I'm in Florida with my horse again.
A year ago I was 6 weeks into my recovery from a head injury. I was still sleeping 14 hours out of every 24, by necessity, not choice. I had figured out how to change the monitor on my computer at home so that I could stand to use it, and I was working two to three hours a day--pretty much all I could manage--on The War I Finally Won. I couldn't do my usual work at Faith in Action--having to switch windows repeatedly on the database and refer to handwritten forms was too much for the visual processing part of my brain, which, along with the arousal portion (see: sleeping 14 hours a day) took the biggest hit from my injury.
Before last year, I'd come to Florida to ride for a week or two for eight years running. I am friends with some professional event riders who spent the winter in Ocala, and I took my horse down and rode with them. It was always wonderful fun. I immersed myself in the rhythms of barn life, of making horses a major focus of each day. At home I ride several times a week but I don't have lessons, let alone at gorgeous facilities with proper dressage arenas and a wide assortment of cross-country jumps, let alone with tremendously talented women who understand me and my horse and my goals very well.
Then last December my horse pulled a shoe cantering across a mown hay field, and tripped. I went over her shoulder--an easy, straight-forward fall with difficult and complicated consequences. I was wearing a new, properly-fitted, high-quality helmet. But I'd hit my head several times over the years, and my brain was over it.
I want to live a long life with my brain working well to the very end. I really don't want dementia. I want to be able to travel with my husband to all the places we still haven't seen--it's a huge list. I have so many stories left to write. I would rather lose large parts of my physical capabilities than lose the ability to write.
I'm aware it isn't all up to me. I don't have control over large portions of my life. But it's up to me whether or not I ride again, whether or not I jump, whether or not I compete. My sport, eventing, has a high rate of injury. I tend to minimize that, but I can't deny it. It's true that the worst falls tend to happen at upper levels I never dreamed of reaching--but it's also true that I fell last time cantering my horse on grass.
Obeying the protocol suggested by my sport's governing body--the fact that my sport has a detailed protocol accounting for frequency of head injuries and their severity should tell you something--I didn't ride for six months. My mare pouted. I couldn't explain. While I was still sleeping 14 hours a day I didn't miss riding, except in the abstract--barn chores were enough of an effort--but by about month three I ached to be back on my horse. I love riding. I love my sassy, quirky, emotional mare.
I did my homework. I took a two-day clinic on how to fall off safely. I bought a new very good helmet. I gave myself time to heal. I resigned from the hunt I rode with. I gave up the goal I'd always had of reaching the Preliminary level in eventing (despite the name, it's the fourth of six recognized levels, with the sixth being Olympic caliber). I decided that from now on, I'd stay at the lower two levels, where the jumps are smaller and the speeds slower.
One of my first times back in the saddle I galloped on a beach in Normandy with my daughter. The sand was firm and flat and went on for miles. It was glorious.
I was out of shape (no flow yoga for six months, either) and at home I started out slowly, hacking my fat mare. I paid a lot of attention to proper body position and correct movement, and our flatwork started to come together. It's better now than it ever was. Eventually I started jumping the small jumps in my fields. It was fun--but I also felt a little anxious.
There's good-anxious and bad-anxious, a kind you should pay attention to and a kind you should overcome. I wasn't sure which this was. I'm still not. I had to skip my trip to Florida last year and I was eager to go back this year--but what were my eventing goals, now that Preliminary was off the table? For a decade I've worked to make myself a better rider. Was I going to be happy striving for the title Queen of 2'6"?
It was an interesting dilemma from an intellectual standpoint. Why do we pursue what we do? Would I still write every day if I knew I would never reach my goals? (We'll never know, as I've mostly reached them.) Riding was something I loved, but it was never my vocation; I never yearned to be a professional or had remotely the discipline to reach the top. (Unlike writing.)
I filled out entry forms for two competitions down here in Florida, both at Beginner Novice, the lowest level. My husband said, "Please don't do this if you feel afraid." I spent a lot of January thinking about this, riding my horse on my farm in ugly weather.
Really, I thought too much. Overthinking is one of my character flaws. I started explaining how I felt to my daughter, at length, and eventually she interrupted me. "Mama," she said gently, "let yourself off the hook."
So I did. I came down here. I said to my coach and long-time good friend, "I'm not afraid on the flat, but over fences I'm a little afraid." That's all I said. She heard me. Yesterday, my first lesson in well over a year, she started me over a line of cavaletti and poles on the ground, and then eventually they were jumps at beginner novice height. I had a lovely time. Every so often my coach would yell, "Breathe!" and I would--I'm back to yoga now, I breathe like a champ when I remember to do it--and everything smoothed and softened.
It was a very easy lesson compared to what I've done in the past.
It was exactly what I needed.
I don't know yet what the answer is going to be. I don't know what new goals I'll come up with, or if I need goals to be happy, or if I want to keep competing or keep jumping at all. I'll find out, slowly. Meanwhile I woke early this morning, pulled on pants and boots and went out to bring my mare in from the field. Above the live oaks dripping Spanish moss the full moon shown in the lightening sky. My horse sighed and touched my shoulder, lightly, with her nose. We're glad to be here. I've let myself off the hook.
A year ago I was 6 weeks into my recovery from a head injury. I was still sleeping 14 hours out of every 24, by necessity, not choice. I had figured out how to change the monitor on my computer at home so that I could stand to use it, and I was working two to three hours a day--pretty much all I could manage--on The War I Finally Won. I couldn't do my usual work at Faith in Action--having to switch windows repeatedly on the database and refer to handwritten forms was too much for the visual processing part of my brain, which, along with the arousal portion (see: sleeping 14 hours a day) took the biggest hit from my injury.
Before last year, I'd come to Florida to ride for a week or two for eight years running. I am friends with some professional event riders who spent the winter in Ocala, and I took my horse down and rode with them. It was always wonderful fun. I immersed myself in the rhythms of barn life, of making horses a major focus of each day. At home I ride several times a week but I don't have lessons, let alone at gorgeous facilities with proper dressage arenas and a wide assortment of cross-country jumps, let alone with tremendously talented women who understand me and my horse and my goals very well.
Then last December my horse pulled a shoe cantering across a mown hay field, and tripped. I went over her shoulder--an easy, straight-forward fall with difficult and complicated consequences. I was wearing a new, properly-fitted, high-quality helmet. But I'd hit my head several times over the years, and my brain was over it.
I want to live a long life with my brain working well to the very end. I really don't want dementia. I want to be able to travel with my husband to all the places we still haven't seen--it's a huge list. I have so many stories left to write. I would rather lose large parts of my physical capabilities than lose the ability to write.
I'm aware it isn't all up to me. I don't have control over large portions of my life. But it's up to me whether or not I ride again, whether or not I jump, whether or not I compete. My sport, eventing, has a high rate of injury. I tend to minimize that, but I can't deny it. It's true that the worst falls tend to happen at upper levels I never dreamed of reaching--but it's also true that I fell last time cantering my horse on grass.
Obeying the protocol suggested by my sport's governing body--the fact that my sport has a detailed protocol accounting for frequency of head injuries and their severity should tell you something--I didn't ride for six months. My mare pouted. I couldn't explain. While I was still sleeping 14 hours a day I didn't miss riding, except in the abstract--barn chores were enough of an effort--but by about month three I ached to be back on my horse. I love riding. I love my sassy, quirky, emotional mare.
I did my homework. I took a two-day clinic on how to fall off safely. I bought a new very good helmet. I gave myself time to heal. I resigned from the hunt I rode with. I gave up the goal I'd always had of reaching the Preliminary level in eventing (despite the name, it's the fourth of six recognized levels, with the sixth being Olympic caliber). I decided that from now on, I'd stay at the lower two levels, where the jumps are smaller and the speeds slower.
One of my first times back in the saddle I galloped on a beach in Normandy with my daughter. The sand was firm and flat and went on for miles. It was glorious.
I was out of shape (no flow yoga for six months, either) and at home I started out slowly, hacking my fat mare. I paid a lot of attention to proper body position and correct movement, and our flatwork started to come together. It's better now than it ever was. Eventually I started jumping the small jumps in my fields. It was fun--but I also felt a little anxious.
There's good-anxious and bad-anxious, a kind you should pay attention to and a kind you should overcome. I wasn't sure which this was. I'm still not. I had to skip my trip to Florida last year and I was eager to go back this year--but what were my eventing goals, now that Preliminary was off the table? For a decade I've worked to make myself a better rider. Was I going to be happy striving for the title Queen of 2'6"?
It was an interesting dilemma from an intellectual standpoint. Why do we pursue what we do? Would I still write every day if I knew I would never reach my goals? (We'll never know, as I've mostly reached them.) Riding was something I loved, but it was never my vocation; I never yearned to be a professional or had remotely the discipline to reach the top. (Unlike writing.)
I filled out entry forms for two competitions down here in Florida, both at Beginner Novice, the lowest level. My husband said, "Please don't do this if you feel afraid." I spent a lot of January thinking about this, riding my horse on my farm in ugly weather.
Really, I thought too much. Overthinking is one of my character flaws. I started explaining how I felt to my daughter, at length, and eventually she interrupted me. "Mama," she said gently, "let yourself off the hook."
So I did. I came down here. I said to my coach and long-time good friend, "I'm not afraid on the flat, but over fences I'm a little afraid." That's all I said. She heard me. Yesterday, my first lesson in well over a year, she started me over a line of cavaletti and poles on the ground, and then eventually they were jumps at beginner novice height. I had a lovely time. Every so often my coach would yell, "Breathe!" and I would--I'm back to yoga now, I breathe like a champ when I remember to do it--and everything smoothed and softened.
It was a very easy lesson compared to what I've done in the past.
It was exactly what I needed.
I don't know yet what the answer is going to be. I don't know what new goals I'll come up with, or if I need goals to be happy, or if I want to keep competing or keep jumping at all. I'll find out, slowly. Meanwhile I woke early this morning, pulled on pants and boots and went out to bring my mare in from the field. Above the live oaks dripping Spanish moss the full moon shown in the lightening sky. My horse sighed and touched my shoulder, lightly, with her nose. We're glad to be here. I've let myself off the hook.
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