Like a Young Troubadour, I Rode in on a Song

I so rarely remember my dreams. For some reason, it's usually on nights that I don't sleep well or don't sleep long enough. Last night was both. I went to bed by 10pm so I could get enough sleep and still get up and wash my hair.

At 3:15, I awoke to some rather loud thudding that I was unable to identify but could hear over my white noise app. It continued. I knew that the boy was the source, so I called him. He says he prefers calls to texts. At 3am, I prefer a quick death. Apparently, he had loaded rocks in my dryer and then left the laundry room door open, just outside my bedroom. I asked him to close the door. He did get up and stop the dryer. Bless his sweet self. His sweet, oblivious, 3am self.

I laid there, sweating and trying to fight the sheet over me and under the huge cat, with my back aching. I got out of bed at 4 and wandered down to the coffee maker. It's well made and strong this morning, thank dog for small blessings.

I lamented often recently that with my week, I've had little time to do the things I really love, like reading and painting. I guess this was the universe's way of giving me some time back. Careful what you wish for. So I slipped into The Poisonwood Bible for an hour and a half before I had to go wash this mess. I wondered how many years of my life I could vanish into books that I've spent washing my hair. Careful not to manifest that. Or to make a rash decision to cut my hair.

I've spoken twice in the past week about horseback riding. I miss it. I've been told I look like I was born in the saddle. It always felt natural to me. Yesterday, I got a picture of someone riding down in Florida. The live oaks dripped with Spanish moss and the grass was so green it looked like a golf course. I barely noticed the people at all. The horses, the scene, but only then the people.

I've always loved horses. I can understand a horse. Both too big for the world we're in, both anxious and wild-eyed, occasionally scared of nothing at all to the point that there is no reasoning with us, not aggressive, but certainly sometimes clumsy and defensive, smarter than people think at first, gentle, but capable of taking care of ourselves, perceptive, intuitive, careful, rugged and tough, but fragile too.

So all that talk about horseback riding meant that I awoke to the memory of my dreams. It was sunny. I rode a big dun, coincidentally my favorite flavor and one of three horses that ever caused me physical damage. The first, a greenbroke mare, Princess, daughter of a retired barrel horse, Lady. I was the only one small enough to ride her and that boy didn't really seem to care too much about what happened to me. She threw me twice. I'd have gotten back on again, but I hit my head on the ground the second time so hard that I'm told they felt it across the pasture. She rang my bell and I may have had a concussion. She was a bay with a star on her forehead and one white sock.

The second was a palomino mare, Cinnamon, who liked a croup scratch more than she did apples. So she'd turn her rump to you and you were expected to scratch until she'd had enough. There wasn't really any indication of when she was finished. Except that one time when she shifted her weight and I knew before she moved more than that what she was aiming to do. I took one good step back before she could raise that hoof and kick the shit out of me. Still landed a good blow on my right thigh that left a hematoma that spread to the size of a cantaloupe. That was the last scratch she got from me. I'm thankful I was paying attention and my instincts are good, or she may have broken me like an egg.

The buckskin dun, they called him Rocky Road. He was a good, spirited mount and I loved to ride him. Big, with primitives up his legs. He was beautiful with his black mane, his long, elegant head, and the length of him. I'm certain he had some warmblood in him. He had a tendency to scrape a rider off on the trees along the fenceline if he ever got faster than a trot. I think we broke him of that with me pressed down over his neck, sleek like a jockey and just letting him tear along, reins a little snugger than usually necessary so he'd know I was still there. He may as well have tried to scrape off his own rusty hide.

My dream was this big dun. Mane and tail dun too, not black like a buckskin. Trust me that the irony of this situation is not at all lost on me. When the scene opened, I was already mounted, choked way too far up on the saddle horn, I could feel it pressed against my pubic bone, stiff, with the reins too tight. And instinct immediately reminded me that the real secret to western riding is to relax your arms down to your hipbones, let your hips roll with the gait of the horse, slide your butt into the curve of the saddle, lean back a little unknot the reins.

I don't know why I can't seem to apply this knowledge to the rest of my life. Let go a little, relax, you'll be more comfortable and so will your mount. Kick your hat back and pull something cold out of the saddle bag, one hand on the reins and just let your instinct tell your horse what to do. They listen. They're smarter and more perceptive than you think. Trust yourself. Trust your horse. You'll still end the day with a sore butt, but less than if you try to fight. Life is going to make you sore, but your level of control is more than you think.