One of my favorite books when I was very small was a book about a toy wooden horse who came alive. I remember opening the book, feeling the pages in my hands. It was so familiar and to this day the image of the painted horse stays in my mind over fifty years later.  The book itself was probably passed down to me, I was the youngest in the family and the recipient of many books, which turned out were not to be mine but to revert to the original owners.

Upon finding this out in my mid-twenties when I was ready to take some books for my own children, I was told, “Oh no, those are D’s or P’s, they were never yours.”

Then I knew my memories were very important and I set about to tell my children what I had read. I think I made up a lot but the memories felt so rich to me! The pages, the feel and weight of the books came to my mind with much detail. I could remember where I sat as I read or looked through them, what clothes I wore, the time of year, how big my hands were. I made them mine.

I bring the books back while I’m stuck in traffic, in a boring conversation, needing to take a walk, see the moon or drink some water. They are alive in my hands again. Leaping the years I am riding the white horse with the blue trim. Reins in hand I am piercing the clouds, aligned with the moon, scoffing at the rain. Riding the horse to my daughter’s graduation means no parking lot and being able to see way ahead where I need to go. Crafting a saddle of any material is simple, it always fits perfectly and the saddle pad is golden with the light of the moon or the sun.  There are times when I want to see nothing but open space and the horse takes me there. High above the clouds we skim over Mt. Everest, take in the curve of the earth, see the reach of Alaska or the curl of Patagonia drifting towards Antarctica. Other times I want to see everything, to spy, to see into others’ lives, and the horse takes me there. We skim the tops of the buildings, squeezing by stork nests and chimney pots, hooves just barely above roof tiles. I can be in Copenhagen or Berlin, Paris and New York, the white horse is my world.

In my life on the ground, when I see clouds, I see horses. They are not so far away they can’t include me in their travels. When I was a little older I read Drinkers of the Wind and imagined feeling the sand flying in my face, hooves pounding underneath me, air supporting the flow of the two of us.  With my feet on the ground, the sands of Morocco, the hills of Rome or the chasms of the Grand Canyon are home. There is no height too high nor span too far that my white horse with the blue reins cannot take me.