Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

A lesson in Keats

Sometimes, I still get that flash: the moment before. Hurtling towards the back fence of the arena. My reins flopping loosely in front of me. My field of vision shrinking into a narrow tunnel. I forget to breathe and fear begins to take hold. The moment when I almost unconsciously make the decision to let go. To jump off. To bail. That split second surge of belief that whatever damage I’d experience if I leapt, would be less than what was coming if I stayed.

I was wrong.

That is how my year began. I fell, or rather jumped, off my horse, Ty.  He spooked and bolted at top speed with me hanging on. Fearing we’d hit the fence line if I stayed on, I jumped. Turns out hitting the ground at speed and with such force wasn’t a better option.  

2024 has been a doozy; so much to overcome, so many challenges, so much to navigate.

And yet there have been good things too: I am still alive, I am in a new home, I am living a new phase of life.  And now another autumn on the horizon, another chance to shed the past so the new growth can take hold. Time to ponder the cycles of life.

Ty is a deep thinker.  A worrier.  It’s impossible to know what is really going on in his brain of course, but he is a sensitive creature. He has always spooked at some things, but it has gotten worse, especially since our accident. We are working hard to try and get to the heart of it. Assessing the physical, searching the psychological, addressing the behavioral. Everything must be examined and either pursued or eliminated as a cause.

My trainer has been riding him in competition and they’ve done well. They’ve racked up a lot of firsts, earning championship qualifying scores. Thymen fan Bloemhof (Ty’s fancy-pants name) is a beautiful mover and I’ve been so proud of his success. But horse shows are very stressful. While he has been able to focus in the show arena, the tension is still there and his explosive spooking incidents at the ranch have been escalating. Escalating to the point that it feels unsafe to ride him. Not just for me, but for anyone. We’ve dropped out of competing for now.

I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed that we won’t see out the season to the championships. But his well-being is top priority, to both me and our trainer.  

After all, love comes first.

Now on the other end of the level-headed spectrum is Trudy. She is a horse, so I can’t say she never spooks, but if something startles her, her reaction is quick. She’s famous for momentarily splaying out her legs like a giant spider and freezing. Rather than being frightened, she’s more likely to be pissed off. With a “how dare you!” look on her face she is willing to get up close to the offending item to figure it out.

If I am nervous or frightened and get on Ty, all that nervousness transmits to him and amplifies his own worries. When I get on Trudy, I get the equivalent of an eyeroll and the distinct message to get over myself and out of my head.

Trudy is right. I do too much thinking. Too much taking stock. Too much of what my brother used to call, morbid introspection. I’ve read some articles recently about studies finding that a person who analyzes themselves frequently might be more likely to be depressed or nervous than someone who rarely engages in self-analysis. 

Lately I’ve had some spells of feeling invisible, unloved, unappreciated, and undervalued. This is where morbid introspection gets you. I have thought how much I would prefer to be blissfully unaware, floating in my own private cloud, not concerned about anyone or anything.

But I was grown this way. My dad used to make a joke when he encountered a particularly unaware person. “It must take a real load off of your mind,” he used to say, “not having to pay attention or think.”

I’d like to be more like Trudy and less like my dad. Aware, but not distraught. Reflective, but not submersed. I want to experience my emotions while staying grounded, recognizing my feelings are not facts.

As I continue to recover physically and mentally, and with Ty out of commission for riding, I have spent more time with Trudy than usual. And I am loving it. Sometimes I forget how down to earth and funny she is.  She is just what I need in this season of my life.

In Spring we are young, and everything is new and full of hope. Summer brings expectations and a need to matter somehow, to accomplish something. Now entering the Autumn of my life, I can understand and appreciate life as it is. I’m ready to embrace the cycle with gratitude in my new home with my re-healed body.

I started the Spring broken; I enter Autumn healed.

A friend referenced the poem “To Autumn” by John Keats and I found myself pulling it out to read again. Renewal, regrowth, rebirth.  It’s all there in much more lyrical prose than I can manage. The end of summer, the change that floats in on the wind and blows in autumn with all its gifts.

I am lucky.  We are lucky. To be here.  All of us.  

Sometimes, I still get that flash: the moment before. Hurtling towards the back fence of the arena. My reins flopping loosely in front of me. My field of vision shrinking into a narrow tunnel. But then I remember to breath. My vision clearing, I tell myself to stay on this horse no matter what. With another deep breath, I reach down to pull the reins taut as I squeeze my thighs. Pulling with all my strength, I turn Ty's head to one side, turning, turning, until he stops. And then we breath together. We are both okay. We are both safe.

No matter how painful, stay in your feelings and don’t bail. It may not seem like it at the time, but I can tell you from experience, it is far less dangerous.

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

                                                                      John Keats