Friday night is riding lesson night. I pack my kids into my minivan and drive the thirty miles to a farm in the rural north western corner of the state. I love this weekly ritual for all sorts of reasons. The joy it gives my sister, the growing sense of pride my little girl feels as she learns a new skill, the sound of crickets, the smell of the barn, a few hours away from the sound of traffic, and as the Grinch would say, " the noise, noise, noise. When we turn the last corner on the windy road we pass the white house pictured above. Every time I drive by I think of Christina's World and Andrew Wyeth, and think about stopping and taking a picture. Tonight I finally did just that to the consternation of the truck behind me. Oh, well. He was driving too fast anyway.
We get to the barn, a small barn run by a retired man with retired horses, for a casual couple of hours. My sister Amanda always goes first, ten years into lessons still on a lead line and blissfully content. She is weekly proof of the miracle that riding is for people with special needs.
Nellie is next. While she has her lesson I sketch, or I doodle while wishing I could sketch. Sometimes I knit or crochet, they work a bit better for me.
Tonight was lesson number two, or as it will now be known, "What Really Happens When Your Ten Year Old Falls Off a Horse.". The first thing is that your heart beats really fast and loud while you casually walk over, help her to her feet saying, "brush off". "Okay?" "Good". Then walk away feeling like a little bit of casual has returned to your insides. Nellie does just that, brushes the dirt off her jeans, takes the horse by the lead for a stroll around the ring, and Gets Back On! Just like that. No tears, no fuss. I'm not just proud, I am beyond proud. She is no longer my little girl, not to say she is grown up, or no longer needs me, but she belongs to herself in a way that she didn't before. She is no longer mine. She is hers.
On the ride home there is a pasture we pass, about ten acres of open field complete with stonewalls, apple trees, wild roses in full bloom, and cows. We slow down every week looking for deer. The deer obliged. No picture for that, my phone isn't quite up to the task. It was that perfect moment of summer sunlight. That moment where the sun is low enough to stop glaring in your eyes but has yet to acquire the rosy glow of sunset. That moment when the sun gives everything a clarity so perfect that you feel as though you can see every petal on every flower, every leaf on every tree, the cows, the deer, the stone walls all thrown into perfect relief. A beauty so perfect it almost hurts to look because you know in seconds it will be gone. For a few minutes I feel a deep sense of loss for knowing that I used to know how to recreate that moment. All of those hours I spent in darkened theatres and converted barns and dance studios searching to create that perfect painterly moment for dancers as they move across the stage. Painting with light in a way that painting with pigment eludes me. The kids sing along to the radio completely oblivious of my moment of longing. By the time we reach the highway we are talking about tomorrow. The sun has gone down now, the kids are falling asleep, I am going around shutting windows against the chill. A perfect Friday night.
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