All The Dreams Are Horses
ALL THE DREAMS ARE HORSES. . .
by Margaret O'Hair
Sometimes I wonder if we should go to the Dream Store and there should be someone there in charge of dreams who also knows are heart and our capacity to hope and endeavor to make dreams come true. Say there is a race of life and you have a lot of horses you want to put at the gate. Can you train all those horses?
In my heart of hearts, my pasture is lush and green. There is a meandering brook on the shady side. The horses eat the grass, they drink the water, they are strong and young in the sun.
I take care of them. I give the special ones alfalfa and oats. Some particularly lovely ones come inside the barn at night.
Still, there are only only so many hours in the day. I can only ride so many horses.
It breaks my heart to hear them whinny when they see some other ones get to go out, and they are left behind the fence. But I turn around, straighten their forelock, kneel down so my breath is mixed up with their warm horse smell, and inhale all their spirit, promising them they will have me tomorrow or even in three hours, before I kiss them on the nose and get on the other horse and ride off.
But time gallops on. It gallops on some more. It takes up the ground in bigger strides than does my best horse of all.
And inevitably, I can only ride so many horses in the race of life.
I can only spend an hour at the gym instead of the two hours I long for.
I can only clean the house so long before I feel exhausted and stop.
I can only be human, and feel tired after I work a day of work.
I can only be the mom I know how to be, and that is trying to do it all,
even while I remind myself I can't have it all at once. . .just have it all
at different times.
Because every season will find me riding a different horse.
The horse I am riding today is my Sunday Horse. It is the horse that I pick over all the other days of horses. She has long legs and all the burrs from the week are combed away from her mane and tail. So the wind can blow it all around without anything snagging it. Her coat is dapple gray, with silver dollar spots all blended in, even though you know that after many years of Sundays she will be white.
Riding her is great. We sleep in. We make late morning breakfast from scratch. After we see that the house is taken care of, we even take the dogs to the dog park, knowing they have to have a bath when they get home because the dog park is so doggy. :/ Then we go to the gym. Then we come home and see that the Dad horse has done the laundry and it is just like handfuls of alfalfa to see that. Then everyone else goes to play golf, and we go in the office and look all around at the horses that have been waitingwaitingwaitingwaiting here. Here is Palomino Book, Sorrel Book, Light Bay Book, Dark Bay Book, Strawberry Roan Book, Piebald Book, Paint and Pinto Book (we haven't figured out if there is one or two plot lines there for those ponies),
Black Book, Brown Book. There is no White Book. White Book Horse will be Sunday Horse turning old. In the meantime, Sunday Horse and I look at all the other horses and long to spend time with all of them.
So we nuzzle each one wherever it is in this office barn, and breathe in their spirits.
Then I get off of Sunday Horse and decide that today I will ride Strawberry Roan Book. She has not been out for a long time and she is champing at the bit. But I want her to run fast today, run, run, run, run, run, and run where she wants to go so I will ride bareback, and I will let her out of the gate with only a halter and a lead rope. My legs slide into just the right spots on her warm sides. It's all those years and years of being forbidden to use a saddle, so that I could get a seat. . .and I find mine as she trots off, prances sideways from the blowing palm tree fronds, and starts to canter, rocking rocking rocking toward what we are going to write about. Now she is galloping.
And her galloping is racing against the hoofbeats of the clock, against the gathered strides of hours that we will never have again. Measure for measure, we remember our spirit and we run. The sun is still up. The road is straight. We run!
I will bring her back tonight and put her away. And I will kiss Sunday horse hello and goodnight. It was a good morning for her. And Strawberry Roan is content for a few days out in the field. She won't be frustrated tomorrow morning when I leave all the horses behind and get in the van to go to work. No horses there.
But after work I will drive home. All the horses will be waiting for me. I will ride the most important ones first, the Homework Horse, the I Am So Proud Of You And You Are A Great Kid Horse, and glare at the rogue Dinner Horse that I wish would run away by itself so I never had to deal with the concept of him again,
and the Is There Anything You Want To Do Tonight Horse will lope around for about 3 hours. Then most of the regular stable will be quiet, slumbering, and I will come back into the office barn. I will pick another Book horse to ride.
To ride, ride, ride against the hoofbeats of the clock, against the gathered strides of hours that I will never have again. Measure for measure, we will remember our spirit. And we will gallop. We will run. It is our race.
Because all the dreams are horses, and horses, need to run.
In my heart of hearts, my pasture is lush and green. There is a meandering brook on the shady side. The horses eat the grass, they drink the water, they are strong and young in the sun.
I take care of them. I give the special ones alfalfa and oats. Some particularly lovely ones come inside the barn at night.
Still, there are only only so many hours in the day. I can only ride so many horses.
It breaks my heart to hear them whinny when they see some other ones get to go out, and they are left behind the fence. But I turn around, straighten their forelock, kneel down so my breath is mixed up with their warm horse smell, and inhale all their spirit, promising them they will have me tomorrow or even in three hours, before I kiss them on the nose and get on the other horse and ride off.
But time gallops on. It gallops on some more. It takes up the ground in bigger strides than does my best horse of all.
And inevitably, I can only ride so many horses in the race of life.
I can only spend an hour at the gym instead of the two hours I long for.
I can only clean the house so long before I feel exhausted and stop.
I can only be human, and feel tired after I work a day of work.
I can only be the mom I know how to be, and that is trying to do it all,
even while I remind myself I can't have it all at once. . .just have it all
at different times.
Because every season will find me riding a different horse.
The horse I am riding today is my Sunday Horse. It is the horse that I pick over all the other days of horses. She has long legs and all the burrs from the week are combed away from her mane and tail. So the wind can blow it all around without anything snagging it. Her coat is dapple gray, with silver dollar spots all blended in, even though you know that after many years of Sundays she will be white.
Riding her is great. We sleep in. We make late morning breakfast from scratch. After we see that the house is taken care of, we even take the dogs to the dog park, knowing they have to have a bath when they get home because the dog park is so doggy. :/ Then we go to the gym. Then we come home and see that the Dad horse has done the laundry and it is just like handfuls of alfalfa to see that. Then everyone else goes to play golf, and we go in the office and look all around at the horses that have been waitingwaitingwaitingwaiting here. Here is Palomino Book, Sorrel Book, Light Bay Book, Dark Bay Book, Strawberry Roan Book, Piebald Book, Paint and Pinto Book (we haven't figured out if there is one or two plot lines there for those ponies),
Black Book, Brown Book. There is no White Book. White Book Horse will be Sunday Horse turning old. In the meantime, Sunday Horse and I look at all the other horses and long to spend time with all of them.
So we nuzzle each one wherever it is in this office barn, and breathe in their spirits.
Then I get off of Sunday Horse and decide that today I will ride Strawberry Roan Book. She has not been out for a long time and she is champing at the bit. But I want her to run fast today, run, run, run, run, run, and run where she wants to go so I will ride bareback, and I will let her out of the gate with only a halter and a lead rope. My legs slide into just the right spots on her warm sides. It's all those years and years of being forbidden to use a saddle, so that I could get a seat. . .and I find mine as she trots off, prances sideways from the blowing palm tree fronds, and starts to canter, rocking rocking rocking toward what we are going to write about. Now she is galloping.
And her galloping is racing against the hoofbeats of the clock, against the gathered strides of hours that we will never have again. Measure for measure, we remember our spirit and we run. The sun is still up. The road is straight. We run!
I will bring her back tonight and put her away. And I will kiss Sunday horse hello and goodnight. It was a good morning for her. And Strawberry Roan is content for a few days out in the field. She won't be frustrated tomorrow morning when I leave all the horses behind and get in the van to go to work. No horses there.
But after work I will drive home. All the horses will be waiting for me. I will ride the most important ones first, the Homework Horse, the I Am So Proud Of You And You Are A Great Kid Horse, and glare at the rogue Dinner Horse that I wish would run away by itself so I never had to deal with the concept of him again,
and the Is There Anything You Want To Do Tonight Horse will lope around for about 3 hours. Then most of the regular stable will be quiet, slumbering, and I will come back into the office barn. I will pick another Book horse to ride.
To ride, ride, ride against the hoofbeats of the clock, against the gathered strides of hours that I will never have again. Measure for measure, we will remember our spirit. And we will gallop. We will run. It is our race.
Because all the dreams are horses, and horses, need to run.
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