A Favorite Place

The gravel crumbles under the weight of my boot. Dust fills the air, until the wind sweeps it somewhere else. A light breeze rustles the leaves, breaking some free to find a new home on their own. Flies dart in and out of view, always nearby. I can smell the damp grass and the fresh dirt. The woody scent of sawdust fills my nose. I breathe it in. As I near closer, iron striking concrete echoes off the walls. The casual rhythm welcomes me in, a slow and steady pace that holds so much power. Swishing of tails can be heard to fend off the enemies – crackling and whipping back and forth. Some soft murmurs come from behind the stalls. Some I can only see their ears, others stand tall and proud, chest broad and head held high. Their ears dance back and forth, taking in the sounds around them in every direction. Yet they always spring forward when I make my way through the aisle. Stomping and thudding come from within. Some even bang and kick against the wall, sending loud crashes and vibrations into the world. Impatience is growing; I can feel it. Whinies and shrieks start to fill the air. The anticipation is rubbing off on me, or maybe I’m rubbing off on them. We feed off each other. 

The metal feels cold against my skin as I reach for the stall door. I slip my hand through, holding it in the air for a moment before being met by a hot, gentle breath. Whiskers lightly play across my skin, sending an army of goosebumps up my arms. Each hair raises and my stomach flutters. I cup my hand around the soft muzzle, squishy and delicate as he rests the weight of the world in it. I move from supple skin up to his coarse mane, tracing my fingers around his cowlick, dirt filling every outline of my fingerprint. His hair is soft as he bobs his head up and down so I can reach the right spot. I push back into him, bracing against his weight to provide comfort. It takes everything in me to stand my ground as he drives his head back and forth, sighing in relief. I can feel the sound that escapes him ringing through my body. My breathing becomes aligned with his. Slow and steady, not breaking. His eyes look like another galaxy up close. A beast so wild and powerful, yet so tender and sweet. He wants more. Wirey mane scratches as he moves. 

Birds above hop from rafter to rafter, chirping away in their own worlds. My mouth is dry and tacky, tasting like metal. It feels thick and glued shut. My lips are tight and cracking from the heat of the sun, but I lick them anyway. My tongue is met with the slight taste of salt. It’s nice to take refuge for a moment. The calm before the storm. No matter how long I’ve done this, everyday I get the same tingling sensation bubbling up inside of me. It’s almost like that feeling when your foot falls asleep, but across my whole body. Like static on a tv with no signal. Clanking and dangling of metal twinkle like chimes. Buttery leather leaves an oily residue on my skin as I move my tack from rack to horse. The weight rests in my arms as I carry it by it’s spine, hoisting up and softly laying it on his back. My blisters are sealing to my socks as I move back and forth from tack room to stall. The leather molds to my feet; my second layer of skin. 

They always told me that I took my time and moved slow, but I had to. This is my favorite place, my favorite moment. I have to take it in. It’s what grounds me before the chaos and adrenaline break through. It keeps the nerves at bay, as they bounce around inside, hoping to erupt in an explosion of fear. Sometimes they got close. But these still, quiet moments calmed me. It’s what made it all worth it. Connection. Focus. Care. Nothing mattered in this moment in time, until it did. It never lasted long, and once it was over everything changed. Armor on and heading straight into battle. But before that time came, I needed time to be off; to collect and be still. Any ride is a risk; liberating and rewarding, but always a risk. To me, it was all about the time before; before the yelling and coaching, before the exhaustion and sweat, before every muscle in my body exerted, veins popping as I fought for control; control of myself and this beast, before counting strides and guessing leads, before memorizing courses as they were told to me, and if I didn’t memorize correctly, I would pay the consequences. I always had to pay the consequences. This is a sport of life or death now, isn’t it? And not just for me, but my partner. A battle for power. Who would come out in control? A team. Working together and sometimes against eachother, as the sun blairs it’s fire down on us both. Foam frothing at the mouth as I work every muscle, but you would never notice the fight, because you’re not supposed to. A pure illusion – graceful even. The freedom felt as we fly through the fields, hooves thundering against the soft ground, flinging up patches of grass and dirt in our wake. Wind scoring past my ears, enveloping us in nothing but white noise and heavy breathing, blocking everything else. I let go and he charges on faster. Nothing holding us back. I am at his mercy yet I feel unstoppable. 

But the time before all of that, the slow moments that quiet the voices in my mind, the doubt, the fear, the anxiety, get me to this point. A moment with just the horse and I. I never know how the ride is going to go. The fear of the unknown ahead. So let me be slow and let me take it in because in a world that is constantly moving, I need to take a minute to find the stillness – not to escape the uncertainty, but to meet it head-on. It’s my way of steadying myself before charging forward. Life works the same way. We don’t always know what’s coming, but we can take a breath, find our footing, and embrace the now. Because when the gates open and the stopwatch starts, when it’s game time—there’s no looking back. Three. Two. One. You just go.