Love Letter #4, Valentine
Dear Valentine,
I used to be scared of horses. I was not one of those little kids that grew up longing to be around horses. They always struck me as big and intimidating and not my speed, until I met you. You changed all of that for me.
You were the quickest in the herd to express displeasure, to pin your ears, to bite, to kick, and I loved you instantly. You were a Tennessee Walker and had a loose gate that was a perfect match for my fused back. You were able to show your displeasure in a way I never could, you had the softest neck and and a spot behind the ears that was pure velvet, and you were mischievous in my favorite kind of way.
When we met, I was a brand new wrangler, fresh off of mending 2 miles of barbed wire fence and you were a horse that was only approved for the wranglers, due mostly to your biting and propensity to just lay down whenever you felt like it. We started our work together in the round pen. On the ground, me trying to learn your language and you putting up with my insecure and uncertain ways. We made progress, you taught me how to listen with my body. You would give me your attention, I would back off from you, you would reward me my moving in. You abided no bull shit from me. You would be in relationship with me only when my expressed intention matched what was coming from my insides. Any disconnection there in me, and you were out. I had been living in my head for so long and suppressing the truth in my body, that I can now see this dance with you was my first and most important step in healing.
I spent all of my extra time that season with you. You added extra adventures for me by breaking out of the barn pasture for a long stretch of mornings to go graze in the “breakfast meadows”, still my favorite view on earth. We would have to saddle up early and go find you and Boomer and the rest of your crew. One morning on our way up, we startled a herd of elk eating breakfast. Those were my favorite rides, pre-dawn, no guests to tend to, and the thrill of chasing you all back to the barn. What I wouldn’t do to go back to that place…
One of my last days at the barn, I was up visiting you. For some dumb reason I had on my flip flops. You stepped on my toe and it tore my toenail off. That released ten years worth of grief in me. I sat down on the side of that hill, looking at the mountains and cried for the first time in 10 years. I cried because I was going to miss you. I cried because I missed my Grandfather and though he had died 10 years before, I had never been able to find my tears for him. I cried because I was scared of what would come next. I finally wept. In that moment, you helped me start to open again.
The following week, we rode through the early Colorado fall, camping at night, watching the leaves change. You were a guest worthy horse by then, so we didn't’ get to make that journey together, although I did check on you every night. When we finally arrived at our low altitude destination, and a warmer winter for the herd, it was time to let go. All of the riders lined up with our horses, facing you all to the open pastures and freedom for the winter. I beelined for you to make sure I would be the one to let you go. So, there, lined up with your herd, we all released you in unison. The herd took off. You did too, right at first, but then you turned around. You looked at me and shook your neck as if to wave. For the second time in 10 years, the tears fell easy. That is the last time I got to see you. I don’t know where you are or what your life looked like after that day, but I will forever hold you in my heart and be so grateful for everything you taught me.
All of my love,
Martha
