Free

She was not my first choice.

The other horses- the beautiful, the gentle, the named, the favorite, the strong one- had already been spoken for. She stood there, without saddle, without bridle or reins. Stood there, waiting for me.

This was all that was left? A naked, non-descript Shetland pony?

She had a reputation, that pony. She was known to be temperamental. She’d throw you if she didn’t like you, they said. She was uncontrollable. Wild.

The camp counselor gave me an ultimatum: Ride this horse back to the base- or walk the long, hot stretch of Kansas prairie. Reluctantly, fearfully, I mounted. Everyone else had already left.

My knobby twelve-year-old knees hugged her bare back and my hands grasped the generous tufts at the base of her neck. As soon as she felt me settle, she took off after the others. I gasped and dove forward, forcing myself as close to her as I could get, clamping my elbows tight to her neck. My body jolted each time her hooves struck. My eyes pinched shut to block as much sensation as possible.

And then something amazing happened. The pony and I began to move as one.

My waist-length brown hair and her long flaxen mane galloped together, rising and falling in waves behind me as I pressed my cheek against her neck. We flew, powerful and liberated, parting the grass ocean, sailing through the wind and the sun, leaving behind my fear and her reputation.

It was the most natural, freeing experience I have ever known. It was a gift, a moment in time when an awkward, skinny girl could imagine that anything was possible. Horses could fly! And if gravity could be overcome, then problems could be, too. Hope rose from under the hooves of a plain Plains pony. My heart risked to believe: the ones who were always last to be picked could be chosen, could be loved. Each just needed the chance to prove herself.