F r a g m e n t s

Recently, I have been plagued with the thought of selling my saddle, my last remnant of my other, horsey life. Part of me thinks I should just keep it--It's a beautiful saddle, and it's not like I have grown much since the days of 13 & under classes. The other part of me asks "why let it sit in the garage while I wait for a horse again, not knowing when that will be?" I have felt rather conflicted about this decision mainly because it is my last token of my horse-ownership-past.

Mine is a late 1988 Billy Royal equitation seat western saddle with mahogany oil and frosted with silver. I bought it in 1994 with the prize money Norman and I had won with our two top fives at the Minnesota Arabian Horse Fall Festival. I used the rest of the money to update the silver, add more silver and revive it to its current condition.

"Parting with a saddle is like letting go of you binky. *sigh*," wrote my fellow barn-mate, Nicole.

A good saddle becomes part of many memories. When I sit again in my saddle, my body remembers the feeling of "a good ride" as my mind fills in the blank with the embedded rhythm of a soft and supple horse. A good saddle also wears as the saddle-rider interface relates on a daily basis, creating a sense over time that "this saddle was made for my bum." The fit feels like your favorite T-shirt, and those familiar feelings add a comfortable sense of security not only for the rider's seat. The technology of the saddle allows for a closeness kin to bonding, as well as assistance and reassurance through rough transitions--yes, very much like a binky.

Some people never leave their binky behind through life's phases; some people keep them around beyond the "time to burn the woobie." My dad always facetiously threatened to burn my woobie—in light of the scene from the late 80’s movie “Mr. Mom”--and just that threat of forced separation from my beloved blanket would drive me to tears. My "woobie" ended up in my memory box that was sent out to me this past summer by my mother. I found it again, zipped up in that plastic sack, and could see through the layers of faded, threadbare fabric that had kept me so warm since my very first days in the world.

I remember looking at it, knowing that at the time I zipped it up for safe keeping I couldn't have watched it go in the trash. But that hot summer day, I parted with it. Now, sitting here and thinking further back, I can remember what it looked like before it became a well loved sidekick. I remember the sketches and the lace edging and the pink and the little yarn knots that turned to knobbies after so many washes. I remember my mom made it for me before I was born. Most of all, I can remember what it felt like: what it felt like to have with me at night, what it felt like on my skin, and how it felt to be wrapped up in its warmth.

It is funny how some feelings don't fade, whether it's the security of a old binky, the wowsa-tingle-to-the-core of a suave first kiss, or that feeling of a great ride in which every stride falls so easily into place that you feel like nothing separates you from the horse. These moments etch into our body, in our sensory memory that fleshes out our ways of being in the world.