Perfection in Breaking

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I could write a book on the experience I've endured. Stories and trials and successes and failures can be drawn with ink on page after page of published papers. Just as Barthes discusses, my text is an ongoing activity; it never stops.  So why then do I feel as though the book must be erased and started over every mistake? It doesn't stop, it only pauses, has an intermission, but the show must go on.

The obviously off-beat footsteps of my horses hooves as he stumbled out of the pasture instantly made me think of something terrible.  I knew I messed up. My mistakes, my failures, I had obviously not learned from them. My text had not taught me, and I had not recorded the solution.

Everyone knows there are no three-legged horses. Four legs or die. Four legs or die. Four legs or die.

I could see the bone protruding out of his leg, and I knew what I had to do.  All the memories, all of the preparation and reading and practicing couldn't prepare me for this moment.

I shook as I eventually found the vein in his neck for the medicine, and helped the thousand-pound animal lay to the ground.  I cried and hugged him and told him, "I have learned from you always, and I will never forget you. We've flew over obstacles, learned together and failed together, and now you can rest in your pasture forever. Trails end, buddy."

The shot from the gun was my only choice. It rang in my ears and in my bones and I walked away knowing his story had ended, but it would be just a chapter in my book.

Fast Game, Lucky You

I have tried all reverse-psychology tactics. I’ve tried all the “horse-whisperer” tips and tricks from Google, and I’ve definitely applied all I know from you. They say animals can love you unconditionally, but I’m pretty sure you also purposely annoy me in that same way.

One step towards you means you dart the opposite direction, turning on one hoof and snorting loudly as you mock my inability to catch you. Of course, you know every escape route and that you’re in the biggest pasture on the farm and that I’m already tired of chasing you down.

Even once, I knelt down and you took two steps toward me as if to say, “Okay, Okay,” (while you laugh at me silently) but there you go, running off again.  I watch you prance proudly around the borders of the pasture, showing off to your friends that the human is completely incapable.

Oh, but I know your weakness. I crinkle plastic in my pocket, and you stop; your ears prick up and you move slowly towards me, inch by inch. A Nature Valley granola bar makes you crunch your teeth in anticipation of the treat you TOTALLY don’t deserve.

“Your luck was BOUND to run out, silly horse,” I say as I slip the halter over your ears. You reluctantly clop along behind me towards the gate, and I have won the game once again. 

http://roundwon.blogspot.com/

Defining Moments and Self- Discovery

My sweaty and shaking fingers held so tightly onto the paper, I thought it might break and buckle underneath my grip.

My father’s quick nod gave me the kind of approval and push forward I needed.

“And,” I breathed, “I appreciate everyone who helped me get to this point in...” my voice trailed off. I gulped. “My life,” I finally choked out.

Looking out into the crowd, I had their attention. Every person was looking at me. It was all about ME. It was MY moment. It was my time. I was leaving home, and it was time to grow up.

It was that very moment I turned to look at my horse in the pasture behind everyone. Slowly, people turned as I walked through the parted crowd.

I was walking, and then I began to run. I ran so fast I thought I might trip, but I didn’t. I ran into the pasture and flung my arms around my horse’s neck and fought back tears. Startled at first, he slowly lowered his head and let out a long breath. 

I felt my mother’s hand on my back and let the tears begin to fall. I sobbed and she said, “Just because you’re leaving home, that doesn’t mean you leave everything you love forever; it’s just part of growing up.”

But I knew I could come back. I knew it wasn’t a long drive to come visit. I was only worried about becoming like everyone else. I was worried about becoming just another face in the crowd of 45 thousand students. Like Breton in Nadja, I, too, wanted to “strive to discover the nature.. the difference from them.”

I wanted to make sure that what I have loved forever remained a part of me on my long journey of self-discovery. The peacefulness I longed for, and held onto so tightly, would forever remain in that grassy pasture. 

http://eveningswiththeunknown.blogspot.com/

Peaceful Noise

A world full of distractions is left behind at 5am the morning of the hunt.

I gathered my saddle and shining white saddle pad and placed them carefully onto Banner’s back. His withers twitched at the sensation of manmade domestication.

Buckle by buckle, strap by strap, I carefully placed each piece of tack on the nervous and vigilant horse. His short breathing and skeptical side-glances made me all too aware of how I simply neglect to consider his feelings towards the subject.

As I stepped out of the barn into the dark and damp morning, I inhaled the scent of cut hay and morning dew. After months of conditioning and work and other distractions, I had my own personal freedom. “The place where I am supposed to be. The place where I belong.”

The truck rumbled to a start and clanked loudly as it attached to the old trailer. By then, the whole gang had been rustled awake. The bugs held their breath in anticipation of the hound dogs, one by one, waking each other up, the horses snorting and pawing in their stalls, and even the old barn cat who was streching on the window.

I clucked gently to Banner as he hopped gracefully but loudly into the trailer. The partition squeaked shut, followed by the clink of the locks on the trailer door. These noises- the animals, the truck and trailer, the wind through the barn- these are the only noises I wish to hear, “in my place of comfort.”

The sun peered over the live oaks and pines as we drove down the winding country road to the hunt. 

Inspiration provided by This Blog

Fly

The smell of earth permeates the steam and heat rising from the sweat of shaking horses' necks.

The cold numbs the faces and exposed skin while the exhaustion of the run and dampness of the air allows sweat to seep through wool coats.

Aside from the breathing and snorting of the horses, no one dares utter a word. 

There is only Silence through the manicured yet wild woods; then, there is an echo of screaming hounds. 

All too suddenly, electricity of the morning surges through the group and hits my heart, making my breathing speed increase at an alarming rate. 

My horse’s feet seem to levitate off of the ground and carry me through the woods with the others through trails of brown, wet earth and low limbs. The hounds scream and the wind screams in my ears and I concentrate on the steadiness of my seat and the pace of hooves below me. We come to an obstacle.

I brace myself for the launch. I breathe. I fly.

I hear a game holler. We shift directions, jolt around corners for eternity. My horses and the others around me breathe heavily as we stop and wait.

After the horn resonates, we know a kill has been made, and we are joyous.