Horses were not on my mind when Marilyn called and cajoled me to go riding with her. 45 years old and a has-been athlete, my weight was going steadily up, as my health was hitting the skids. I had the passion for horses as a young child and a teenager, but the memories of cantering over flowered fields were deep in crevices of my brain. My friend helped make it reality again.
     One fine autumn day, I went to observe Marilyn’s lesson. My own equine spark rekindled. Before I could lace up my boots—there I was on a horse again—relearning a discipline that was paradoxically, completely new!
     I had no fear. Give me the hotdog horse. As the Lakota warriors cried "It is a wonderful day to die!" I trotted on the correct diagonal around the ring with real purpose. My painful knee became strong—I don’t recall the exact day it didn’t hurt anymore. I was squeezing into my old jeans and I’d purchased my own helmet and riding pants—a REAL first commitment to the world of riding.
      Then - Marilyn fell. I watched her take the jump on a sorrel gelding that had a slightly wild spirit. Lynx bolted to the right after their leap and I watched in horror as my friend fell to the left—just missing a cinderblock by inches. I ran to her and did a cursory check on her bones. All felt intact, and Marilyn hobbled off to her car. Days turned into weeks for her pain. I watched as her bruise turned from black and blue to green. Green—the color of untrained riders.
     That day changed my attitude. I’d murmur "Nice horsie!" as I’d mount for a ride. I now have a job, a husband and two children who depend on me. I would soar over jumps, only to think on Christopher Reeve later on. Paraplegia is not the way I want to spend my life. And horses smell the color of fear. Green—that is me.
     My philosophies changed. I did not have to improve in leaps and bounds. If my riding abilities strengthened even minimally—that was okay. I may be the last in the class (of otherwise fearless, 12 year olds!) to take a jump, but I would do it. I read books. Lyons on Horses, How to Ride Your Pony, and Rita Mae Brown’s novel Riding Shotgun. I also learned not to refer to my beginner butt—it was called a novice fanny.