ramblingsaboutriding

[ramblingsaboutriding]

Destiny?

Chapter 2

It’s June, right? Yep, it is definitely June. So why on God’s green Earth am I wrapped in a blanket right now? Dear English Weather, what fuckery is this?! I have been gazing out of the window for the last fifteen minutes watching the wind blow in more clouds. This is not my window. I am house sitting for friends that are on holiday in the Greek Islands. I am baby shit green with envy right now. Traitor dog has deserted me in the office for the luxury of new couches that he is not allowed on – I have just told him to get off for the hundredth time today. At the very least, the resident felines have deemed me worthy of their presence. I wonder how long this will last. Especially when they find out this week is the precursor to a more permanent stay.

June is steadily ticking along, and I am working against the clock to sell furniture I do not need and minimise to the bare essentials. Traitor dog and I will be lodging with V, her husband and their household royalty, their two black cats. The decision to give up my little flat was made on the back of the increasing cost of living. But I can’t shake the feeling that this is meant to be more than just me saving for a deposit on a house and surviving the economical Armageddon. The first step towards making the dream a reality. I feel something stirring in the deepest corners of my soul. Destiny?

The need inside me to ride is growing stronger by the day. Not riding is suffocating. It can no longer be denied or set aside. I feel like I am too old to be making rash decisions, yet I have been thinking about this since before Covid reared its ugly little head. Now it feels like a calculated decision. There was a period in time where I did set the dream aside, tried to forget about it, and live like all the “normal” people that you meet daily. I married a snake and believed that this was what was in the books for me. At the time I was so blinded that I didn’t notice how I was losing my identity. That I was sacrificing my passion, my dreams, for a lie. Fortunately, the lie came crashing down and left me shattered. Fortunately? Yes, fortunately. It was a not only a chance to pick up the pieces and rebuild, it was a chance to rediscover. To evaluate previous weaknesses in the structure that was me. It was an opportunity to debride old wounds that just would not heal.

Where to from here then? Is lodging not a step back instead of the step forward to get where I need to be? Yes and no. Yes, it is a step backward, but a necessary one. It places me in a position where I am finally able to save and not be in the constant loop where that which I receive just goes out to line other pockets again. So, in this, it is a move forward. I can finally save for that ever-elusive deposit on my own home and to pay for the degree I am applying for. Another step towards the dream. Yes, I live in England, the mecca for all things horsey, so this should be easy right? No, it isn’t that cut and dry. I am also a believer in fate and that people cross our paths for a reason. In the four years that I have lived in my beloved England, not one person has crossed my path that has been a door to the dream. There have been steppingstones, corridors and hallways, but no actual doors. Until now. And the door isn’t in the UK.

Many moons ago, when I was still a snotty student finishing up my last days of University, I got this wild idea in my head that I wanted to work overseas and gain some international experience. Great thought at the time and widely supported by family, friends and the like. I immediately thought of England or Europe all surrounded by a romantic rosy haze, but for some reason, my mentor at the time planted the seed to look at the USA as well. I scoffed at the idea, but then that is where I landed up. In my mind I see and hear a scene from the movie Kingdom of Heaven where the actors are shouting, “God wills it!”. Yes God, fate - both willed it. Disappointingly at the time, it was not in a top class show barn with a competitive rider that would take me on tour all over the world and lead me to success and fame. I was so naïve back then. Still a child playing adult. No, I worked for a family that had horses at home and needed a hand with their care and exercise. It also wasn’t anywhere as glamourous as I had imagined. It was in Tennessee!

It was a difficult time. My stepdad, or just my dad as I prefer to call him, had tragically passed away the year before and instead of completing the full year that I was meant to stay in States, I only lasted for about six months. I think that, had I not had to deal with his death so freshly, it may have been different. Remember when I say everything happens for a reason? Well stick with me here, it will all come together. In years to come I would say I hated living in the US and that was the reason for leaving, or that I couldn’t stand the slow small-town life and that the work wasn’t enough to keep me going. That there wasn’t another position going at the time and that was why I decided to leave and return to sunny old South Africa. Looking back, they were all contributing factors, but it was small stuff that I was sweating and would now easily overcome. In fact, moving from South Africa to England saw me transition from city girl to country bumpkin with aplomb! No, the truth is I was not coping with my grief. Being the eldest child, I felt it was my duty to be strong and to show the family that we would be fine. Now I clearly see through all that bullshit, and I am very aware that we don’t always have to be strong.

In those short months, I grew to love the family I worked for as my own, I made awe inspiring lifelong friends and Tennessee became my second home. I went back for the first time in eleven years and as the plane touched down in Nashville, I felt this overwhelming sense of home – the same I feel when I return to England from all my gallivanting. Driving around my old town, I was flooded with wonderful memories and the sense of the familiar. It was home. Why am I telling you all this? Because here is the reason, through these wonderful people, I was introduced to my door. A person that is the first door to riding the dream. An education that many aspiring equestrians only dream of meeting. A door that I want to open right this minute, but sensibility and determination prevails. If I was my 25-year-old self, I would have jumped at it without second thought, and I would have gotten burned for my carelessness.

You see, I was not prepared for this kind of commitment. I had too many hang ups and way too much emotional baggage that would have drowned me when we reached deep waters. I needed to meet the serpent in my life at the very time that I met him. It was time to prepare for the future that is to come, and I needed to crash and burn. Break down every single bit of me. I needed to be broken so I could rebuild. Strong enough to comfortably weather any storm to come. And they will come, this is life and there is no avoiding it. I am no longer the skittish little Springbok bouncing all over the place. No, I have evolved into an African Honey Badger. Tough as nails and fearless. I eat snakes for breakfast now.

So here I sit, in what is to be my new home with for the foreseeable future, taking the plunge. No more waiting and fantasising. Now it becomes a reality. I do not and will never regret my move to England. I have fallen in love with the sleepy English villages, the rolling hills dotted with sheep and the dry English humour. I fit in here. The opportunities that living here affords me, are the stuff that dreams are made of. But it is still cold enough for me to scratch the paint off my car with my nipples.

[ramblingsaboutriding]

A Flame Rekindled

Chapter 1

The postie has just pushed today’s letters (my bills that I must pay – adulting really fucking sucks don’t you think?) through my letterbox. It is lunchtime in England. I know this because Darren always delivers my post at 12:30, and a glance at the clock on my desktop confirms this. Tea is being made by the masses working from home, sandwiches prepared, and queues being formed at sandwich trucks or at the local shop, meal deals in hand. What I am I having? Tesco’s Calorie Controlled Beef Lasagne. It needs salt. Why the government in this country insists on trying to draw out the last bit of happiness out of the population is beyond me. “Taste the flavour of the meat and vegetables…” Cut the crap, they wouldn’t eat this shit any more than they would feed it to their dogs. I don’t give a shit if half the population is overweight, myself included!

Another bite of the flavourless pig slop disguised as lasagne and I think of the expedition that led me to this very disappointing purchase. For reasons unknown, my body decided that waking up at 04:47 this morning was a good idea. What, and I cannot stress this enough, the fuck? I have wrinkles on my face that are starting to resemble the Grand fucking Canyon! I need the beauty sleep. Yet, scrolling through social media couldn’t keep me in bed. That and my need to pee. Then there was also the little fact that I had no toilet paper. So off I toddled to Tesco to stock up on the white gold that was such a hot commodity during the first few Covid infested months of 2020. The Great Bog Roll Shortage.

I hate shopping at Tesco. Purely because I always buy shit I don’t need when I am there. Their marketing team needs a salary increase. Tesco’s Calorie Controlled Beef Lasagne is case in point. Shit is also the perfect description for the salt-less pig slop I am really trying to get down. Anyway, I digress. More shit that I didn’t need but just wanted was the latest issues of horse porn (no, not like that!). Yes, I succumbed and spent my hard-earned sterling on Horse & Hound and Horse & Rider respectively. Another bite of the now cold pig slop. Sis.1 The canine-child is turning his nose up at it. I give up and deposit the remaining lasagne in my very grateful dustbin.

After my early morning shop and whizz through the Costa drive through, I page through my pornography of choice to see what they have to offer before the working day starts.

God help me, but I want to ride.

I want to spend my days riding and learning. Building a partnership with a horse and getting to know my equine partner so well, that we are confident enough to compete and leave a mark on the competition world. Every fibre in my terrified being wants to feel the power of a Warmblood performing the most difficult movements in total control beneath me. My body in complete sync with the horse’s, speaking a language that nobody else can understand, hear, or read. Synergy.

Terrified because I have fallen off so many times that my once unwavering confidence has cracked over the years. My body has taken so many beatings that Winter is hard on certain joints. The cold makes them ache. The elbow I landed on with my full weight so I wouldn’t land with my face on a jump pole. The shoulder that got yanked after I involuntarily dismounted with no grace, dismantled an oxer, all the while still holding onto the reins as my horse wanted to piss off into the setting sun. I couldn’t lift that arm up properly for months. Backache from years of incorrect posture in the saddle that is so painful I can barely walk. The terror is getting so bad that I forget to breathe when I mount up sometimes. When I am not riding, I think of it. Analyse myself and try to reprogram my mind to not succumb to my fear, research ways of overcoming it and watch YouTube videos to process it. All this effort because I still want to ride. Train so hard that my sweat drips down my back and soaks into my shirt. Reach Grand Prix before I croak, even if it is just once.

I have wanted this all my life. There are days where I feel like I will die never having achieved this goal. This single thought overwhelms me with debilitating depression. It makes me cry as hard as I do when I think of ending up completely alone. Alone I can combat and overcome, but not getting the opportunity to try and reach my dream will kill me. It is slowly killing me inside. My corporate job is great, my boss walks on water and I enjoy what I do, but it is also slowly sucking the soul out of me. I am dying inside. You must have a big girl job and earn enough to live off. Yes, agreed. In fact, I enjoy the fruits of my labours. Travelling, books and spoiling the hound. Great lifestyle. It still feels empty. There is no purpose. It is mediocre day to day living. No wonder that I get so enthralled by certain books that I am desperate for those worlds to be real. I want to escape my reality.

It sounds ungrateful, and that couldn’t be furthest from the truth. I am grateful. Humbled by how fortunate I am and the lifestyle I am currently afforded. It just lacks purpose. There is the constant drive to try and earn more. More so I can buy my own horse. A horse that I can scream and bounce about on the inside, and quietly keep below the radar until we are ready. A horse that I can train and finally use the choreography that I prepare when I listen to music and ride to it. A horse that will be the reason I buy dressage tails. A horse that will make my dreams a reality.

All this emotion surfaces as I page through the glossy magazine. It bubbles up through me as I read Charlotte Dujardin’s top tips on finding a talented horse when beginning the laborious search for a prospect to buy. My need to do this soon intensifies. How the hell am I going to do this? The answer has been formulating in my mind for a while, but I need to be a bit more patient. When it comes to this particular topic in my life, patience is not one of my virtues. It is simply the bane of my existence.

My God, I want to ride.

I am staring at the glossy magazine, lying next to me whilst I wait for my teabag to steep. I flung it there this morning and have been attempting to avoid looking at it.  Lunch is over and I need to get back to the policies and procedures that I need to delegate and update, set up invites for an audit that is three weeks away, prepare a presentation for the executive team, and finally catch up on a few of the tasks I have kept on the back burner for the last few weeks. I love and hate it. I think I will cry into my teacup for five minutes and then pull myself together. I am still fucking starving though. 

South Africans tend to borrow words from other languages that result in slang or phrases known as a South Africanism. In this context, the word “sis” is not slang for sister but is instead borrowed from the Afrikaans language. The original word is “sies”, which is an expression of disgust or annoyance.