I am certain I am going to fall. I carry the knowledge in my hands which pull the horse out of the canter, the speed and gait I’ve most longed for, most desired to try, most hoped to experience. I live with a message coursing through my veins - slow down, I can’t, slow down, I can’t.
She hears me, she pulls out into a trot that’s both too fast and a bit unwieldy. I am still certain I will fall, but I recognize the pattern - one-two-one-two - just enough to round the turn and try again.
How do I tell my body it is safe in speed? How do I convince my hands to let up for a moment to be carried by the rhythm, the particular roll of the wave of her body as she steps off into it?
We say that time goes too fast, we try to pull at the reins of it. I write my words down as if pinning them to the page will preserve the truth of them. It will, but only in part. The moment will pass just as all moments must: the weekend of cousins yelling joy into the backyard, the hug of my niece around my neck as we converse about books, and paint colors, and jewelry. If I grasp harder at time, I say, by which I mean, if I plan it to death and control it, then I will pin it down, then it will not eclipse my understanding.
I think there is safety in control. I believe that I am always just one time management habit tracker daily meditation away from balance, from beauty, from flourishing. I believe if I count my steps, my cups of water, my words of affirmation, my quality moments with my children, then they will count.
I counted calories and miles in college, I counted papers and words and publications in graduate schools, I have counted milliliters of feeds and oxygen saturation percentages, counted hours in the backyard playing Princess Celestia. I have counted until I am reduced to numbers on scales and in daily apps and ounces and hours.
I pull to control the canter and again the whole movement stops. In controlling it, I lost it. I bring the horse around the far end again, frustrated, not sure how to begin again. The voice of my instructor comes as if from far away - let her go. Let her move into it.
I give the cue and this time I try to let my hands be carried by her - to let them move, to let myself follow her movements, and I feel it:
The cadence of the canter, the music of it. For a few moments, time is suspended, I look ahead with my body moving alongside the horse’s, my thoughts trailing behind me like wings.
If I loosen my grip, could it be that I flourish? If I let myself be carried by the cadence of the moments, the speed of them, their steady rolling pace, as much as it is full of beauty and grief and wonder - could it be that I begin to live?
This is absolutely so well written and beautifully said, love it! What a gift you have!