palace of winds

I sold my horse.

It’s still weird, even now, three weeks later. It happened so abruptly.

I sold my horse.

One sunny Sunday I had a casual chat with my trainer, who knew a woman from the foxhunt looking for a new horse, and wouldn’t Everett be perfect? And there was no harm in talking to her, nothing to lose. I’ve known for a long time that he’d be happier hunting, that he hates the indoor arena, hates much flatwork in general. I’d been watching the days grow longer, the leaves turn, dreading the day we’d have to head back inside. Dreaming of a winter without ice, all bright fluffy snow, nothing but good footing so we could stay out. And two and a half weeks later he stepped onto a trailer and drove away to his new life.

It’s a good thing all around. I know that objectively. I’m good at living with my head; I like it. It’s comfortable there. The heart’s a messier matter. I miss him. I sold him on to a better home, and I’m happy for him, but I sold my best friend, and thinking of it that way — it’s a terrible feeling. Just gutting.

The last three weeks I’ve been horse shopping. A lot. And it’s been fun! I’ve ridden a lot of different horses — 18 at last count. From 15.1 to 17.2 (for you non horse people, that’s 5′1″ to 5′10″ measured to the withers — where the back and neck join), thoroughbreds just off the track to Novice event champs, wobbly babies to jumpers doing full courses with auto changes. And it’s frustrating, because it’s such a monumental decision. Last time I did this I had a very modest budget, which helped narrow the search quite a bit, and no one to really help me shop. This time I have the assistance of some excellent horse people, a bit more to spend, and a truly rotten economy driving down prices. There’s lots to choose from, and they’re all so different. And I just don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to be best, what’s the right choice for me.

I stand at this crossroads, and all I can think is that I sold my best friend.

I don’t regret it, and I don’t regret one moment we spent together over the last two years. I just don’t want to screw up this opportunity I have now, to make another good choice.

I need to sort out some pictures and more video, but in the mean time — here’s a little cross-country from Sunday. Everett was all kinds of awesome, and I am SO PROUD of him!

I’m just coming in from running some mail out to the box; there is a warm spring breeze, the leading edge of a thunderstorm. It sifts through my hair and carries on it the strongest scent of blooming trees, of lilacs. I close my eyes and breathe, deeply.

I owe you a post, I know, but I am so exhausted. I can’t write when I’m this tired. I can’t convey what it’s like to steer him over our first little cross-country course, the momentousness of jumping up a bank, over a tiny log, a row of barrels, boulders set beneath a pipe, a ditch. How it feels to turn in the back corner of the field with him leaning against my leg, just waiting for it, waiting — to slide my hands forward along his neck and crouch low, lower, and for him to gallop, to fly, so fast that my eyes tear up against the wind. To be able to laugh and say Come on, and Is that it?, and for there to be more. I wish I could give you that most of all, the feeling of galloping up that hill.

The late afternoon sunshine is washing warm and plentiful over the back field. 20 acres and it’s all ours, just the soft roll of hills, a scattering of birdsong, the far-off barking of a dog, and last autumn’s grass ranged all around us in glowing palest gold.

We circle the hilltops, thread between them, cantering, trotting, ambling around all the jumps. Everett is curious about the bank complex for no reason I can tell, but we don’t investigate: it was just constructed last fall and it’s closed to protect the fragile footing. While cruising toward the tire jumps I can feel him look at them, think about it, wondering if maybe — but I’m saving all that for a lesson. It’s nice, though, to be riding this interested, independent Everett, this guy not worried about his friends. It’s nice also to trust him cruising down a slope, not worrying he’s going to go tumbling rump-over-whiskers.

Nice, this lazy spring day, being this girl and her horse.

I need to get back in the swing of writing.

This last month has been a bit of an odd one. Plenty of good stuff, and plenty of melancholy — particularly the arrest, the shooting. A lot of things I haven’t really felt like writing about.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Iron & Wine this week. Can’t imagine life without “Flightless Bird, American Mouth” and “Resurrection Fern.” And have I mentioned yet how much I like U2’s new album? “Get On Your Boots” is my cross-country song for this summer. I need to get out and rock at least enough jumps to put together an Everett video to that song: one of my two summer goals.

This month spring’s making an effort, putting in shy little appearances. A week of sun and 40’s, 50’s — then stretches of rain, and today snow. Nothing for it, though.

Last night I dreamt about being on Survivor. We weren’t in the wild, though — all us contestants were just leaving a county fair, meandering back to the minivan that would take us to the next part of the competition. I was the second to arrive, after a jolly heavyset middle-aged man, someone who might be a mall Santa come December. He had already climbed into the first row of bench seats. Jeff Probst was in the driver’s seat, turned toward a stack of papers and his laptop piled on the passenger’s side. The van doors were all open, a summer breeze moving through, and I leaned in the side doorway, chatting with Jeff. I woke contented, loving what a nice, friendly guy he is, that dimpled smile. Guess I have a thing for dimples lately.

A few days ago I dream myself crouched at the open door of an airplane, falling forward into the bright blue rush of air below. I sink down, and after several moments remember that I will need, at some point, to pull my parachute. I slide my hands up along the harness straps on my shoulders, musing that I really should have reviewed this before my first solo jump: where the handle is that I’ll need to pull, when to pull it. I am not, I realize, wearing any kind of altimeter — wouldn’t know how to read it even if I were. I’m not concerned about any of this, though. I am unaccountably happy.