![]() She lived and wrote before Temple Grandin translated how animals think, act, and feel. On the flip side, they are prey animals, and since women, like horses, have been preyed upon for millennia, perhaps we get them on a deeply intuitive level. They fulfill some fantasy we have of ourselves. In myths, they fly over sea and sky and are messengers to the other world. They are flight animals, and we participate in their flight by riding them, though they can also bolt on us, terrifying us. Horses are a symbol of freedom, speed, and power. So what is it about women and horses? Theories abound. I’m not the first woman whose heart has come undone by a horse. This third hit was an instantaneous, deeply emotional connection, and it launched my next stage of life, what I not-so-blithely call the Icelandic horse era. ![]() (See, I remember details of falling in love.) I couldn’t concentrate on work, so I skipped around on Google until I found the Icelandic horse, a pixelated photo of a dark beauty on a misty, green tussock, staring directly at me. Rain was falling outside the window light was dusky I was drowsy from the carb-heavy meal. I was sitting at my desk at work, minding my own business, eating my usual pasta salad for lunch. If step one was a percolating recognition, step two was childlike glee-”Horsies!”Īll mysteries come in threes. Two-year-old fillies burst into the arena full-blooded, neighing, throwing their heads up, showing off their developing muscles, and my heart raced and pounded in my chest. The same year, on a visit to Vermont, I felt compelled to see UVM’s Morgan horse farm and stumbled upon a broodmare auction going on. A movement caught my eye on the screen-horses running in a field-that stirred a hazy recognition: oh, horses, I remember horses. ![]() Three instances rekindled that powerful equine love, all of them prosaic: I was on a treadmill at my gym, and the TV was on, soundless and closed captioned. It was just like the first time I fell in love, only I was forty-one instead of seven.
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