Finding The Magic In Manure

I remember walking into the barn for the first time when I was eight years old. The rich barn scent, the visible snorts from the horses in the cold weather (it was January), the tickle of whiskers on my hand. I was enamored with these creatures - every sound they made, every little movement of their magnificent bodies delighted me. Grooming them was addictive. Was there anything better than getting fuzzy lips wiggling under the circular motions of a curry comb? The methodical swish of a soft brush leaving behind gleaming coats, dust particles afloat in the air. My world revolved around flinging open the car door every Monday night and breathing in the aroma of the farm. Only horse people will understand the heady high achieved only by inhaling air heavy with sawdust, manure, horse, and farm.

Weeks ago, there was a new student at the barn with her grandmother. It was after work, I was grumpy from having spent over an hour in traffic to get to the barn, and wasn't in the mood to socialize. I politely answered a few questions and conversed with the grandmother (she was truly very sweet) and tried to keep to myself and finish grooming and tacking up. I was rushing through everything trying to make up for the time I spent in traffic and was becoming increasingly frustrated by, well, everything. It was just one of those nights.

I had noticed the grandmother staring at us while I was tacking up but chose to ignore it, figuring she just wanted to keep chatting and that if I didn't make eye contact I wouldn't have to engage. As I walked back over to Goose with his bridle, she stopped me and apologized for interrupting, and said something that really hit me. "I'm sorry, I just have to tell you something. Your horse is just so beautiful, he is the most beautiful horse I've ever seen! You are so lucky, he seems like such a good boy. I don't know anything about horses but he's just so amazing."

My first reaction was to laugh and point to Goose saying "This horse? This one, with the big head? Thank you, but he's such a goober."

She laughed at my reaction and reiterated he was truly the most beautiful animal she'd every seen and could she take a picture of him to show her family. Of course I didn't mind, and thanked her for her kind words.

After a not-so-stellar ride and a rush job to get him put back out so I could get home, I thought about what this woman had said to me. Again, I laughed aloud at how genuine she was that MY horse was the most beautiful. He tends to leave non-horse people in awe because of his unicorn factor (who doesn't love a fairytale giant grey horse?) and goofy personality, but when real horse people look at him they see his short legs and giant noggin. Don't get me wrong, this woman was so sweet and I wasn't laughing at her. Of course I love Goose more than anything and think he's an adorable goofball that can sometimes be much fancier than he has any right to be. But still, he's a goon and I wouldn't describe him as stunning or magnificent unless in jest. I'm also overly critical.

And then it hit me.

When did I lose it? The wonder and excitement of these amazing animals? Since when do I walk into the barn and not pause to smell that magical smell? Why don't I get a small thrill every time I pull my horse, MY horse, the one that I dreamed of forever, out of his field?

Was it in college when I burned myself out on three jobs? Was it all the barn moves over the past few years and stress of finding the right fit for us? Was it because of all these bastard injuries that have left me broken in both spirit and budget?

When did I last look at my horse and feel that jolt of delight? When did I last feed him a treat and laugh at the sheer pleasure of his dexterous lips tickling my hand? Why am I not the happiest person in the world when I have my own horse to pet and love and take care of every day?

Where has all the magic gone?

There are vet bills, setbacks, hard work, broken fencing, frozen water buckets, and countless other elements that factor into the day to day life with these animals. Long hours are a given whether you take care of your own horses or just try to find the time to enjoy them. It's not an easy life, and it's certainly not for everyone. It's often full of frustration even for the most dedicated and professional equestrian.

Perhaps my sense of wonder was lost somewhere over the past few years of injuries, setbacks, and vet bills. Maybe my education has left me with a too-realistic view of the horses where I can no longer see the innocent majesty of my own best friend and now laugh when someone compliments him. Worse yet, I could be burned out by the stress and burden of being a now 26-year-old trying to make my way in the world while keeping a melanoma-riddled, injury-prone horse well cared for.

We invest too much time, money, and emotion into these animals not to enjoy them. This is something I have repeated to myself and to my friends countless times over the years, and I firmly believe that it's true. Life with horses is not all it's cracked up to be. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication. It isn't just a hobby, it's a lifestyle and, for many of us, a lifelong commitment.

Somewhere in the past few years of life's ups and downs I've lost sight of the little things. Of course there have been good moments. Gleefully watching Goose wiggle his lips in the pure bliss of water spraying his face on a hot summer day. Sitting atop a hill overlooking fields and trees below on our first hunter pace in North Carolina. Unfortunately, these daily delights are no longer a given when I fling open my car door at the farm (and I'm only flinging it open because I'm behind schedule again). Amidst the daily grind and frustration of tight schedules, I too often forget to notice the magic of the little things.

I envy the woman who told me my horse is the most beautiful horse in the world. I'm jealous of the little kids that come to the farm and giggle at the tickle of the warm fuzzy lips snatching carrots from their hands. I long to be the former version of myself who didn't feel frustration at the antics of my horse but instead delighted in his quirky personality. I want to be excited by the privilege of scooping manure again instead of rolling my eyes at Goose'e elephant piles.

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, but I do believe in goals. This year, my goal is to appreciate the small things. To pause when I'm feeling frustrated and look my horse in the eye and thank him for being him. To take pride in the work I've done and continue to do with Goose. I will enjoy the simple pleasures of feeding him a treat and watching him eat grass. I will take time to appreciate the way the water beads on his lips after he picks his head up from the water trough, the cadence of the horses chewing their hay.

I will be more like the kind woman who so innocently and insistently told me my horse was the most beautiful animal she'd ever seen.

I will remember that I don't need to compare myself, my horse, or my life to anyone else.

I will stop to enjoy the most addictive, magical smell in the world, my second home, the barn.