Finally the fields dried enough to hitch Morgen. While the ground is still soft, she does not sink holes with her hooves, nor does the carriage make ruts. The day is warm with a slight breeze. Leaves opening, fresh from their buds, catch light as if they are glowing from inside. This kind of light lasts but a week or so.
The grass smells like booze to a thirsty alcoholic. It’s green and delicious and not a good thing for her because too much early spring grass can throw her body out of sync and make her feet sore. The vet has prescribed thyroid medication. He says it makes her feel good.
I feel the unease with the shouting green from the trees, and all the colors from spring flowers, these warm, radiant days that call me to come outside to bask in the sunlight, when my house is scattered with books and blankets and paper that need to be put away, let alone dust that needs to be dusted. It’s a season of storms. When the sirens have gone off, I think this might be a cruel favor, disposing and scattering my stuff. But the all clear has sounded with the violence staying to the west and south.
Bruce and I feel Morgen’s happiness when we harness her. Often she stands at the fence, her eyes bright, eager for us to pay her some heed. She will call to me when I walk out. My heart aches when I go back inside. Cleaning, stories, sleep call as well. It’s like she carries too much light, along with the radiant green, and I look away, with it easier to be covered by the four walls of the house. My legs ache when I walk with her.
Mrs. Horse stands with eyes half open while we lift the Euro collar over her head. We fasten the straps and lead her to the carriage. We back her between the shafts and fasten more straps. She is happy for the hay cubes I feed to thank her for standing still.
We drive her in our south field which is bordered on three sides and close to the barn. There’s no where she can go unless she wants to run into a plowed field. When she’s warmed up and quiet we drive down to the north field past the shed and Poplar. We call this the runway. Bruce and I look at the sky. We will say random things and then go silent. If someone drives by, we wave.
A Loose Gravel sign trembles in the wind. Morgen’s head shoots up and her ears snap forward. I thought I’d show it to her, so she could see it wasn’t something to be afraid of. But that’s better done when I’m on the ground, letting her relax at her own pace. By driving her close all I did was tighten her fear. While she may be a pet in the barn yard, pimping me for hay cubes and calling , when she sees something that is alarming, she joins the company of white-tailed deer, ready to jump away, putting distance between herself and any threat that might eat her alive.
So we charge away. I pull back with both hands. She tucks her head to her chest and bounces, kicking up her butt. She shakes her head. My legs brace against the carriage. She bounces and shakes her head. I hold her with both hands. My arms ache holding all that power. My heart aches with all that power, pulling away from me.
She’s breathing fire. A dragon I can barely hold. Her power frightens me. I brace as if clenching my thighs on the carriage seat will stop her, like it might if I were riding. She’s flaming like the fires Bruce sets to wood he’s done with. She’s the white horse hauling war to the earth only the war is between her and me. I am no soldier glorying in that power, or child singing for how it rises in her hands. I am old. I want her to listen.
I go blank like when I can’t remember a word, a word I know. My body no longer remembers that I should pulse my fingers—right, left, right left. I breathe in. Breathe out. All that power pouring into my arms. As if my tight body could command her to relax into that boring walk Bruce and I enjoy so much. Finally, I opened my fingers and let her trot it out past the barn and into the south field. I hope the carriage doesn’t fall apart.
Sadness moves over me, sadness at my unknowing, the darkness that sweeps between me and my body’s memory, knowing whether to hold her or let her trot it out. I need help, but there is no one local to drive with me.
The next day when I wave at a neighbor’s truck, my presence flees and she knows it. Morgen startles. She breathes fire, roaring into the sky. The flames lick my hands and knees. I gather my reins, hand over hand. I barely turn her into the field before she hits the fence. I open her up to a trot until she settles, until the flames settle to embers.
I call Linda, who suggests I work my hands back and forth when Morgen gets that way, to soften the set in her jaw. Sing to her. And don’t brace your body because she will brace if you brace.
The next time we drive, we walk into a field of dandelions. The sky opens before us. Bruce and I remark at the trash—dirt and corn stubble that has washed into our field because our neighbor plowed his waterway. Hard, heavy rain lifted corn stalks and dirt, dumping them in our field. One night I saw lightning light up the stream as it flowed down the field. I am pleased and energized when I step down because I’d stayed present, and Morgen stayed a horse.
That evening, I squander that joy, instead of settling to write. I am fooled because I think joy will return the next day so I scatter it on friends who will understand if I can’t talk just then.
But like joy that sinks into bad sleep and weariness, the next day, I lose Morgen when I don’t quit after one quiet walk around the field. No I am fooled into thinking she will stay steady and boring. I turn her east to cross the field. Her head goes up. Her ears prick. She sees the white grocery bag caught in weeds. I walked by it that morning. Fire pours down her mane, lighting up the stripe in her back. The fire tickles my fingers. Sears my biceps.
I yell at Morgen as if she’s my growling, hopping puppy who won’t release her leash. I focus on keeping my legs loose. I squeeze the reins. I circle her to the left, tight as a rosette. (Wow, she could weave between a fence maze in a competition, if I were so inclined.) Bruce leans against the curve to hold the carriage to the ground. Finally I stomp on the brakes and she stops. I talk to her. I breathe. She jigs. At the south field, I open the reins, let her trot it out.
The sadness, the guilt wells up when I step down. Because I should not have yelled. Because I should have quit after she circled the field once. Because I should and don’t you say “don’t should on yourself” because sometimes “should” says it. Regret can teach us well. The sadness wonders if I am too old and she is too much fire.
But all that power. All those tongues of fire pouring over me and Bruce. Sometimes I wonder if I should chuck my fear, my need to hold her hard and let her go. A racehorse trainer once told me that racehorses lean into heavy contact and if you throw away the reins they don’t know what to do. Maybe it’s time let her go, joyous in the speed and energy, the power let loose, the flames sucked up in the wind. (The field is clean of holes. There’s no where she can go. If I need it there’s the plowed field.)
And I know Linda would say, “Not a good idea.” It’s never good to let them run back to the barn.
The vet says if their mouth hurts, they will grab the bit, so it doesn’t move in their mouth. It’s been over a year since he’s floated her teeth. (Horses teeth don’t stop growing and can develop sharp points which can make her mouth sore, so the vet grinds them into smooth surfaces.) I don’t remember her leaning on the bit so hard. Even turning her, when she is relaxed, I feel weight like hauling a full bucket of water.
I give her no treats when I unhitch her, when I pull off her harness. She is bright eyed and happy. She stands quietly. Bruce and I watch her sink to the dust and scratch off her harness stink, rolling away the stress like a sin eater who lays her hands on wood, discharging their client’s sin.
Rain soaks the ground. The field is too soft for hooves and wheels. Somewhere there are wheels within wheels turning and strange creatures with four faces flying. Maybe they are rolling over the field like the lighted city I saw light on the headland the night my mother died. And I turn to cleaning the dust that has settled in the house. I vacuum the chunks of dirt I track in from the barn and lift the rugs to clear the dust that settles beneath them. We find furniture covers at Goodwill that don’t shift when we sit. It’s funny how something as simple and constant as furniture covers can ease your stress.
Just before sleep one night, I read:
“Therefore the Lord God of hosts
will send wasting sickness among his stout warriors,
and under his glory a burning will be kindled,
like the burning of fire.
17 The light of Israel will become a fire,
and his Holy One a flame,
and it will burn and devour
his thorns and briers in one day.
18 The glory of his forest and of his fruitful land
the Lord will destroy, both soul and body,
and it will be as when a sick man wastes away.
19 The remnant of the trees of his forest will be so few
that a child can write them down.” (Isaiah 10: 16 – 19, ESV)
The next morning, I wake from a dream about being surrounded by the kind of fire you see out west when everything is burning, the sparks are twirling into the air, the sparks are running along the ground and it’s night. I watch myself stuffing my bag with a comforter to keep warm. A comforter to keep warm. Jesus said I will send you a comforter. A comforter I am packing to take with me, out into the fire, a fire that scares me. A comforter I wrap over my shoulders and legs. The Comforter.
The Holy Spirit who fell on God’s people with tongues of fire. The Spirit, the breath breathed into my nostrils. The breath I breathe into the air between myself and my spiritual warhorse. The wind flicking the Loose Gravel sign and the white bag, cuing Morgen to get the hell out of there. Wind lifts up my heart. We lift it up unto the Lord. It fills Morgen’s nostrils. I hear her snort like a trumpet.
Christians I travel with, say the same Jesus who spoke the Sermon on the Mount, the same Jesus who died will return. That we don’t need to be afraid of his wrath, but I can think of nothing more frightening than the God of the universe being murdered by his creatures who is this same God who spoke, “Let there be light,” whose words set stars and moon and sun in the sky to make time, words that separated waters, called plants from the soil and animals from the land.
I think when He comes, He will be so bright, so Himself, some of us will flee to the rocks and cry for the mountains to fall on us, because we can’t bear the intensity of all that love and light. When I dread his appearing, I grab that promise: “Now unto him who is able to keep you from stumbling, and to present you blameless before the presence of his glory with great joy” (Jude 24, ESV).
In the morning when I walk toward the east, my eyes drop to the gravel, shadows running from each stone. I hear my footsteps. I follow the dog as she delicately touches her nose to the grass where some animal marked their presence. But it hurts to look up, face the sun.
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