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He
Waits
Davina Andree Long
Growing up in Indiana
among the many cornfields, tall trees, and miles of grass, my horse
would carry me away from the tormenting ghost back at the house.
Sometimes he would follow us. The ghost still visits me occasionally
today but it’s not the same. Back then it was my horse who kept me
holding on when the ghost would nearly consume me. One of our favorite
places to go was to the top of the huge, white limestone mounds at the
rock quarry. Hundreds of feet above everything else we would look out
over the lake that was beside it. Peering out over the trees, the breeze
would catch the water and send the glistening waves dancing along its
surface. With only the sound of the leaves rustling in the soft wind, I
would close my eyes and slip away.
....
As I took a deep breath
of the cool air, I thanked God for the beauty and the freedom I could
momentarily embrace. My horse would stir beneath me pawing relentlessly
at the earth below her. She too had a purpose in our ride. Though
different than mine, it fulfilled the same desire.
The ghost. It seems odd
after all these years that I cannot pinpoint him. For years I was sure
the ghost was just my stepfather. Deep in my heart, I know it wasn’t
just him. The ghost was a bad combination of things that should not
have been. My parents went to a church that believed in things following
a certain order under a strict government. The extremely conservative
church had many good qualities. Their bad attributes, unfortunately,
stand out clearest in my memory. Domination over their member’s lives
was the biggest problem. Voluntary submission to the church’s government
and authority was a requirement to even attend their services.
This domination
combined with a mentally unstable man made a devastating mix. My
stepfather had a very abusive upbringing and he had little concept of
human need. Though his intentions were always good in his mind, the
effects he made were disastrous in reality. Everywhere I turned this
overbearing exaggerated life-style was smothering me and my family.
Consequently I found myself being haunted by sadness and loneliness. My
heart ached to feel normal and free. I lived in fear and sadness as I
watched my world being stripped from me piece by piece.
I resent the ghost. He
robbed me of my family and a happiness that could have been. It seems I
spent a lot of time looking for the missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle,
trying to make those pieces fit that I would occasionally find. I held
my mom as she cried to me, not knowing who else to turn to. My mother
was afraid of wrecking more lives by leaving. The fear of my little
half-brother and sister becoming another statistic of divorced parents
loomed over her head. Mom could not bear the thought of another broken
home, never mind her broken nose.
I could still feel the
ghost but I didn’t see him anywhere. Taking one last look, I tried to
capture the image and feeling of a blessed tranquility. Tried to
memorize the beauty of the shimmering lake surrounded by the trees and
hills.
The colors of deep
green and blue water against the baby blue sky.
The sound of the birds
chirping in the trees.
The rustling of the
leaves as they would break up the sunlight creeping through them.
With the image
cemented, I answered the impatient fidgeting of my horse. I motioned the
reins against her neck, and we started to head down the mound.
Descending downward I would have to hold her back; she always wanted me
to let her go. In places the soft rock would begin its own mini
avalanche beneath us. The bright sandlike rock would barrel down in
front of us as if it were asking for a challenge.
The leather reins were
taunt against my hands and my arms weakened as we approached the foot of
the mountain. My horse was probably barely affected by all my human
strength yet chose to do what I asked of her. Unlike the ghost, her
spirit was much more yielding.
As the mound flattened
out onto the grass along the fields, I loosened the reins and didn’t
have to say a word; within seconds she was already at top speed. With
her neck fully stretched out she ran with all her might. Her hooves
seized the foreground before us with a fury. She loved to run. She lived
to run. It was as though something inside took over her soul as it did
mine. We ran with a pleasure and a power all our own that no one could
take away. Not even the ghost, who tried desperately to nab us by
nipping at our heels, could catch us. We always left him in the dust.
That ghost. It was the
only time he ever left us alone. With the speed and power my horse
possessed the ghost remained defeated. He usually gave up midway and
waited for us back at the house. The rest of the ride was ours; no one
else existed.
Back at the house the
ghost could always be found sitting on the front steps. I could feel the
ice shoot through me as he impatiently tapped his foot with his arms
crossed. I never let on that I knew he was there. I just ignored him and
never allowed my head to turn in his direction. Mounted on my horse I
was strong and not intimidated. Fear did not exist. The bond we shared
held me together and always gave me something secure to hold on to.
My sister hadn’t found
anything in her life to help her hold on. The ghost pushed and pushed
her until she was pinned in a corner so tight that she had to get out
the only way she knew how; she ran. If we could find her and
bring her back, she would always be gone the next day. She could not
live with the ghost under any circumstances and sought for her freedom
in a way she felt she had to. I, at the age of 12, lost my sister to the
streets. I blame the ghost.
She was just 14. She
was desperate to feel special and needed. Even then she had a wonderful
sense of humor accompanied by a fearless nature. Exchanging her body for
a false sense of security was the only way she felt she could survive.
In her mind it was better than living with a ghost who smothered and
repressed her beautiful spirit and personality.
I vividly recall one
instance before she left for good. My sister was caught with nude photos
of herself. The ghost locked her in his room for 7 straining hours
lecturing, hitting and trying to brainwash her into conformity.
I walked past the cold
locked door as slowly and as quietly as I could. I listened. I prayed
for God to miraculously release her as I crept by. My heart felt as if
it weighed a ton. Not only could I feel the pain of my sister through
the enclosed walls, I could also feel her spirit seeping in a silent
mist. It slithered out under the crack of the door. I knew she would
leave with it soon. She’d rather die than have the ghost steal her
timeless spirit away.
The bitter tears were
hard to fight. A few months before I lost my sister, Dawn, I lost my
brother, Matt. I blame the ghost. Now the ghost was busy with a new
mission, Mother. My mom had started to drink and sleep a lot to escape.
I asked my father why he had left us so long ago. His answer was the
same as Dawn’s. It was the ghost. I tried to understand. On those days
that the ghost was the worst I could always go to my horse. When I was
the weakest in spirit I would bridle her up on her sleek strong back.
Without a saddle, I felt a link with her and we moved as one being
instead of two. We would go as far as we could, and find a secluded area
that spoke to us. Tears bulging at the corner of my eyes were begging to
be released. I missed my sister and prayed every night that God would
keep her alive and safe.
Pulling my horse to a
stop, my tears would silently roll off my cheeks onto my horse’s shiny
black mane. My body was soon to follow. Slowly I leaned forward and
reached helplessly around the muscular, dark brown neck, hugging it
tight. She was patient with me and seemed to understand. It wasn’t in
her nature to stand still very often. She seemed to understand the
strain the ghost constantly put on me. She allowed me to turn to her,
helping to release the pain gripping my heart. Even though the ghost’s
grasp on my spirit was strong it was rarely more powerful than my horse
and I together.
Today the ghost still
visits me even though it has been many years since we have resided
together. I haven’t a horse to help me find strength any longer. Today I
find my strength to overcome somewhere inside myself. The ghost always
knows where to find me when things aren’t going right. Sometimes he
takes me down till I’m sure I can’t escape. My freedom slips further
away and just when I’m sure he’s got me for good, I always remember
Symphony.
Symphony. The name of
my beautiful horse says it all. Just as a symphony can inspire and lift
up a spirit and be a driving force on stage, so was Symphony. She could
stir my heart and bring tears to my eyes. It is my Symphony that kept me
alive emotionally, physically and spiritually through many years of my
life.
The memory of Symphony
lives in my soul to this day. She changed my life and helped me to find
strength in myself I may have never found otherwise. So, when the ghost
visits with me now, it is different. I can’t jump on Symphony’s strong
back and run as I once did. But with her memory I know I’ll be okay.
Remembering. I slip
away and hold the memory tight. The spiritual elation comes into vision
in seconds. The strength and power of the horse beneath me stir me
forward, not backward. Just as Symphony’s hooves seized the ground
before her, so do I.
Davina Andree Long
is a designer and artist in Wichita Falls,
Texas.
You can find her equine and other art and services at
www.arrowheadgraphics.com and
www.EarthWindandHorses.com
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