“The spring came
suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh
and a shout, and hands full of flowers.” – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And I, despite months,
and years, of waiting, and hoping, was not ready. When I was a child, I used to
jump on my parents’ bed, and then leap as far as I could off the edge,
convinced that if I practiced enough, one day I would miss the ground and learn
to fly. I also used to sit in the backseat of my parents’ car and imagine
riding along the side of the road, convinced that if I wished hard enough, one
day I would have a horse. I didn’t really think it would work. But now I’m
airborne, and it is a little startling.
The disbelief is
compounded by a whole new identity that came home with my horse. All of a
sudden I am an equestrienne. Whoa. I
mean, trot on. There are expectations inherent in the role. I really ought to
own a pair of breeches, instead of the jeans I usually ride in. I should know
how to train a horse to piaffe. I should have a standing feud with Brad
Townsend. And I should have perfect hair that attractively shimmers in the
breeze as I ride my beautifully groomed horse in a lovely extended trot.
I know that I’m getting
a bit ahead of myself, but I’ve always rushed to the end of things. I graduated
college four years early and graduate school two years after that. My mother
makes fun of me for completing my New Year’s resolution on December 31 of the previous year. I love graduations, and
ceremonies, and celebration. I love beginnings because they represent a new
challenge to accomplish. So I expected that when Surya came home I would
celebrate my achievement à la the Ewoks at the end of Star Wars, and she and I
would frolic like Bambi and Thumper did the spring they were born.
But instead of
overwhelming elation, I felt…subdued. Not unhappy or incomplete, just…slow,
like waking after an afternoon nap in the sun. I also felt a little confused. I
forgot that yes, I had achieved the status of horsewoman. But in doing so, I began
a new stage of my life; I was reborn an equestrienne. The thing about renewal
is that it is new. Nobody expects an
infant to be a fully mature and actualized human being. I kept forgetting this
for myself, for Surya, and for the relationship between me and Surya. A mother
loves her baby instantly and unequivocally, but still knows so little about
her. The discovery is part of the joy.
Nevertheless, I worry
constantly that I am reversing Surya’s training in my uncertainty and
ignorance. I worry that I am not teaching her to go into the bridle, that she
is trotting crooked, and that I will end up sawing on her mouth while she
canters around hollow-backed. I worry that I will ruin the friendship we have
started. My trainer says to stop looking for the outcome and simplify
everything. “Just cuddle her.” She means this in terms of wrapping my legs
around Surya to provide comfort and support, and maintaining a steady outside
rein to provide clear direction, but also in terms of recognizing that we don’t
have to leave Bambi’s thicket yet.
On Easter Sunday last
week, the priest preached that spring brings hope and celebration. As I
listened, I came to understand a distinction. The hope of spring is not based
on desperate longing for an uncertain future. Rather, it is based on confidence
that the trees will bud and leaf out in deep green; it is based on abiding
faith. It is the stillness of early morning, when the world holds its breath
for the spectacular opportunity that will
come. And the celebration is not a rave held to get drunk on the fact that we
won despite overwhelming odds. It is a victory that was, and is, and always
will be. Really, I should not be surprised that I have a horse. It was always
going to happen. I should be thankful that I own this wonderful horse, and express hope in the path we are walking.
Spring this year has
been so exuberant it feels as if the earth is celebrating for me. We’ve had day
after day of 70 degree weather, and there are flowers everywhere. With all the dogwoods
and cherry trees shouting the news, perhaps I don’t have to race in
exhilaration, but rather nurture my inchoate identity. Maybe I need learn to
dwell in the first notes of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture instead of rushing to
the cannons at the end. So for now, Surya and I are going to quietly trot in
circles until she consistently goes into the bridle on the outside rein and I
believe in my rebirth as an equestrienne.
“The dance is this cage,
in which one learns to
fly.”
– Claude Nougaro (as
quoted in Philippe Karl’s The Art of Riding)
