A Feeling of Wonder

Memories are a special phenomenon to behold – especially those from childhood, which offer a sense of being bigger than life, but it's also a time when you believe that anything is possible. Why do we outgrow that feeling? Can we get it back?

I remember when …

I used to dream, vividly as a child, making heart-felt wishes on shooting stars, about all I have now. Well, those dreams were a little over-the-top as my childhood imagination sprinted away, but I revel in having made most of those dreams my real-life as an adult, in a more comprehensible way, in many ways, but also lacking the dreaminess. The stars are more vast than ever, but more blurry than before.

When I was little, all animals held magic. Especially horses. There was just always something about horses that called to my heart. Maybe I was born that way. It never seemed odd to me, until I aged, beginning to realize not everyone experienced the same. Not everyone even liked animals, much less, called them friends! Some people were even afraid.

I remember how just the sight of horses would awaken a thrill in me as a kid, let alone feeling the tingly magic of a touch. It would send chills down my spine and set daydreams racing. I instantly fell in love with each horse I saw, and imagined a special future together. No matter if it was a shaggy pony in front of me, or a magnificent, shiny stallion – they were all great champions in my eyes, and we had a unique bond.

I was sat upon a pony before I could walk, and my first mount was a black-and-white patchy colored Shetland named Lena. When I could speak, my request was always for a horse.

I’m missing a lot of those specific memories as a child – trauma will do that to a person – but I remember the overwhelming feeling of enjoying a loving obsession, and having horses as my constant companions – if not the real thing, I always had toys and drawings and pictures and books and a great imagination. And the dreams. I remember the dreams!

One of those was the dream of owning a huge ranch with a large number of horses basically running free on my expanse of acreage. Of course, I loved them all. Each was unique, but my three at the top, the herd leaders, I guess, were called Blackie, Brownie and Whitey – names describing their coat colors – so this part of my imagination lacked originality, but plenty more is pretty wild. (I did have a horse named Whitey once. I acquired her at an “advanced” age. She had been a broodmare all her life and never trained to saddle. She was about eighteen when I taught her to be a riding horse. I was also in my late teens. She was a gentle, old soul and my beliefs were still limitless.)

In my young dreams, I would walk outside from my big, old farmhouse with the wrap-around porch and call for the leaders of the herd – “Blackie, Brownie, Whitey!” The entire band of horses would come galloping my way, kicking up a thick cloud of dust. When they stopped before me, I would swing myself up onto the bare back of the mount I chose for the day and ride off to do whatever we needed to do on the ranch, or down the trail. We all were best friends and spoke without words.

It was always only me and the horses. I loved those peaceful days.

As part of my dream, each day would end with me peering from the porch onto the herd of many horses grazing peacefully in their nearly unlimited pasture.

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I remember, at times, experiencing the joy and connection with horses as an adult like I did as a child, but I lost that magic more-and-more as I grew older. The more I became immersed in the competitive horse-world, the more I started to doubt myself and question my abilities

I remember feeling awkward and unskilled and uneducated compared to most of the other competitors in the performance sect. I got a number of ribbons, but I never won. My horses and I were never Champions like in my dreams. What was I missing? I became disheartened.

But I remember, as a child, the feelings of wonder and amazement of the natural power of mutual respect and silent communication. Every interaction was gentle and kind. I wonder, can I find my way back? I’m working on it.

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Every night when I was little, I would stare at my pink bedroom wall covered in posters of ponies, and I would pray and wish as hard as I could for a pony of my own. (I was also afraid of the dark, so the hall-light was left on with my door open, so I could see.) Every morning, I would wake up to no pony, until one day, there was a pony. Not on my doorstep, exactly – we had to go meet him first. He was raised and trained by my Great-Uncle and saved just for me. I thought he was the most beautiful, most special pony on Earth. He was with me for twenty-one years and remains in my heart forever. I was eight years old then and haven’t been horseless in the four+ decades since.

I now have a herd of my own, though made up of many fewer horses than that of my childhood dreams, and I have no ranch of unlimited acreage, I do, however, live In the country on forty. I have seemingly outgrown receiving the magical inspiration from nothing more than the horse’s awesome presence. I need to find that little girl within me again. She would be thrilled!

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As children, do we all have naturally a sense of wonder and curiosity about certain things (not necessarily horses, but about anything)? Where does it go? Can we keep it? How do we get it back?