Riding Meppen | A Scary Horse Story

By: Shaina Horowitz

It’s windier than I thought it would be today. The waves from the beach seem to stretch their icy fingers towards me, the grassy field not providing much protection from the coldness. Cantering along, the pounding of Meppen’s hooves on the hardened ground fills my ears, a deafening entrancing rhythm. My breath is lost in the layers of wind, making my beating heart seem an effortless miracle.

I shiver; the bitterness of the ocean shore grips the very frame of my body, seeping in through the weave of my thin shirt. Goose bumps ripple across my chapped skin and an amazing charge of energy surges through me. The jolt travels and seems to escape through my eyes, making them bulge wide and take in everything. For a brief moment I understand how small I am in the world. The land, water, and sky spill out all around me.

This powerful horse guiding me around the field suddenly shrinks in his enormous proportions, seeming just as miniscule as I am in the world that turns all around us. I take in the expanse of sky, the ever-changing backdrop of the setting. I see the tall blades of wheat growing outside the field, swaying with the strong wind, mesmerizing in their soft motion. I’m able to experience the endless sheets of ocean that stretch beyond the horizon. The gray-blue water stretches out from the rocky cragged dunes on the beach. The sharp edges of the rocks are worn away by time: now blending into the murky water, covered only by a few sparse trees their roots clutching desperately to the ground, fighting to stay intact.
The grass that grows so deep below me stretches up towards Meppen’s knees, allowing me to feel connected to the roots of the land, making me feel grounded.

As we round the corner, we move away from the beach, distancing ourselves from the roar of the white-capped waves. I look up towards the road that lies on the other side of the ancient stonewall and watch the stream of traffic that passes by. Riding up towards the edges of the field I hear the cars whisking people away. They move according to a different rhythm, one intruded upon by music, and loud engines.

The rotations of the tires have no choice but to follow the straight guidelines of the black tar. A large, old farm truck comes up alongside Meppen and me: cramped by the narrow boundaries it seems to bulge out beyond the steamrolled, flat surface.
We travel parallel to the cars, on our own path, untouched by the treads of tires or the impressions of construction. I urge Meppen on, encouraging him to lead the way. I close my calf around his barrel; he hesitates, cautiously picking his way around the branches strewn across our path.

I force my heels down, pushing against the bleached white rubber of my stirrup irons and lighten my seat in the saddle. Meppen moves forward and I can feel the muscles working beneath his sleek black coat.

We turn another corner, our backs now turned to the manufactured facades of the cars, and head again towards the water. Rushing towards the horizon the merging of the sea and sky blur and the raw emotion of adrenaline, the genuine excitement and naïve happiness people bury under layers of protective fear is drawn out of me; filtering into the environment all around me.

I sacrifice my fears and vulnerability to the world and they are carried away with the swirling wind. I am empowered, bound to my horse, and our progression into the future.

Meppen’s ears perk forward, the tips pointing towards what lies ahead of us. Our travels around the winding path of the field send us into the future, a marked route that stretches out before me. We still pass the same landmarks each time we circle the field: abandoned hedge jumps and wooden fence posts, the decrepit remains of a past that came before us.

I am able to remember and revel in the past only for brief glimpses. Then from my elevated perch atop my horse I am led beyond those forgotten memories. I am carried away traveling in the only direction that life allows, forward. My ride on this fall afternoon engraves another set of memories into the field.

I am able to place my eyes in the sky and look down at myself from a new perspective. I see myself, a young girl making revolutions around the field, growing up. The dried mud becomes imprinted with my horse’s hooves, documented evidence of our experiences, the lessons learned, the relationships formed. My life becomes woven into the fibers of the field, the rest of the world soars around my refuge above the ocean trapped in the expanses of time.