I barely remember my first time riding a horse. One thing I remember crystal clear is when I finally achieved that feeling of unbridled freedom as my horse and I flew for the first time together. Since that first initial beginning, I have come far in my horse riding skills. I will never forget that first memory of the feeling of being overwhelmingly small when I was sitting on top of that powerful beast. It felt like sitting on top of the world and seeing the world in a whole new view. The view of the world from the perspective of a horse.
Growing up, I dreamed and thought of nothing else but horses. I asked for one every year at Christmas and birthdays. Instead, I had a small red wooden barn filled with little plastic models of my dreams. I owned every book on horses, my favorites being Black Beauty and My Friend Flicka. Both I had read numerous times. My favorite horse movie was Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.
Every time I watched Spirit soaring across the open plains racing the eagle, I knew that I wanted to experience that freedom. I wanted to be Little Creek as he experienced that rush of freedom, feeling the wind fly through my hair and the strong powerful muscles of the horse rippling beneath my legs. All I wanted to do was mount a beautiful horse and gallop freely into the big blue sky.
My dream finally became a reality when my mother agreed to drive thirty minutes every Saturday to riding lessons. I was paired with an aging gelding named Ol’ Smokey. Smokey was an old gentle soul that my little nine-year-old body could just barely handle. He was white with a blonde yellow mane and tail and he was tall and skinny from old age. For my first ride, all I did was sit on him as he plodded around the ring. I was slightly disappointed that he did not have the graceful prancing walk that horses in the movies had. Still, as I sat on that horse breathing in the fresh air and horse smell, I was enthralled. I was one step closer to my dream of feeling raw, unbridled freedom. My first time riding a horse and the horse had already run away with my heart.
I soon leveled up from Smokey’s plodding walk to trotting. As a first time beginner without any knowledge or strength to do anything else, I flopped and bounced all around the saddle. The poor guy must have been laughing at my clumsy attempt to maintain my grip. Forget posture, I just wanted to stay on the horse. I hated trotting. All that bouncing around was hard on my rear end. There is nothing soft and cushion-y about saddles, Western or English. Over time though, my legs developed strong riding muscles and my brain developed a better sense of understanding the way of the horse. I begin to appreciate the beauty of the trot. I was almost flying freely in a jerky, bouncy way.
I quickly advanced from Smokey to a spunkier aging mare named Hudsa. Hudsa was a big beautiful bay and white paint. She was stunning and stood out from the crowd of the other horses in the pasture. Of course, I was just a little bit biased because out of all the horses I rode, Hudsa was my favorite. She walked fast even if she stumbled quite a bit but it wasn’t a plodding walk. I knew this was going to be the horse I flew with.
I began to learn how to jump with Hudsa. Jumping sounded thrilling to me because then I was actually flying, even if it was for a few brief seconds. My first time taking Hudsa over a jump was nerve-wracking. It was only a foot high and she half walked, half jumped over it. The wind barely even moved my hair. I knew next time I was going to have to be more confident to really get Hudsa to fly over the little jump.
I couldn’t get enough of jumping, after my lesson I rushed home and looked up jumps for my plastic horses. They were expensive and cheap-looking plastic models. I wanted jumps that looked real with poles that actually knocked down when the horse didn’t jump high enough. My dad said we could build jumps out of dowel rods. So my father embarked on my horse crazed journey of building jumps with me. Mostly he just supervised when I was using power tools. My first few jumps were crude crooked models. They were rejected, my jumping ring was going to be a world-class jumping ring.
I got so good at building little wooden jumps that I advanced from the basic three-pole model and began to build complex elaborate jumps. I brought out my expensive Breyer Horses, these ceramic figurines looked more realistic and were heavier. The heavier weight gave that satisfying clop-clop that real horses make. Then I set up my arena and lined up the twenty contestants and for the next few hours, a miniature version of the Worlds Jumper Classic took place. In my head, I was soaring over the jumps to victory, my imagination flying far beyond my bedroom floor.
I was slowly building up my confidence to jump over the jumps without the fear that I was going to fall. Though there was another incidence where I did not pour enough confidence into Hudsa and she started going over the jump and then stopped. Now I had a horse stuck halfway over a jump. Glancing over, I could see my dad standing on the sidelines smirking. I looked to my riding teacher, who shrugged as she told me I was going to have to figure it out myself. I sat there for a few long seconds before I started coaxing Hudsa to walk over the foot high jump. Eventually, I got her to walk over the rest of the jump unharmed, and we continued the lesson.
When I finally could confidently trot over a foot high jump, my riding teacher increased the height of the jumps. It wasn’t before long that I could canter over four foot high jumps. It was a blast racing around the ring on Hudsa urging her over the jumps with just a few subtle cues. We were one unit conquering the jumps as we confidently and gracefully soared over each and every one. The wind was sweeping through my hair; the big sky was blue overhead. The best part was always when you felt her front legs bunch up preparing for the leap. Then for a few seconds, we were soaring. Then the front legs touched the ground as she gracefully settled her back legs and without missing a beat picked her pace right back up. It was incredible.
My riding teacher had decided I needed to learn the correct posture for trotting called post. Posting is hard work, that’s where you move in time with the up and down motion of the trot. After a couple of lessons posting with an English saddle, she decided that it was time I should do it bareback. She had me extend my arms out and urge the horse into a trot. I did this without a saddle and stirrups to help me grip. I had to grip with my thighs while I moved up and down with my other thigh muscles. As I trotted around the ring my riding teacher constantly called out “Heels down. Heels down. Heels down.” I could not walk the next day but every second was worth it.
With my arms extended wide and my face open to the sky I felt the warm sun on my face. The gentle breeze relaxing my face, in the ring I knew the horse was not going to run away and she knew her way around anyway. So I shut my eyes as I became one with the horse. With my eyes closed, I focused exclusively on the powerful motion of the horse’s trot. I memorized every step, every stumble until I got the rhythm of her trot down. There is not any one good way to describe the incredible feeling when the horse and rider become one. When they are in sync with each other and despite speaking two different languages being able to understand one another.
It took me a long time to get to the point that I could smoothly post the entire lesson. Every time I messed up, I became more and more frustrated with myself. Some lessons would end with frustrated tears stinging the corner of my eyes and my heart beating. Why couldn’t I get it right? The experienced riders in dressage shows made it look effortless. They just hopped up and sat there. I learned the hard way that horse riding was an ancient art filled with complex techniques and patience. And posting was no exception. If I wanted to post, I had to understand myself and my horse. When I finally could artfully post, I was so proud, not just of myself but of my horse as well. Because we were a team, it takes two to tango or post.
My riding teacher gave me an old English saddle they did not use anymore and told me to place it on my swing and practice the correct sitting posture. The saddle fit perfectly on my swing and I quickly mounted my new “horse”. I remembered to put my heels down, my back straight, and my chest slightly pushed forward. I subtly kicked my “horse” and we began moving. Except I was swinging sideways. It wasn’t quite the same at all. It was almost like sitting on a really big old horse that swung their hindquarters too much causing a swaying rocking motion. Unlike a real horse though I wasn’t moving forward just swaying. Nevertheless, I was determined to get the posture down. My sister and I spent hours swinging back and forth on our new “horse”. I was flying sideways into the great big blue sky.
Finally, one day my teacher said we were going on a trail ride. I was excited I loved trail ride days. I loved trotting through the words pretending that we were going on a big exciting adventure. That day she told me we were going to canter down the pasture fence towards the woods. My heart beating this was my chance to soar across the open plains; even if that open plain was a field heading towards the woods. As we took off I felt the wind fly through my hair and Hudsa’s powerful muscles rippling beneath my thighs.
At that moment I was Little Creek sitting on the back of a powerful steed. I heard Spirit’s voice in my head, “Flying? There were times I believed I could.” At that moment I believed I was flying as the world rushed by in a brown and green blur and the wind tore through my hair. I leaned in close to Hudsa inhaling the great outdoors and the sweaty scent of my horse. At that point I was addicted, I wanted to run on forever. Of course, that was not reasonable because poor Hudsa wouldn’t last that long.
The days I cherished the most were the days I really flew. Those were the days I was allowed to canter around the ring for at least ten minutes. Sitting on top of my horse, I lost myself in my imagination as I pretended that I was soaring across the open plains racing the blue sky. Even though I was going around in a repetitive circle around the ring, in my head, I was Spirit traveling across the old west plains to freedom. I was flying and I didn’t have a care in the world about anything. The only thing I cared about was the freedom that my horse and I were sharing as we cantered.
The only thing that made it better was doing it bareback. These days were rare and I enjoyed every second I could. Without having any barrier between us I cantered around the ring loving the close contact with my horse. I focused on the horses strained breathing and the thundering of her hooves as they tore across the sandy ring. The wind blowing the horse’s mane back into my face as I grinned ear to ear. I was flying and nothing was holding me back from the joy of that sense of freedom.
One night at home during the family dinner, my mom made an announcement. An announcement that announced the end of our lives as we knew it. My mother was going back to school. At first, I had no idea what to think or feel.
As my mother began planning this seemingly impossible task of achieving her master’s degree was when budget cuts were made. Everything was fine until horses were cut from the budget. My thoughts and feelings changed drastically. That was when my world felt like it was shattering into millions of pieces of horse dreams. I was frustrated, I was angry, I was upset, I was defiant. Most of all I was resentful. My mother had already had her childhood to fulfill her dreams and now she was taking mine so she could finish her dreams. I felt like I wanted to rip all of my hair out and scream until my lungs collapsed. The old saying that life wasn’t fair, was a major understatement at the time. My mother received the cold shoulder from me. I was hoping I could convince her that there was room for both horses and her school in the budget. It was to no avail.
As time wore on my mother disappeared behind textbooks more and more. Then the first round of birthdays were forgotten, I knew then I had lost. If birthdays weren’t important anymore than why were passionate dreams? I retreated into my books and riding my bicycle.
I was addicted to that rush when it felt like I was flying; being cut off from the feeling cold turkey was torture. I began to ride my bike a lot more, it was the best substitution I had to the real thing in the middle of the city. One day my dad took me down this giant hill. I instantly put my heels down on my pedals like they were stirrups and I shut my eyes feeling the air on my face. My bike was going so fast it was shaking. I pretended that I could hear the thundering of hooves instead of the traffic passing me. That I could smell grass and hay instead of car fumes and sewage. I felt alive as I got that same rush of freedom from flying. When we reached the bottom, I could barely slow down.
My dad looked at me wide-eyed, shocked at how fast I was going. I shrugged, really wanting to walk back up that giant steep hill so I could feel it all over again. It was nowhere near the same as riding a horse but it was as close as I could get in the city. I was just happy I figured out how to sort of fly in the city.
I selfishly watched my mom struggling with work, school, kids, and a husband, happy that she too was miserable. I was like a spoiled child only thinking of me and my dreams. It never occurred to me that my mother might have dreams of her own, after all, she was a mother and her life was just her kids. The day I watched her walk across the stage beaming was the day I realized that maybe, just maybe my mother did have a life outside of my sister and me. She had been our mother for over a decade, that was a long time to give up your life.
I still dreamed of horses, spending days longingly looking at my horse posters or rereading Black Beauty or re-watching Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron for the millionth time but things had changed. I had lost my freedom and dreams, but I realized that one day I will have my chance again. My mother got her chance. My mother was working full time now and it made it easier to forgive her knowing that her struggles of school and our sacrifices made her happy.
Her going through school was like when I got that horse stuck on a jump. Sometimes you hate the way things are going and you’re not sure how to react but eventually, you’re going to get over that jump. And when you finally get over that jump you find your wide-open blue sky sense of freedom again as you fly to the next hurdle in life. Flying? Every day I believe I can.
