“Verily, he is victorious who has conquered himself.” Hazrat Inayat Khan
I was told about the courage of a young girl who found her alcoholic mother unconscious in her own vomit, again. How she left her mother there, many years later coming to forgive her, looking all the way through the mother’s face to see her own.
When I was eight, riding bareback through the woods on an old mare, grey as bark, I came upon my cousin, who had been adopted at twelve and was then around 15. I was told her mother was a drunk, who’d had her daughter out of wedlock. Later they say my cousin went that way herself. Where ever she is now, I trust and believe she is happy and has found peace. That day, my cousin rode Aunt Cleo’s red mare under a low hanging oak and got her hair tangled in its branches. Just like Absalom in the Bible.
I knew well the pride and arrogance of Absalom. That day, unseen by my cousin, I sat my horse and watched her struggle, hung by her long hair, red as the horse’s mane. That day, I heard her crying for help and felt a coldness come up in me like a thousand light years of space. Then I turned my horse and rode away, telling no one until now.
It wasn’t long after that our grey mare was kicked by the red, breaking her back left leg and hip. She was on the ground, struggling to get up, all her yellow teeth showing but not making a sound. So I ran to my father and uncle, who were drinking coffee, reluctant to come. When they finally came and saw what had happened, one of them finished off the grey mare with a shotgun that had a hickory stock carved by hand after the War of Northern Aggression. Then they harnessed the red mare that kicked her and drug the grey one off into the woods. The grey mare’s name was Bess. The girl was Ginny.
All the years behind me are quiet pools of rain water. Easy now to look into those pools and see a face that is no longer mine. To notice, forgive and bless that boy, and to leave him there, riding on.