Pegasus's Wings

Dear George,

Pegasus's Wings

I've always loved horses, and for some time I'd been looking for a volunteer opportunity in my new community. The idea that I might be able to pursue both interests at once hadn't actually crossed my mind. So I couldn't get to the phone fast enough when I saw an ad in the paper about a search for volunteers at a therapeutic¹ riding center for handicapped children.

"Yes, we're still looking for people," the woman told me. "We're having a training session for new volunteers this Saturday. You're welcome to come."

"Thanks," I answered, barely containing my enthusiasm. "I'll be there."

I joined a small group of new volunteers that day. We were perfect strangers with an instant connection, all drawn² there by the same potent³ mix of heart and soul-a passion for helping⁴, a passion for horses, and a simple knowing that we had come to the right place. By the end of training session, we all knew we'd be back for the first of many weekly riding classes together.
That first Saturday, ten children between the ages of eight and twelve showed up. Ten struggling young bodies and ten eager, loving smiles greeted us. "This is Robbie," said the instructor⁵, placing a gentle hand on each small shoulder as she conducted a round of introductions. "And this is Christine." We went around the circle of excited faces. All the children faced some level of physical or mental challenge-sometimes both. Jenny had multiple sclerosis, Kevin lived with cerebral⁶ palsy, Christine with Down's syndrome⁷, and Robbie a spinal⁸?cord injury. I marveled at these children, healthy souls and wholesome⁹ appetites for living shining through their bodily constraints¹⁰.

The following Saturday, I arrived at the stables in time to groom¹¹ my assigned horse before class, put on his tack¹² and ensure that he was sound, calm and ready for his small rider. This week, I would be handling Stripe, a speckled?gray Appaloosa with comfortably rounded sides and an indulgent, ever?patient nature. Today, Stripe was the designated therapy horse for nine?year?old Katie, a victim of muscular dystrophy.

Curly auburn hair framing her delicate, pale face, Katie arrived at the stables in a wheelchair. The spokes¹³ glistened¹⁴ in the sun as her mother helped her up, steadied her and introduced us. My eyes met Katie's-an exchange full of shared excitement and anticipation¹⁵. "Katie has been waiting impatiently for hours," her mother explained with a smile.

We set about preparing for the ride. I fitted and attached Katie's safety helmet and adjusted Stripe's specially¹⁶ adapted saddlery. I helped her mount and shared her triumphant¹⁷ grin as she settled into the saddle, perched above and beyond her limitations. I led Stripe around the arena¹⁸ during the class, quietly coaching both horse and rider as the instructor led the group from the center of the ring. We walked, trotted¹⁹ and moved together for an hour. Katie's tortured body gradually relaxed into Stripe's fluid movements, becoming one with the animal.

In silent awe²⁰, I let the wordless, poignant²¹ communication between Katie and Stripe unfold. Acutely sensitive to her well being, Stripe intuitively softened²² his gait at the slightest perception of Katie's imbalance or discomfort²³ in the saddle. The tone of her voice induced the same effect, even though she was unable to use verbal commands that the horse was trained to recognize. Surprise, delight, hesitation²⁴, fear-Stripe understood and responded patiently, lovingly-like a great teacher.

At the end of the class, I helped Katie dismount. Color in her cheeks now, she smiled radiantly and arched her thin arms around Stripe's lowered neck. He kept his head down. Burying her face in his mane, Katie murmured softly, "I love you, Stripe." I stood motionless a few feet away, touched by a moment of uncommon²⁵ beauty.

The magic drew me back each week. No two Saturdays were the same. Rotations²⁶ of therapy horses and riders gave volunteers the opportunity to get to know each animal and child. Every Saturday offered a glimpse of an intensely intimate connection between equine and human spirit. Every Saturday revealed the power of this fabled²⁷ four?legged creature to triumph over a child's physical and mental adversity. Every Saturday, a child held the reins²⁸ of freedom and borrowed Pegasus's wings.

For me, volunteering was a personal journey into unexpected enrichment and inspiration. I helped small children revel²⁹ in another realm of physical and spiritual being, a space only their horses could create for them. I saw these children empowered and renewed by their equine companions. I rediscovered my deep love for horses and drew lessons from their gentle ways. And last but not least, I learned that giving yields greater generosity³⁰ than it asks.

Inspired by my experience, I picked up the phone one day and called my brother at the family farm where I had spent my teenage years. "How's Cowboy doing?" I asked of my own horse.

"He's just fine," my brother replied, "but I think he feels a bit forgotten."

And that's why, a week later, Cowboy came out of semi-retirement and was transported to his new home hundreds of miles away-with me. Now Cowboy-my retired³¹ showhorse with huge brown eyes, a stripe down his back and a penchant³² for pleasing people-volunteers, too.