We walk, three dogs, a horse and I, down past the sheep yards where J is drenching ewes. We leave the whistles, clanging gates, barking dogs and follow the track down the hill to the creek. Its running but the concrete ford has only a shallow puddle to cross. Ethel and Dusty wade in. James, laps from the edge and Frank stands fetlock deep plunging his muzzle under the water, blowing bubbles, playing. I pull his lead rope, whistle the dogs, and we walk on.
It’s four months since my back operation (read back to mid November if you’re curious and new here) and taking Frank walking has felt like a huge progression and the beginning of eventually riding again.
Frank walks beside me alert and eager to see what is ahead. I wonder if he wonders why I’m not riding him. He starts to switch his tail and turn to bite at his side. After he does it a couple of times I stop and check to see if there is a bot fly worrying at him. I can’t see anything. We walk on. His ears flick, his tail lashes and he stamps his feet. He snatches against the rope. We stop again and I run my hand over his dusty coat. I can’t see what is worrying him. I duck under his neck and there is a single tiny fly. J calls them kangaroo flies. They are brown and much smaller than a bush fly. They don’t shoo. I squash it against his dark hide. He’s peaceful again. I’m conscious of the great bulk of him.
We walk over logs, through gullies full of stagnant water, under willows. We check the big mob of lambs on the flats for any signs of fly strike. He wanders behind me, the rope connecting us has no tension. The corgis are busy and full of purpose in front. Dusty has disappeared. The sun is gentle, the air benign. A robin, its breast bright against the green, skips up the fenceline. Ahead the week is full of deadlines, the craziness of crutching amongst them. But just now, there is a scoop of time. I wonder how to take it with me, the peace of it.
A line from an Emily Dickinson poem is playing in my head. I felt my life with both my hands/to see if I was there. All week I’ve been running my fingers through this thought. Walking I wonder why it is that I am not content, why walking is not enough.
All through my rehabilitation, those early weeks where the exercises were such tiny small movements as to feel almost useless, the thought of riding again motivated me. Yet out walking with Frank I receive many of the moments I love about riding. The one thing it doesn’t give me is the sensation of being part of something bigger, of ceasing to end at my skin. Riding I am part of this animal, an animal sensitive enough to feel the feet of a fly on his neck, yet strong enough to break me. For it to work we must seek the common ground, we must speak in a language neither of us are proficient in and when we understand each other, both the horse and I are expanded.
*
The next day I catch Frank again and lead him over to the old tank stand. I give him bath for the first time in six months. The water beads in gemstones on his back. His coat is full of the oils that have kept him fat and healthy through summer downpours, but he’s so filthy that to stroke his neck coats my hand in a layer of gritty dust. He needs a bath because I am taking him down to Richmond to a friend who is going to ride him for a couple of weeks before I hop back on. As I slosh soapy water over his back I’m still thinking about Emily Dickinson’s words, how they catch at the sensation of being lost in your own life. This sensation, as the children have grown up and left home, is familiar. I think of the peace out walking yesterday, how even as I felt it there was a part of me wanting more. Perhaps a little discontent is not a bad thing. Perhaps to find the shape of our lives we need to keep reaching for something more.
mm
Reading
I finished Honoree Fanonne Jeffers, The Love Songs of W.E.D Du Bois. It’s an extraordinary novel. It’s big, ambitious and brilliant. There’s hard hard history in this book, but reading it my empathy and understanding of how complicated and political the colour of skin is in America. This is familiar ground, but the novel showed me all ways I had never really understood. HFR is a poet and an historian, both trainings show. It’s 800 pages long but don’t be intimidated by the bulk.
Absolutely loved this essay by novelist Rachael Kushner on Skiing and Nothingness. “The trace is proof a skier took the full line, proof the skier connected turns through tight trees in untracked pow, by which I mean powder, by which I mean as the New Yorker has insisted on calling it, but no expert skier ever would, “powered snow”.
I wish I’d read this essay A Big Shitty Party by memoirist Melissa Febos on writing about people years ago. But of course I would probably not have been wise enough to understand it. It’s a ripper.
Sydney Review of Books has this section called Commuting. The essays in it are something else. This week they have published Circuit by Vanessa Berry who riffs on Shirley Hazzard’s The Transit of Venus while examining billboards and contemplating the morning and afternoon commute. It’s so good.
Listening
This 7am podcast on Jacqui Lambie based on the essay Chloe Hooper wrote for The Monthly Goodam Bloody Adult, was so interesting. When she hit the political scene here in Tas I cringed. But I have come to admire her for her openness, her incredible tenacity, her willingness to own her mistakes and to listen. She is representing people and how rare does that feel.
Writing
I sent off a column to Country Style yesterday. It’s about trying to get sheep crutched in this glorious wet autumn we are having. You’re lucky i haven’t whinged about that in here.
Doing
We went to a party at the new Spring Bay Mill event centre. It’s the most spectacular conversion. If you need a place to host a conference or event, then click on the website. The food was amazing. The view spectacular and the dancing fun. Lots of people stayed the night there.
Till next time Sitters, mmx
That Frank.
This writing.
Thanks, Maggie!
Oh Maggie, I love reading your sit spot , it has become a happy ritual to read every week. Thank you X