In the Company of Women and Horses

I ride, as do many of my friends. My friend, Kathryn, was temporarily grounded due to a hip issue. She wrote this after a Sunday class and I thought I would share it.



Thoughts From the Convalescent Corner
Kathryn Madison

Since my doctor has forbidden all painkillers for the next week until my steroid injection, I have turned to my drug of choice – alcohol. As I plugged in the blender and prepared a margarita guaranteed to dull any pain I recalled the morning. Sunday dressage class at Blue Fountain Farm.
From a chair in the convalescent corner I peered between the fence rails into the arena and immediately made two observations. From the ground the horses look much bigger and the women much taller. I smiled as Sam showed off her brand new inflatable breasts, and Elliott and Mijo shied at the sight of me and my crutches. Smart horses – people shouldn’t have metal legs. Listening to Mary argue that she and Kuchina should be allowed to jump because she would have Medicare in a few months made me laugh. It was good to be there, even if I couldn’t ride.
Since Lesley’s yelling didn’t require a response from me, my mind wandered off to contemplate the women riding to their little-girl dreams. What battles had they fought over the decades that preceded this perfect Sunday? As young girls did they struggle with their identity? Peer pressure? Were they gawky as colts, uncomfortable in their skin? Hard to believe that of this crowd, but I’m sure they were. I was. Did they wrestle with choices of career, marriage (or not) and children (or not)? Probably. I did. As the years passed I bet their battles shifted like mine – from fighting the gender bias in jobs we loved, to keeping that husband – or not. What battles do we fight now? And why do we drag our fragile bones and aging muscles out to the ranch each Sunday morning?
Because on the back of a horse we are empowered. On the back of a horse we are tall enough to spit in the eye of time, defy the effects of aging, and conquer every challenge. On the back of a horse we are strong enough to survive divorce, grief, cancer. For a few fleeting moments we believe we can do anything. That intoxicating empowerment is what summons us each week to dance with these great beings, who – for the most part – tolerate our bad riding and bungled cues in calm silence. They graciously carry not only our body weight but the weight of our scars.
Ah, the blender has stopped. The glass is rimmed with salt, and the margarita beckons. I smile and raise my glass, saluting the mounted madams of Blue Fountain Farm. I toast your courage, your humor, and the camaraderie that binds us.
L’chaim, ladies, TO LIFE!