desert born

Too much time to think on the walk yesterday. At least when I'm riding I can't think about much else except staying on and controlling my horse. On the walk yesterday I was so proud of my calm horse. But when I look in his eye I can see the fire burning in there, where I just have to ask and he'd be running across the fields.

The smart/thinking/worried part of me puts on saddle, bridle and helmet, keeps my horse (mostly) under control and finds some (again, mostly) sensible trails for a fun ride.

But in dreams I think we all do something else. We jump on our horse and gallop across wind-swept meadows, wind in our hair, freedom singing. We feel that a little bit in a gorgeous canter along a trail, or watching our horse run and buck in pasture.

I watch Major loose in the arena, snorting and tail held high, the amazing arab bounce in his step, seemingly levitating, not a creature of earth any longer. I imagine him running across the sands of Egypt, nostrils flaring, floating across sand.

I know in my heart that he was born in California and has never known desert, and I also know that my vision is a fantasy of Black Stallion books. I know he likes his guaranteed hay, and nice pasture. But I also know that we capture their freedom. And that we owe them so much: for being our companions, for carrying us where we ask, for trusting these slow 2-footed beings.

The horse gives us freedom (as they have for thousands of years). I hope that when I ride I can give him some of that freedom back.