When I was six years old my grandparents bought a farm and 85 acres to go with it in Quincy, Florida. The property had a pond, and three tobacco barns made of gray weathered wood. They tore down two of the barns and used the lumber to build their house. My first memory of the place was looking at it from the window of their RV as I recovered from a tonsillectomy while the house was being built. My mom had to go back to work and they cared for me while I got well.
My favorite thing to do when I was a kid was run into the barn on hot days and climb to the top of the hay, made easier since my grandfather wasn’t fond of round bales. He had a square baler and the bales formed steps so I was at the top in no time and staring up at the tin roof of the barn. I would lay back, feeling the prickly hay beneath me, and smelling the strong, warm sweetness of it. And then I would just listen. The old structure would creak and moan as it settled in the midday heat, the wind would rattle the tin over my head, and sometimes it would rain, pouring onto the tin and making so much noise that when my mother came in to find me she’d have to shout. I loved it.
I remember her telling me to pack clothes for weekends at the farm that I could ruin, since I was always filthy by the end of the day. My feet were brown, I smelled like sweat and grass, and my hair was matted from being outside. I never minded getting dirty, it made getting clean that much nicer.
Some things are inside of us, intrinsic, and they never change because they’re our essence. I never realized how much that part of my life had manifested in me until the last two years in the Touched By A Horse program, when I would go to train in Virginia and turn once again into the messy kid covered with dirt and hay at the end of the day. I pack clothes that are barn worthy and not expensive, and opening my suitcase when I get home makes me laugh. The smell of sweat and horses in my clothes, boots covered with red caked mud and manure, and hay in my hairbrush. When I’ve found TSA random check slips in my bag I always feel bad for the poor schmuck who went through my luggage after one of those trainings.
I volunteer at a local barn weekly, and throwing my clothes into the bag I take with me in the mornings always makes me happy. Cutoffs and old men’s tee shirts in summer, jeans worn thin and boots in winter. My barn clothes sit next to my desk at my office and remind me that at the end of the day I get to be that girl again after forty hours of feeling like I’m not really myself while stuffed into heels and a dress. On bad days I call the barn owner and tell her I’m coming, that I need some horse time and I need to hug Brave and smell his mane. A true horsewoman, she never says no.
On some occasions (like tonight) I meet a friend there. Barbra and I both show up in old clothes and sweaters with high rubber boots and pull chairs up in front of the pasture gate to talk, watching the sun go down and the horses as they eat their hay. We laugh when they sometimes come over to check on us, like kids wondering what their parents are talking about. I feel like my true self in those ragged clothes, more beautiful and bigger than I ever could be in an office, sexier and cooler in my rubber boots than in my peep-toe heels. It’s who I am. Somewhere along the way, that girl became my norm. The one without pretense, without the mask of make-up covering every little imperfection she sees in the mirror, the one who wonders every day if she looks okay, if she should cut her hair, or get a facial, or buy new clothes. The girl who thinks too much about a lot of things that don’t matter.
I don’t think about any of that at the barn. I think about the wind in my hair, and the sun on my face, and the smell of Brave as he blocks me from coming through the gate because he wants me to touch him first. I stand and talk to him, running my hands under his mane or over his broad forehead to tell him hello. When he’s done soaking in my attention, he steps back and lets me through. It’s a weekly ritual. In return he lets me come to him at the end of the day, put an arm around him, and feel that grounded strength that he possesses that I don’t always have. A draft breed, Brave is the one thing in my life that makes me feel small when I look up at him.
One of my favorite coaching questions is “Who are you without describing your job, your kids, or your relationship?”
I’m the laughing woman in the pasture with the dirt smeared on her nose.
Tell me who you are.
My favorite thing to do when I was a kid was run into the barn on hot days and climb to the top of the hay, made easier since my grandfather wasn’t fond of round bales. He had a square baler and the bales formed steps so I was at the top in no time and staring up at the tin roof of the barn. I would lay back, feeling the prickly hay beneath me, and smelling the strong, warm sweetness of it. And then I would just listen. The old structure would creak and moan as it settled in the midday heat, the wind would rattle the tin over my head, and sometimes it would rain, pouring onto the tin and making so much noise that when my mother came in to find me she’d have to shout. I loved it.
I remember her telling me to pack clothes for weekends at the farm that I could ruin, since I was always filthy by the end of the day. My feet were brown, I smelled like sweat and grass, and my hair was matted from being outside. I never minded getting dirty, it made getting clean that much nicer.
Some things are inside of us, intrinsic, and they never change because they’re our essence. I never realized how much that part of my life had manifested in me until the last two years in the Touched By A Horse program, when I would go to train in Virginia and turn once again into the messy kid covered with dirt and hay at the end of the day. I pack clothes that are barn worthy and not expensive, and opening my suitcase when I get home makes me laugh. The smell of sweat and horses in my clothes, boots covered with red caked mud and manure, and hay in my hairbrush. When I’ve found TSA random check slips in my bag I always feel bad for the poor schmuck who went through my luggage after one of those trainings.
I volunteer at a local barn weekly, and throwing my clothes into the bag I take with me in the mornings always makes me happy. Cutoffs and old men’s tee shirts in summer, jeans worn thin and boots in winter. My barn clothes sit next to my desk at my office and remind me that at the end of the day I get to be that girl again after forty hours of feeling like I’m not really myself while stuffed into heels and a dress. On bad days I call the barn owner and tell her I’m coming, that I need some horse time and I need to hug Brave and smell his mane. A true horsewoman, she never says no.
On some occasions (like tonight) I meet a friend there. Barbra and I both show up in old clothes and sweaters with high rubber boots and pull chairs up in front of the pasture gate to talk, watching the sun go down and the horses as they eat their hay. We laugh when they sometimes come over to check on us, like kids wondering what their parents are talking about. I feel like my true self in those ragged clothes, more beautiful and bigger than I ever could be in an office, sexier and cooler in my rubber boots than in my peep-toe heels. It’s who I am. Somewhere along the way, that girl became my norm. The one without pretense, without the mask of make-up covering every little imperfection she sees in the mirror, the one who wonders every day if she looks okay, if she should cut her hair, or get a facial, or buy new clothes. The girl who thinks too much about a lot of things that don’t matter.
I don’t think about any of that at the barn. I think about the wind in my hair, and the sun on my face, and the smell of Brave as he blocks me from coming through the gate because he wants me to touch him first. I stand and talk to him, running my hands under his mane or over his broad forehead to tell him hello. When he’s done soaking in my attention, he steps back and lets me through. It’s a weekly ritual. In return he lets me come to him at the end of the day, put an arm around him, and feel that grounded strength that he possesses that I don’t always have. A draft breed, Brave is the one thing in my life that makes me feel small when I look up at him.
One of my favorite coaching questions is “Who are you without describing your job, your kids, or your relationship?”
I’m the laughing woman in the pasture with the dirt smeared on her nose.
Tell me who you are.