“I really don’t think life is about the I-could-have-beens. Life is only about the I-tried-to-do. I don’t mind the failure but I can’t imagine that I would forgive myself if I didn’t try.” Nikki Giovanni, poet
I arrived at the stables, riding helmet in hand to take the first of six horseback riding lessons I received from the Hub for my birthday. My goal is to become proficient enough to ride with my Uncle while I am in California. There is also some discussion of a future pack/hunt or pack/fishing trip on the Ratliffs’ horizon. Secretly, there is the desire on my part to become the world’s oldest barrel racer.
My trainer Cathy is part cowgirl/part hippy chick with her philosophy of becoming one with the animal and her passion for horses. I finally found a place to apply all my yoga classes as I learn to relax and center myself. My first lesson was really about safety and technique and learning to saddle and attend to the horse, basic beginner stuff but I did get to lead the horse and walk around the arena a few times. My biggest challenge may be remembering right and left, gee and haw. When I went to Buddhism school I had an equally challenging time learning the walking mediation concept too. It would seem the easiest things are my most elusive.
The trainer led Tex the horse while I was on his back. I had my eyes closed, learning his rhythms and attempting to attune myself to side to side rocking. It’s a new and exciting sensation for me to trust a stranger and an animal I don’t know. It calls upon new muscles both internally and externally. It also requires a good bar of soap afterwards. I came home smelling of sweat, horse, dust and heat but it was okay. I felt like I had accomplished something good.
Last time I was on a horse, prior to the Grand Canyon escapade, I was told not to take the horse out. I was nine. I didn’t listen. There I was galloping bareback in an open field with the delectable sense of freedom, albeit any worries of ever getting caught when the horse stumbled. I fell off and snapped my wrist. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if my friend hadn’t ratcheted it back and forth proving it couldn’t be broken if I could still move it. I didn’t tell anyone I was hurt for about 24 hours for fear of getting in trouble. I finally had to confess when my hand swelled to almost twice its normal size, began to discolor and appeared as it the born was going to poke thru the skin. Amazingly enough I don’t recall my mother scolding too much beyond making me promise if I ever got hurt again, no matter the circumstances to please let an adult know right away. Good plan.