A new photograph now hangs in my studio, providing a peaceful portal into which I can escape when words fail me. My studio (aka – 2nd bedroom, but Auntie TJ insisted it is my studio) is a delightful little space in which all my favorite possession hide. Books of poetry I wrote when I was a girl in the mid 1900’s, old hobbies, remnants of my teaching career, and now, this new photograph.
An 18″ x 24″ piece of framed canvas, it’s any Urban Cowboy’s dream scenario. Fitting that the picture isn’t corral-ed by a frame. The picture bleeds off the edges into possibilities. Eight gentled horses rest in a huge white fenced area, all enjoying their retirement. Not a pile of poop anywhere, these guys have hit the horse-y gold mine, locked away behind exclusive fencing. Pampered in every way, these aren’t the expensive race horses one might expect. They’re rescues, each with their own history and set of aches and pains. Each with a thousand reasons never to trust a man again. And yet, each with the knowing ability to help kids in need of therapy. We could all learn a thing or too about forgiveness from this herd.
Some might have given up on these horses and they could have gone to the auction house. If you know anything about horses, there’s a place that some go at the end of the line. When training has failed or the string of owners has run out, there is one last trailer ride to the end. The auction horses just disappear into a nothingness that no one questions or talks about. “Sold” to the highest bidder and off they go without a question. Another trailer ride, probably their last.
The photograph, perfectly balanced in color and perspective, hints of a freedom these horses might or might not have preferred. An expansive backdrop of unfenced hills miles beyond is a quiet reminder of a place meant for horses. Real horses. Their mustang friends. Just beyond that looms a landmark mountain around these parts, scared with telltale ski runs at 8,200 ft. My long ago Mt. Everest, when I pretended it could be.
In this photograph, the artists are the clouds and sun, changing the hills into different earthy shades of beautiful. The ever present jet stream carried them towards Big Sky Wyoming and a place perfect for equine dreams, and mine, as well.
A barn sits off to the side, and I smile. No comparison to my big falling down barn of long ago. The one my ancestors built in the early 1900’s. The one in my Auntie TJ scrawled her name in wet concrete when she was only a girl. The barn in which VST and I shared many quick kisses, or perhaps a heated argument over this or that. The barn where VST was startled by the owl that lived most days in quiet darkness, keeping the mice population to a minimum. The one that held our raisin crop safe from rain. The one holding ghostly voices of Jack, Joann, and all the kids, when they were ours. The one that was Once Upon A Time mine.
No, to this farmer girl, this barn fits perfectly in the picture. Freshly painted. Sterilized. Welcoming. Urban Appropriate.
This picture was gifted to me on Thanksgiving, 2021. A casual friend remind me what real friendship should emulate. A friend that hides somewhere in that personalized photograph on my wall, a step too far for me to reach.
Funny how some photographs can just pull you right to the edge of the canvas. This one has that kind of power. The horses that now live in my studio don’t need much care. No poop scooping or foot pick-ing. Groomed for the day, they’re just enjoying the sunshine, calm and fed. Frozen in time, they’ve no longer a care in the world.
I hope you have a calm-and-fed-not-a-care-in-the-world kind of day. For Oliver and I, leaf patrol continues. More tomorrow.