In February of 2021, my husband and I bought a farm in rural Pennsylvania, and for the first time I brought my horse, DeVaux, home. Actually to my house.
Before that, I boarded Devaux, a chestnut gelding that I bought for a dollar, at a handful of stables over the course of 7 years. I felt an intense connection with him as we rattled around in the entry levels of eventing and jumpers. I went to the barn almost every day to ride, filled with angst on the days that I couldn't. Driving home from the barn to the suburbs, I would mentally replay our rides. In the evenings just before sunset, I would lay in bed nursing my infant son. The view from my window obscured the neighbors' houses, revealing instead their tree tops and grassy yards. I pretended I was looking at pastures, full of my horses. At 30 years old, I was as steeped in daydreams of horseland as I was as a child. But I was starting to panic: What if it remained a dream, locked in my imagination? A decade later, I pulled into the driveway of our farm, towing my Kingston white-and-red bumperpull with my quirky chestnut safe inside. DeVaux lived on the farm, roaming grass pastures with his new horse-buddies, visible from almost every window. Five months later, I lost him to a severe colic. He died at home, not at somebody else's barn.
Before that, I rode other people's horses, leased a few mounts, and took lessons at a handful of stables. Each place corresponded with my evolution as a horsewoman. I wanted to improve as a rider: time to find a barn. I wanted to compete: time to change barns. I wanted more autonomy: time to change barns.
Before that, my parents drove me to riding lessons every other week. I rode Ginger and Jewel. I thought of nothing else. Their smell and their rhythm consumed me. I drew horses on all of my notebooks. I was going to be an Olympian or an artist. For sure. I played with a herd of Breyer horses on the pink carpet of my bedroom. They jumped over homemade obstacles and slept in a barn that my dad built. They ate hay that I procured from the lawn. They wore bright blankets made of craft felt, and tiny saddles that I stitched together using scraps of leather.
Before that, I was a horse. I galloped around on hands and knees, bucking and snorting at my brothers and the dog. I pretended that everything else was a horse, too: the bannister, the bouncy log in the park, the neighbor girl.
Before that, somewhere in my lineage, someone needed horses like I do. Can 23AndMe tell me who it was?
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