horses were my safety net

             About thirteen years ago I felt something start to shift within myself.  I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly was happening, but I knew that I felt a physical pain that was not “normal.”  My own definition of “normal pain” is a tightness, a pinching, a burning, or any uncomfortable sensation due to harmful circumstances; or it is the deep fatigue and soreness after engaging in a physical activity.  This “not normal” pain I was feeling was in my back and shoulders and neck, where many people hold their stress.  This pain would not go away, it was always with me, which did not seem normal to me.  But, as a twelve-year-old, I couldn’t imagine what was really going on.

            At this age, bodies are changing, hormones are revving up, the kids in my grade started to form tightly knit groups of friends, and I felt confused.  My body began its chronic aching and I didn’t know where I belonged.  In all of the groups, whether they were labeled “popular” or “nerds,” there seemed to develop a kind of code—who to talk to and who to ignore, certain styles of clothes were accepted and others were looked at in disgust, and gossip was rampant.  To me, they all had a superficial air and I didn’t want to be superficial.  I was trying to figure out my own individual identity apart from the pressures of the seventh grade social rules. 

            Whether I marginalized myself, or other intentionally pushed me aside, I cannot recall.  This isn’t to say they I didn’t have friends, because I did.  It’s just that, they seemed to change year after year depending on whom I saw in class.  If I didn’t have classes with the friends I had the year before, then I was no longer included in the group.  And that hurts.  Eventually I became a part of this kind of oddball group.  We all had good acquaintances with individuals in other social groups, but we weren’t in the inner circle of any of them. 

            However, although I was included, I still didn’t feel right, or secure, or safe, or fulfilled, being in this social group.  Our friendships would sometimes be close and confiding, but other times they seemed petty and superficial, only worrying about looking good in front of boys.  I cared about that, too, but I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my own sense of self to do so, so it was hard to play along.  But, what did I expect?  We were in high school.

            I had been riding horses for years, beginning when I was eight.  I remember lacing up my paddock boots and stepping into the barn to be greeted by the sweet smell of hay and horse.  I rode when it was cold, I rode when it was hot, but I was always happy to be there.  It was different from the world of academics and clicks and I bonded deeply with the horses.  There is something to be said about being in the saddle and feeling the stride of such a beautiful and powerful animal beneath you.  And grooming the horses was a kind of meditation, as long as I wasn’t running late, of course.  But I loved it.  In this world, I was safe, and the horses were my safety net.

            When my back started hurting, riding no longer gave me a sense of strength and equanimity.  Something that used to give me such joy started to become hard and cause more pain.  This was awful for me.  I tried to keep riding, but the other riders in my class had seemed to form their own social group.  They all owned their own horse and went to shows on the weekend.  I was just as good of a rider as any of them, but I only did it for enjoyment.  Again, I don’t know if it was I who moved away from them, or if they intentionally did not include me in their circle.  I stopped riding shortly after that because the pain in my body was so great and the pain of being excluded took away my joy of riding. 

            How I do miss Love Bug, the little horse I rode for years.  She had been abused at a previous farm resulting in being head shy, meaning she didn’t like her head to be touched.  Every week I approached her slowly and calmly, to pet her and to slip her harness over her head.  Soon, she trusted me and no longer backed away, afraid.  In the beginning, she always ran out when approaching a jump.  I would be guiding her toward the middle, perched in the saddle, ready to give her the reins so she could stretch out over the jump when she would quickly run left, leaving me off balance.  After working with her, keeping only the best intentions in my heart, she and I became a great duo when covering a hunter-jump course.  We had a blast.

            Last year I met a man, a Happiness Consultant, in the coffee shop where I worked.  Instead of shaking my hand after introducing himself, he flipped it over and started inspecting my palm.  He looked at me questioningly and told me, if I may paraphrase, “You have a lot of love.  Right now, it is for animals, but they love you, too.”  I stared at him shocked at how deeply that had resonated within my being.  Then the Happiness Consultant told me that one day the right person would come, and I would know, and he would have so much love for me, too.