Becoming Brave
No. 2
"When You Fall..."
Sitting high on top of the pinto I clutched the saddle horn nervously. "Aunt M, I really don't think I'm ready for this. I think I'd rather walk him." Eight year-old me didn't have the ability to hold back the family's strong-willed beauty Calamazoo Express, and the last thing I felt comfortable doing was cantering to my Mom at the top of the hill.
"You'll be fine," were the last words I remember as Cal spooked and leapt forward into a wild race upward.
I remember having a choice: would I cling tight and hold on, or would I escape and fall to the ground?
The picture above is my Great Grandma Eva. She was a beautiful, quiet, feisty woman. She's the start of all this. Passed down from generation to generation, from when she left her childhood home on the plains of South Dakota to traverse the Oregon Trail, she brought her love of horses with her and little else. And the women of my family have never been the same. I am no different. Horse-crazy struck me like the rest and I was doomed. My Grandma was strong, the epitome of class and elegance. Her horse was strong, too. A little too strong...
As I looked at the ground flying by below it was suddenly rushing up to meet me.
It seems my choice was made.
Once I'd chosen escape, as I felt myself falling, I felt something akin to shame or regret. I really wished deep down I'd chosen to hold on.
My shoulders hit first and I gasped, my helmet-clad head dragging along the ground staring up at my foot caught in the stirrup. It was my left foot, a movie-classic moment, really. I honestly can't tell you how long the ordeal lasted, probably not as long as it felt. You don't have too much time for fear in the moment (that comes afterwards). I knew I had to get my foot out somehow, but my little blue eyes were just drinking in the sight of the girth around his black and white belly and flashes of churning legs. Finally, with a grunt I twisted my foot and fell free.
My poor Aunt ran to my aid in horror. I was fine but riddled with tears. My mother was there then, stroking the back of my hair to comfort me... Calamazoo's reigns in hand. After I'd had a long moment to collect myself, she said, "Alright, time to get back on, Love."
I looked up at her with wide doe-eyes still brimmed with tears. "Please don't make me," I begged softly.
"Every time you fall off a horse you have to get right back on."
Every equestrian knows this phrase. It means you have to face your fears. It means showing grit. It means no matter what happens, you prove that you are strong... even if it's only for yourself. It says that whatever your horse's intentions, they did not get the best of you. You are a leader, you can rise up from the ground and you can lead them well. If you don't get right back on, you may never do it again. That's not an option. Getting right back on means you'll work it out [together] however long you need to.
I looked at the horse, now calm and stretching for the tempting grass tickling his ankles. I was a cowgirl, I could do this. I took in a shaky breath and set my left foot in the stirrup. "Okay." Three, two, one, up.
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