Wrangler Dani

My horse is lame, I mean, really gimpy. She’s a sweet mare I got for the kids, (Addy named her Beauty) a gentle old girl with a long history of being left to fend for herself, hence the bad feet. I’m doing what I can for her (wrapping her foot and packing it with medicine and keeping her in a stall, a development she does not enjoy). My farrier teases me that it’s high time I get the gumption to dig around for abscesses in her hoof myself, something I am not interested in trying; I’ll stick to crazy horse-lady remedies, thanks.

I think she bruised her sole (on top of a healing abscess) loping around on frozen ground, testing out her happy joints since I started feeding her a glucosamine supplement. That’ll teach me to make my horses healthy, eh?

Anyway, this latest bit of drama reminds me that, often, the thing that brings most joy also brings the most pain. For Beauty, she was loping with joy, kicking up her heels and feeling frisky before she hurt herself. For me, it’s been such a treat to have horses again. It gave my soul a place to pour out for most of my life, as an adolescent dreamer, a wrangler, a cowgirl, a therapeutic riding instructor. It’s one place where I know what I’m doing, though even there I question myself. I wish I was better at this great love, but I’ll take even middling success if it smells like horse hair and good sweat.

But it’s not without pain – I’m worried about Beauty and I hate to see her hurting. I work for a therapeutic riding barn but I don’t get to work as much as I would like, one of the difficulties of being a part-time instructor (with little kids to boot). I don’t get to ride Buzz as often as I wish. I want to say that I do this work with horses because I’m good at it, because someone needs me to, because I lend a unique perspective to my work. But I know that’s only a tiny part of it. The main reason why I ride, why I teach others to ride, why I throw myself into my horses, is because I need it. This need, though, means I cry over it, and sometimes I wonder if it’s worth the effort, time and emotion I give it. I am heart-broken if my horse is hurting, if I can’t teach, if my connection this love isn’t able to be fulfilled, for whatever reason.

Love breaks our hearts, in the end. It seems silly to talk about heartbreak in reference to a part-time career and a livestock animal, but, like they always do, horses have given me a window into understanding my love for people too. Because, guys? I cry over my friends, my kids and my husband. ALL THE TIME. Isaiah isn’t sleeping well and I don’t know if I am gentle enough with Adelay and I can’t wait to go on a trip with Adam and hold his hand and also I might miss my kids so much I can’t breathe. But this is the life I longed for – I longed to rock my baby (ok, maybe not all night, if I’m honest, but you get the idea) and I longed to help my little girl figure out her feelings. I would rather have my old mare with her bad feet then no horses at all, I’d rather ride once a week then never, I’d rather have dear friends far away then let those relationships die.

C.S. Lewis wrote: “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

Love – compassion – changes everything. It’s what makes me cry over the people in my life, it’s how a voiceless quadruped can make me feel safe and seen, hopeful and confident. I can’t control the future, what will become of Beauty’s hooves and whether or not Isaiah ever sleeps again (I know, I know, so dramatic). But I can love. I can love my horses, my work, my family, my friends. I can offer the precious vulnerability of generous hope – the kind that says, “you can do it.” I often tell my riders in class that they look better than they feel, and I hope I can offer myself (and you, dear reader) the same encouragement: you know more than you think, you look better than you feel, love is pain but love is worth it.