Someone said to her, “get off your high horse.”
She recoiled into the obligatory southern american gal moment of embarrassment.
She winced twice because trying your best can hurt when you do not express your mind well.
Shame was dispensed heavily during her childhood domestication.
She used to ride a high horse up to her ivory tower.
They preferred her then.
Then the horse’s hooves were hacked off by wildlings. So she took to being (a) pedestrian and horse caretaker.
Humbled like the hobbled.
On occassion she would stand on her toes
Just to try and get closer to eye level with her contemporaries who still sat atop unhobbled mounts.
She must look nuts in the midst of the herd and hoard.
But, many of them allowed their high horses to be rode hard and put up wet.
And, though it appeared she was on toes to walk on the eggshells of her little life, she walked on toes to break her feet in, like a proper bolt of denim should be.
Her pride had been broken several times before, in nearly fatal, near death moments that the universe presented suddenly.
She woke from society’s dreams to find herself a strange bird in a strange land with the zen archer behind her, bow pulled taut and ready to wake her again.
Thankfully, as she now knew, she could handle embarrassing herself and rebuilding from scratch.
Hard work.
She wonders.
Do the people telling her to get off her phantom steed know that-
To her mind’sí-
They are equestrians of horses fifteen hands high themselves?
Moreover, did they know that it is okay to have high horses as well as to go it by dint of one’s own feet and breath too?
She could stay out of sight and out of mind, but she would still care for the horses of all, to the best of her ability.
Horses are put into boxes called stalls.
People are stalled by the prescriptive boxes placed around them by others.
WrittenCasey 