The Mustang Mare

My horse's feet are as swift as rolling thunder
He carries me away from all my fears
And when the world threatens to fall asunder
His mane is there to wipe away my tears.
~Bonnie Lewis

I haven’t written about it much, but there was a time in my life that I traveled somewhere and saw my first wild mustangs. I remember arriving in the middle of the night and walking in the moonlight through pens filled with them. Surrounded by their sounds, shuffles, snorts and glittering eyes immersed in sensation of real horse. They filled my heart with a magic wild that I just knew was always there, but having never seen one before that hadn’t already made the choice of being tamed – I had no idea that I’d be so taken with them. I never really wrote about what they did to me, or how after seeing them and being in a round pen with them the impact they had on me as a woman, human, trainer and teacher. What they taught me in the round pen, was that true power, is given not by one act, but in varied doses, when it’s needed, when it’s purest, and when truth was behind the request.

Because horses are what I know, what I understand, what I respect, and where I am the most contented, of course I always relate events in my life back to them. My respect for the horse is unfathomable. Their ability to be in the moment, present task, present feeling, react honestly, do as they feel, without cause for judgment or penalty has always been inspirational to me. Rousing trainers of horses and teachers of people, have the ability to see and understand that wild magic and work in conjunction with it to make it more beautiful, easier for someone with a tame soul to understand, and help that tame soul learn true wild nature from a horse.

All of this horse talk has a purpose. And it isn’t about horses at all. It’s about women. I’ve been reading a lot about the stages of women’s lives lately, and their difference from year to year. I haven’t a clue as to men and the changes they go through; though they seem to remain status quo from year to year I could be very wrong. What I do know is that their stages are immensely different from ours. I’ve got a lot of mustang women in my life, I surround myself with them. Mustang women of all types, some are mothers, some are sisters, some are tyrants, some are vice presidents and leaders, some are as wild as the day they were born. There is something interesting about what women do that separates us from men, and this I am very sure of. We venture into the dark places of the soul and psyche that most would never have the courage to stray. We may try to avoid this from time to time in our life, because it is uncomfortable, difficult and ultimately a trip into the dark recesses of your mind and soul is hard to do when balancing a career, a home, a husband, a lover, children, laundry and the expectations of everyone around you.

We want to be that wild mustang mare and run for the hills, to let the wind beat our faces, lift our manes and feel the rise and fall of seasons throughout the year and let our stomachs go hungry with winter and fill with spring. But life calls to us, tugs at our tails, the foals must be fed, the fields must be tended and we must be part of the herd. For the last few years, I’ve remained in a place where I’ve tended the field, I’ve done what I was “supposed” to do, I’ve worked, I’ve tended, healed those in need, I’ve mothered – yet I have no child so to speak. During this time, an interesting thing has happened, it hasn’t been easy, not at all, in fact there is a war inside me at all times, sometimes I want to choke, sometimes scream, and most of the time I want to run away. What is it? I’ve kept my dreams alive, I’ve managed to till the fields and nurture, yet the wild mustang soul inside of me is no less wild or manageable.

What is it to do this? Be alive. Be a woman, be a mustang mare that grows constantly and is able to choose tameness as a mustang does in the round pen, but even though they accept that halter on their head and your hands upon them. They are always wild. You never own them entirely; you can see it in their eyes that you never own them. This is being a woman of the wildest nature; who chooses her times of peacefulness yet accepts that her heart may never ever be owned. It’s a balance, a ritual, a rite of passage; it’s the road of life.

You know who you are, you are undomesticated, you scrap, you accept a halter from time to time, you are feral, yet you are mother to many. Your battle is different from mine in the sense of circumstances, but I know you and you know me. You still feel the wind in you mane and crave liberty, but you’re sturdy enough for both.