. And I had energy. I could do anything.  All those things that I’d needed to remember to do later?  I could do them.  Check off those boxes. Tote those bales, pay those bills.

             Of course, all that lovely energy only lasted till about two thirty. 

            It’s always good to remember to eat lunch.

            Here’s the exciting thing about the riding: I was worried about the colt.  When you’re just teaching a baby (a really big baby), you’ve got to be consistent.  You’ve seen what horses can do when they start objecting to too much human company.  I’m too old to be slammed down onto the earth backwards, for all my post-partum padding.

            So, when four weeks go by and the colt’s only been ridden once, it’s smart to start slow.  I saddled up the colt and left him tied – just to remember for a while what it felt like to be a grown-up horse.  Then I warmed up on my Zion, and had a few words with him.  But very few.  Then messed around with Dustin, and had words with him, too. 

            When I took the colt out on the long line, he reminded me of the way Cam used to do his math back in the day – can anybody on earth move any more slowly?  But I made it clear that wouldn’t do, and after a bit, he began to brighten up.  He did so well, even cantering without any pops or fizzles, and taking the trot poles so easily he proved there was no cement in his feet—I figured I could get up in that saddle without taking my life in my hands.

            And I did it.  And we did have a few words – but again, not very many, and though he made feints barnwards, one for each change of direction – all I had to do was correct that and ask for a canter—and I got a real one – not a lead footed half trot, but a real three beat canter, both ways around.

            When I have this kind of ride, even though it only lasts maybe fifteen minutes, I walk away feeling alive.  Like I have a right to part the air.  Like I’m all grown up and have my own car keys.

            In the afternoon, I ran aground on the sight of all those books on the Scholastic website that aren’t mine (that can really take the heart out of you).  And I didn’t get called back by the people who know why one of my editorial contacts has simply vanished.  And my TimeMachine backup drive died.  And, like I said, I forgot lunch.

            But you know, maybe tomorrow, the colt will still remember to be nice.  And I’ll remember to eat.  And maybe something really, really good will happen, like M writing from Argentina.

            You never know.