The Saddle

When Venus sat next to Luna and Jupiter watched from above, I made a wish, sang a song with the crickets, blew a kiss into the night sky. Vespertilio, with his webbed wings and radar eyes, caught it mid-air then vanished into the dark.

The world does what it is meant to do. The horse does not refuse the sweet green grass; the dogs do not abscond from play; the mice scurry about searching for nibbles regardless of foxes and snakes and hawks with their exacting eyes. The wind blows warm and frigid. Clouds, eventually full, cannot hold their tears forever. The earth knows too what it should be; the ground stands both solid and shifting, always adapting, always ready.

The Saddle (noun). In Middle English, ‘sadel’; from Old English ‘sadol.’

1. A contrivance secured to the back of a horse as a seat for a rider.

2. The weight I lift before every outpouring of heart and soul, any syncopated rhythm, any echo of trimmed and metal-shod hooves on gravel ground. The impetus of a long journey – direction known or unknown.

I slide my hand along smooth leather worn from the seat of my worn-out jeans, over the horn wrapped in an old hand-stitched satchel, the work of a holy man from Abiquiu, and across the swells stamped in basketweave. A clip-on of charms hangs next to the leather purse - a cross, a feather, a horseshoe, a heart with “protect this rider and the horse she rode in on” etched across in dog tag style.

Leather ties hang from copper conchos green with age. Underside, the fleece lies flat, craving for a redo – high time for a redo, no doubt. A leather breast collar keeps the seat from sliding, its underside caked with dirt and in need of softening, a good cleaning. Left of the horn dangles a bundle of cut-out feathers and beads of burnt sienna and rust, a memory of Quitaque, Texas… of the beginning.

Stirrups slide down like molasses, like honey, like a twisted resin into bone shod strips I slip my boots into and, as with every horse that owns me, there is a unique scent in this well-worn leather. I dip my nose, press my face. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again. Breathe in the musk, the dirt and sweat, the smell of life.

She has seen many trails, this one.

An armadillo paraded into camp tonight, or perhaps it was I on his ground, it’s hard to tell at times. The armadillo: a symbol of boundaries, balance, grounding, of self-preservation - of knowing when to withdraw, when to curl up in a ball to protect what matters.

It is not such a bad thing, to curl up in a ball and protect what matters. To seclude in the wildness and bind yourself to it piece by piece. To simply be, without another’s want or gaze or pull attached as there is so often for us women.

In the alpine meadows of Chama, the elk sing all night – a symphony of bugles, yearning, drive and sensuality. I draw the thick euphony close like a healing cloak and bury my face for warmth.

Through the canyons of Villanueva, the Pecos River runs nonstop. It rolls over each pebble, each rock, like thunder, romancing the cottonwoods who stand tall and steady by her side, the veins of each tree carved through rough bark as if turned inside-out, a million tiny vessels trying to find their way.

Across the desert of Ajo, the land is vast and unkept and open. There is no one to sweep up the dust, to put the random bits and pieces back into place; there is only wind, sun, torrential rain and lightning. There is only survival.

In the timberlands of Crockett, fireflies fall like broken stars through thick clouds and lush pine. No moon. No light. Blackness rules. The sky is blocked by soaring trunks and yowling coyotes, by memories. Here, one must trust themselves. Moreso, one must trust the night.

Tell me, to where are your feet drawn? Is it rock, sand, river? Is it the grassy fields of the northern plains, the mist of the forest?

Wherever it be, find your place and go. Let the rock warm your soul, the sand smooth your calluses, the pines bed you down, the river wash you clean. Let the grass and trees hide your sins and I will lie with you there.

It is important to know where you come from, or so I’ve been told, the seeds and soil and roots of your ancestry, the repetitive loops within. But more important I think, to know where you’re going. To ride with those of courage and energy to match your own, wish well those who do not, and never be afraid to cut the trail short.

Find people of soul, who nurture, who water the seed inside. Be wary of the empty ones for their blood runs thin, too far from the heart.

Go back to the wild my friend, back to nature. Connect with voice inside – it’s still there, I promise. Get close to the earth and listen, for only she knows the truth.