Circles within circles. Sudi is asking me to reown the plie but she is calling it softly posting. When I ask her how to softly post, Sudi does a plie in the sand and rubber arena in her black riding tights and paddock boots. The wind is whistling, blowing away her words.
And I want to turn away, remembering my knees bending as I breath in, lowering while the top of my head appears to rise. And then growing into the pliant straightening, legs working together, torso lifting, and breathing out.
Beau is lovely Sudi says. Lovely she repeats. How did you get him? His rider grew up I say. Went to college. His owner wasn't ready to give him up. Beau drifted. Ulla stepped in. She told the owner to give him to me. Ulla told me to take him.
Now Sudi is connected to this wheel.
I'd like to ask where it is all going. Tomorrow when I get up and ride my bike to town before work: endurance. I'd like to ask why.
Listen to me: I've been on different parts of this circle all my life and slipping and sliding right off. This time I have to trust these horses. The horses will lead me.
But when you get to the end there is no discernable prize. How do you know when you are finished?
While I am climbing through this circle I will write in the tackroom, with the loft bed, saddles and bridles.
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