One of the great gifts Cape Town has given me is the return of horses to my life. After years of living in major cities where such a thing was either financially and/or geographically infeasible, I now lease a handsome devil of a horse named Ace. 

Once a week, I drive out to Ace’s stable nestled against the mountains. Sometimes I ride him along an idyllic little river, sometimes we “school” in the arena next door. After spending most of my child, adolescent and teenage years preparing for, performing in, and recovering from horse shows and rodeos, I have zero interest in competition. So, while we work on our form on the flat and over jumps, we’re not really training towards anything except better communication, and more fluid movement and enjoyment for us both. 

It’s definitely humbling to return to a sport I last pursued consistently as a teenager. I was dismayed when my then-40 year old body didn’t bounce back immediately after my fall from Ace a few years ago. And I still find a way to be hard on myself when I’m not riding like my fit, fearless 18 year old self.

I also still spend more time in my head than I’d like to, considering this is an activity that demands presence and embodiment. Ace’s owner asks that I track our rides, and I find myself mentally planning what I’m going to write in the app while I’m still riding. While I’m on this beautiful, good natured, goofy horse, strolling along a burbling stream, I’m planning out how I will describe it. 

I’m writing my story while I’m still in it. 

I do this in many aspects of my life, but with Ace it is most painfully apparent. Each time I catch my thoughts wandering, I admonish myself to be more present.

To live the story before I write it. To let it unfold, to let things emerge rather than dictating ahead of time how they will go. 

Paraphrasing songwriter Linda Perry (of 4 Non Blondes fame): I don’t want to be the best anymore. I just want to be the best at who I am. 

And a big part of that is releasing unhelpful comparisons to how I used to be, and remembering (however briefly) to be where my feet are.

Or at least where Ace’s hooves are.