Above picture: me riding CH Mirific at the Midwest Signature Horse show under instruction of Tom Thorpe of Northern Tradition Farm.An excerpt from my memoir-in-progress:
Falling Off Horses
by
Jessie Tierney
I heeled Angel into a show trot—her favorite part of the class—to make one last loop around the ring before the lineup. She got bigger between my thighs, like a thick-skinned balloon filling with air, but this was more than air. This was passion, it was purpose, a realization that this was what we were born to do.
I had a line of sweat across my forehead from my derby but she trotted so powerful that the breeze blew past my face, past the chain link fence that ran the perimeter of the arena, ruffling the leaves on trees as we flew by. The sun baked my navy suit coat and the chinch-chinch of Angel's hooves kicked up sand as it flecked off the fence.
We had the class. You can tell by the way the judge looks at you from the center of the ring, cocking her head to the side with her pen resting on her clipboard. You can feel her eyes on you, admiring eyes that are glad that you're telling her so decisively who gets the blue ribbon. I smiled, not only my body in rhythm with Angel's movements but also my thoughts. We'd stretch a little taller and she'd pick her knees up a little higher as we made a pass down the side.
Horseback riding was natural for me, the immediate necessity to stop thinking about everything and focus totally on your relationship with the horse—it was something my body responded to. I didn't have to try to ride; I just rode.
"You're a natural," people would say, shaking their heads, and I silently agreed, my heart glowing, knowing that, yes, this was the most natural feeling on earth. My spine stretched toward the sky, my long legs locked in, my hands softened in contact with her mouth through the reins, my whole self moving smoothly, at once a part of my horse and also unconsciously aware of my entire being.
We were exploding with energy down the side of the ring, "on the edge," as my riding instructor, Melinda, would coach for, and I noticed that the judge actually scanned the arena to look for us when she called for the trot—she wanted to watch us on our last pass.
There is a moment when you're riding that everything in the world comes into one straight line. You feel it originating from your heart, then deeper than your heart—from the soul, maybe, and everything is in balance. The trees, the bleachers, poor starving people in Africa, the ocean, the sun—everything is connected. I've only ever totally experienced it when I'm riding. And that pass down the side of the ring was the most extended length of time that I felt that purity, that oneness with not only my horse, but the universe. If you were there watching, you would witness perfection, a tall slender girl in sharply accurate yet soft posture, her legs fanned out away from her chestnut horse’s flanks, her chin toward the sky, chest open; the horse’s ears pinned forward, with her head set and a white blaze with a tiny round brown dot running down her face. Every moment, in motion, was photo-worthy.
Then a woman carrying a large blue bucket hooked it on a pump just outside of the fence, and without thinking, she jerked the handle on. A huge blast of water and what sounded like a bullet erupted through the fence into the dry arena right in front of us, just as we were trotting by. Angel leapt fifteen feet sideways, and my one-with-the-universe momentum cracked—I kept going straight.
It was strange, because the way she moved, she kind of ducked from under me, catapulting my feet out of the stirrups and vaulting my body into the air. It felt like I was up there for a long time. I remember seeing the diamond-weave of the fence, the greenness of the grass, the veins on leaves, the sun and the sky. It was a beautiful day, one of those days with cauliflower clouds hinting at patches of bright blue. I remember twisting my torso so my right shoulder swung around and my back arched, thinking, this is just like high jump. I was in another zone now—apart from the reality of riding and apart from the reality of not-riding. There was a third. It felt amazing. I stayed suspended in air for what felt like five minutes, slowly floating down toward the thick arena sand. I remember thinking calmly as I descended, I hope Mom's getting this on tape.
I thumped in the sand shoulder first, a ripple in water, followed by hip and arm, enveloped in the dusty grains like in afeatherbed. I snapped up off the ground, and Carleton, my trainer, was already there, his young eyes worried from behind awrinkled face, reaching his arms toward me, crouching as he walked, like he was trying to hold my body together as he approached. I was mostly worried that my suit would have to be dry cleaned again.
“Are you okay?" he asked, his worried face softening as soon as he looked into mine. I brushed the sand off my butt and my from my elbow, looked up at him and said, "That was AWESOME."
Carleton's mischievous smile came back as he handed me my derby, "Well Angel thinks so, too," as he motioned toward the lineup where Angel was, set up between two other horses, her legs parked out and her head raised up, looking out at the audience like royalty.
"She wasn't about to let you stop her last pass—soon as you were off, she hooked a right and went straight on into the lineup! Knees were this high!" We made our way over to Angel, smiling.
He gave me a leg up and flew up onto the saddle, back in the lineup, back in the class again. The tips of my fingers scratched her sweaty neck through my gloves.
I was back on, waiting for the placings to be announced, and everything was soft and quiet. Like a contentedness, a relaxed smile settled into my mouth, my posture tall but not forced, my legs fanning out from her steaming body. I had made a discovery.
And, to make things even better, because the fall was not my or Angel’s, we won the class.
Wow was I young. Look at that little face! This picture was taken during the placing announcement in the class from the above story excerpt. I was 13 years old.
