I briefly glanced at the mirror as I raced out the front door. My hair was unkempt, my boots were caked in mud, and a smile was pasted to face. That smile seldom left my cheeks as this was the time of year I’d always spend doing what I loved most.
It was a brisk Saturday morning in late April, and I was on my way to the stables. Every week I would look forward to my time at the barn, where I’d teach kids with disabilities to ride horses.
This form of physical therapy has proven to act like no other – simulating the same rhythm apparent only in a mother’s womb.
Some children were so impaired, physically and mentally, that they couldn’t sit on a horse’s back by themselves, let alone trot around the ring without assistance. I’d walk them through it. I’d help them feel their way through the rhythm of the horse.
Very often I’d come across a child so crippled, with a body so rigid and stiff, that putting him or her on horseback seemed nearly impossible. What I found miraculous, was the way their unyielding bodies relaxed and became supple as I guided them through the ring.
It was almost as if their pain melted away the moment they touched the horses skin. As soon as their bodies became fluid on the horse’s back, I knew what would soon follow, a smile. It was their true and genuine smile that made my volunteering worthwhile.
It was their joyful expressions that showed me that hope and happiness is even possible for those born under less-than-ideal-circumstances. It would have been too easy to pity to these children. It would have been too easy to dismiss them, but I didn’t see them as unhappy.
I saw their spirit. I saw their strength. I saw the way their eyes gleamed after a long strenuous day and they saw their favorite horse. I’d see the way they manipulated the horse’s reigns and attempted the proper equestrian form.
I wasn’t there to judge them.
I was merely there to give my unwavering compassion and optimism. I am sure that not all the children or even their parents knew my name, however, I didn’t care. I didn’t care however many times their limbs would betray them and accidentally hit my face.
I’d think to myself that one day, little Ethan would be able to sit atop Rainbow’s back without my guiding hand behind his back. And I knew that one day, eighteen-year-old Tanya would sit up straight and ignore the haunting voices in her head, as she concentrated on the rhythmic beating of the horse beneath her.
Medicine could only go so far. That’s the realist in me talking, but the optimist in me says there is nothing so tragic that the love and support of another living being cannot assuage. I am optimistic. I see the good in situations where it’s easier to see the unfortunate.
As I walked back into my house, my hair was still unkempt. My boots were still caked with mud, and a smile was still pasted to my face. It had been a great day.
