The Unlikely Builder

I should probably be writing this in my Momish blog, since it's more Amish than momish, but everything you do in life that inspires you or vexes you is all relatable to the mothering thing. Since all endeavor, ultimately, leads to making a sandwich in the kitchen.

My trail buddy took Dewey and me on a 3 and a half hour trail ride, the longest ride of my entire life, yesterday. We did the Sheep Loop, which involves riding under the freeway, and then up through these shady oak trees, and these vibrant green St. Patrick's Day patches of clover, all lit up by I think magic, and morning sun. And then we just kept going. New trails that meander and have water and green overhanging plants are an antidote. You find the corners of your mouth start to turn into the smiling area. You're confounded that you're on a thousand pound animal, at 48, after a broken finger, and still trying.

The best part was not the sheep at the top, in the meadow, or the gorgeous sun dapply green jungle we ducked in and out of. The best part was that when we decided to canter one little part, I was scared, and Dewey was so happy, he wanted to romp and play and race which is scary when you're on the top of him, but the best part was I rode through it. We did it a few times, where there were sections to canter, like up the hill to the sheep, and Dewey reacted like a Ferrari just touching the gas, he just GOES. I had my trail buddy there, and she made sure we slowed down, my safety device, but I was able to see that my horse has gears I can control - I have to let him go a little bit, and then rein him in. Let go, and then gently remind. Hey, I'm up here, buddy. Take it easy. Dewey wanted to run - he wanted to leap into the sky - but because of all this time working together, and setting some clear boundaries for him - he listened - he leapt, but he slowed down, he ran, but he flicked his ear back when I said too fast, he wanted to go, but he controlled himself. He didn't want to lose me.

I figured out yesterday that I am not just haphazardly barely hanging on to this massive young horse as he does whatever he wants. He's listening to me, he's grateful for the rides we go to explore, he's excited to be 6 years old, and he wants a leader.

All amazing.

This learning thing, seriously endless. I'm always afraid of connection - I'm good at showing up, and hoping I don't take up too much room. But I'm seeing that these tendrils of connection, no matter how small you try to shrink yourself - connection is happening to you. People (and horses) care. You are stuck, woman. You've been there for them, and guess what, you're pretty good at it. Connection means you're making a difference. You aren't getting away. You're in fact, building something.

Huh.

So today, since my butt was sore from yesterday, we just went to the arena, and I took off his saddle and let him loose in the sandy ring, and he ran free like he wanted to run yesterday. Like a blur. Then I got back on, and we worked together, and I can see we are building a partnership, because trust is coming back. It takes so long to build trust when you have a fall. But it's coming back, because it feels like the fun is returning. That's how you know. He's just a dopey horse that needs variety, exercise, and understanding. He needs you to be there for it all.

Then last night Lilly was intent on catching a leprechaun. While I was in the hot tub, I was watching her run from room to room because the leprechaun had left her a note and a sticker he stole from her in the box she tried to catch him in. She was yelling, "I'LL GET YOU NEXT YEAR, LEPRECHAUN!"

It's a green, glossy path.