Yesterday I am talking to my daughter. So much topsy turvy. Boundaries she says. I say, you are not a business, you are a person. Always it comes back to trust. Trust is the currency for human beings and at this bank we are all poor. There are no loans. Four of our hands are empty. We both run out of words. Finally, all I can say: I am learning as fast, as much, as I can. I learn from my mare, Kansas.
During lessons Sudi says of course I am afraid when the canter gets bigger, when the walk gathers energy, corn pops underneath Kansas skin. Sudi says: that's a really big horse and I've been there.
The last lesson, finishing up in the pasture, the green grass, Kansas walk is huge, rolling waves. My spine swings. This is the walk that we want. Right now, this big, when she is not about to blow up. Imprint it Sudi says.
Today, we are not home in the dry grass with a fifty mile view. We are not caught and pressed between the wind and the sun. This morning we are alone at Elk Haven in Cle Elum. The grass is growing. There are the white heads of clover. The irrigation is spraying and puddling in the tire tracks. Pines sigh. The crow caws and Kansas startles.
More than a year since I have taken the halter, lead rope off. More than a year since we have stood alone in an enclosed arena. I tie the laces on my sneakers. Kansas and I walk together, turn together, run over the jump poles laying on the ground and then stop in one instant head to head. I am hers and she chooses to move with me. But I am out of practice, run out of breath.
Coming back to ride, saddle, bridle, boots, and there is still shade along one long side. The dirt is dark where the sprinkler hits one end. An old yellow lab lies down for us to ride around. In our years I have learned to put everything to use. We fit the dog as part of our circle, the cones to bend around, poles to step over. The shade is our friend, our canter. And today Kansas is smooth as butter. Canter and canter and canter. Gather her up, trot over the red pole, gather more, turn her head to the right first and then my own. The right is our stiff side. Start the bend to the right early. Ask her to move. Push her forward with legs, legs, legs, over the green pole. Gather her in. "Up, up, up," I say out loud, hold ourselves up and step under. Take your horse with you, Sudi speaks in my brain. First Kansas head to the left and then my own. Back and forth, back and forth, then canter wide and open. Trot the sun side. "Go, go, go," Henrik's voice in my head.
My cell phone falls out onto the dirt. I see it passing under. I wonder if we hit it, at least cover it up. We leave the arena and walk between the trees. I duck under the branches. The wind sways. But when the donkey brays, I absorb the flinch. I am the startle. "Get off," Ulla says in my head, "Never put Kansas in a bad position, always end on a good note." I jump down. My cell phone is still half covered with dirt in the arena.
And then I just sit on the picnic table. I drink all my water. I eat the sandwich with the pickled jalapenos and cheese. Kansas, stretches her pink lunge line, eats the green grass, the clover.
My lifetime, there has been so little trust in who I am. Is there something wrong with me? My mare has one brown eye, the other is blue. She only sees shadows moving out of one eye the vets tell me. She is a big horse. A thoroughbred like they used to be, bold and fast. I used to tell my horse that I'm the wrong woman for her. She deserves someone young and limber. She deserves someone who can go far. But my horse trusts me. She tells me that trust is the only currency. I learn from her one hard step at a time.
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