I wanted to write about what a difference a year makes, after having written earlier about what can happen in just one day. I was thinking about where I was a year ago with Scout, but... no. I kind of drifted into the day and a then a fair ways farther into it before I became aware of a sense of melancholy enveloping me. It's been a long time since I've had that feeling, a kind of almost benign sadness that might have been wifting through the air, invisible, until you just happened to bump into it. And anyone could have bumped into it, it's that random seeming.
I had stuff to do, and I did it, but I kept my mind's eye on the middle distance. Maybe I internalized a little too much worry. Lately it seems to me there are reminders everywhere about how vulnerable things are. I think sometimes it's the most natural thing in the world to want things to be just okay. There's no need to ask for the moon or the stars, but just let things be all right. I've lost count of the horses I'm reading about that are in trouble, injured, lame, suddenly unsound or worse. They all belong to fine, careful owners who see that they have the best care possible. Suddenly, everything changes. Are they really that vulnerable, these strong, amazing creatures? I guess they are.
And I guess the awareness of that must reside somewhere in us every time we are with our horses, but not so we'd know it up front at all times. It just comes as a cold shock when our horses are hurt, but we're rarely surprised. How could we be? The architecture of the horse seems a perfect example of Nature's reach exceeding her grasp. A pastern here, a stifle there, hocks, tendons, ligaments. Who would build such beauty upon such a risky foundation? Leaving us, who love them, trying to protect it. Yes, I guess I'm a little too worried and I need to get back to the place where you just live with it because not to live with it isn't an option at all.
