Moving from one side of town to the other was really much more taxing than I thought it would be. I've moved so many times before - back and forth to college, to Colorado one summer, to Robbinsdale after school was over. Always the piles of clothes, lamps, desk items, art supplies, and books. Oh God, the books. Always my most plentiful, heavy, and precious belongings, books really weigh far more than I am ever prepared to lift safely.
I was in a frenzied state of here-and-there. I had spent a night at my parents' house after the Dan Wilson concert at Bryant Lake Bowl (amazing, seriously), spent a few last nights in Robbinsdale, Saturday in Uptown finally, had been back and forth to the DMV to change my address, to the bank to deposit birthday checks, to the doctor's office for checkups, to class in Delano, then Minnetonka. I woke up in the mornings in "Go-Go-Go" mode, packed at least 2 boxes worth of belongings everyday before work, and was entirely preoccupied with how much I could get into the back of my Fusion, and will the box spring fit into the Explorer, and look at the state of these floors - I'll never get my deposit back at this rate. Then, Sunday evening, my birthday happened.
If it would have been up to me, I would have opted out entirely. The cleaning, the piles, the dirt, the dust - the sliver of OCD in my skin was poking at me hard, and I pried myself away to take a trip home. Well, to my parents' house.
Birthdays always seem like another day until my mother gets involved. She makes an event out of every tiny victory, whether that be an instructor certification weekend or the anniversary of your birth. She had prepared snacks, bought nice beer and wine, made a cake, invited surprise friends over. When we finally sat down to dinner (BLT's and corn on the cob, by request), I was looking at 6 people that I would not have known were it not for We Can Ride. I think we all realized this somewhere during that time - looking around at each other, talking about what we have in common - horses, classes, people with disabilities.
Never before have I radiated with happiness like I did sitting at that beat up old kitchen table (with remnants of high school nailpolish on the edges) on a fall evening, leaving behind all thoughts of the transient frenzy the week had been, listening to everyone say something about a client they loved, or the story of a horse's past, or, how, despite the odds, this crazy chaotic thing just seemed to work. It felt so fated, sitting there - almost helpless against the flow of conversation, against the outpouring of love for this organization. This was a table of servicemen and women, in the non-military sense, of course - each speaking from the warm place in their hearts that all We Can Ride volunteers know.
That place is where the amazing, breath-caught-in-your-throat things happen. It's where people who have never walked get on a horse and ride. It's where those who have never talked look down at you from 15.2 hh and smile. It's where we watch as a retired show horse stands patiently as a nervous client cries out in fear. It's where you meet retirees, teenagers, housewives, and high powered professionals dressed in boots and t-shirts, tromping around for hours of pure service, of pure joy.
I'm reminded that, for every night I come home shaking my head with disgust at government, at corporate giving, at the state of finances, at the problems that being understaffed pile on my desk (not unlike the belongings in my bedroom), the changes in my personal life - this place makes amazing things happen, and I believe. May I never forget that I believe.
