I was looking at Leroy, watching him think about calling everything off–his ears twitched and he swung his head weirdly to the right, because of me—and my Type A procrastination.
I looked up—trees, that house perched precariously on Chatsworth’s pale boulders, blue blaze of sky—and squeezed my lower legs against Leroy’s stomach. My heels shot down in the stirrups and I went into that (for me) awkward 2 pt stance-in-the-saddle, the 2 pt that must be accomplished before actually jumping, which means using so much of your legs, it’s an interior explosion of focus and possibly pain and, if you’re “feeling it” successfully, a soul-rousting revelation of fitting, synching, with your horse.
A rocking horse left the earth. Arc-soared. Stardust and all-that- is-holy landed in a canter on the correct lead.
Good. (Ben doesn’t have to shout–his voice is a polite conversation over teacups through a magically self-adjusting mega-phone)
I reigned Leroy into a trot, lurching like a novice when the trot actually happened–damn! I was all red-faced and gaspy. Worried: Cavalia! I will never be you!
When Leroy and I returned to Ben’s corner of the ring, Ben said: You just have to feel it.
Even if I wasn’t a writer, pets-keeper, struggling unicycle rider, mother and wife and diligent manager of Los Angeles traffic on all danger-filled freeways, I would know what Ben meant.
I nodded and turned Leroy to try the jump again.
When I feel “it”, “it” works, no matter the medium, genre, activity.
Luke–put up your visor.