For many years in my youth, I was a barn rat. My infatuation with horses knew no bounds. To this day, I regard horses as the most beautiful creatures on earth, their sleek, brilliant coats cloaking their powerful musculature. Their eyes have a deep, limpid quality, their ears flicker, their nostrils flare with inquisitiveness.
My horses were stabled near my home in Lexington, Kentucky at a boarding facility, and I spent days hanging out at the barn, cleaning their stalls, grooming and riding them, and feeding them at day’s end. I would stroke their necks and run my hands across their sides, feeling the softness of their coats and their steely muscles, combing errant portions of their manes that had flipped over to the left side of their neck instead of the right. I knew the personalities of my horses better than I understood my own soul.
I flourished as an equestrian. It is the singular pursuit in my life that I can say that about.
I practiced riding repetitively, with and without a trainer, walking, trotting, and cantering endlessly. The goal was to have a collected horse, which meant that its energy was contained, or released, through silent cues from the rider. Cantering is entered from a walk, not a trot, with the inside front leg leading when circling an arena. Thus, you cue the horse to lead on the left when cantering counterclockwise and on the right when circling clockwise. If I wanted my horse to canter on the lead-hand lead, I would shift my weight to my right hip, turn the horse’s head slightly to the right, and apply pressure from my right heel behind the girth.
I rode the county horseshow circuit for several years, and when my mother bought me a horse trailer when I was seventeen years old, I hauled one of my horses in a trailer behind my family’s Jeep Wagoneer. The day before the event was very busy – bathing my horse, shampooing her mane and tail, and trimming her fetlocks and a small part of her mane where the bridle settled behind her ears. At home, I would saddle soap the tack and polish my black riding boots. I would arrive early to the stable the morning of the show to groom my horse, polish her hooves, brush baby oil into her tail to make it shine, and braid ribbons into her forelock.
Equitation is a competition, like dressage, where the form of the rider is judged, not the horse’s performance. But the aptitude and athleticism of the horse is key to helping the rider look good. It is the invisible control of the horse that is on view, along with the rider’s posture, stillness, and alignment of her head, shoulders, hips and heels.
I still remember the rhythm of that cantering gait, the rise and fall of the horse’s head, her shoulders moving in time to the almost imperceptible rocking of my own. Sometimes everything around me would disappear – the spectators, the sounds of the organ music, the other competitors - my body coupled to the saddle, my mind quieted with concentrated effort. I knew in those moments how accomplished I was, though to be fair, the judge did not always agree with my self-assessment.
Horse shows fed my competitive drive, but the quiet, everyday moments with horses were more meaningful. I would run to the pasture where my bay gelding resided during the day and whistle for him. He would stop grazing, look up, gallop towards me with irrepressible enthusiasm, and give me a familiar nuzzle. After leading him to his stall, I would run my hands down his legs, lean into him to pick his hooves for cleaning, and I would get a curious equine snuffle in my neck. There was always a velvety patch of skin to the side of each nostril that was impossible not to kiss.
And when life as a young girl was too painful to bear, I would stand next to my horse and bury my face into a shoulder and cry; a horse’s steadfast presence and deep breathing was all I ever needed.