Horse Whisperer

Ed. note:  Now that Patch has allowed me to go "national", a few of the Patch editors have encouraged me to repost some of my favorites that many of my readers might not have seen.  Hope you enjoy, and thanks as always for reading!

I’ve decided my oldest son should live on a farm someday.

This is a decision I’ve made not because I like free vegetables, although I do. I’ve never quite made it to eight servings a day, but ingesting all of them in a twenty-four hour period is something I aspire to achieve. I still have ambitions.

No, my son is going to live on a farm someday because I want him to have something worthwhile to do as an adult, to participate in a job in which he’ll take pride and satisfaction. I also want him to reside on a farm because there is something there he loves almost as much as movies on his DVD player, and cute fifth grade girls who play with him at recess.

My son has a thing for horses.

Quite honestly, I never would have thought to try horseback riding with my six-year-old autistic son if it hadn’t been for a free day of lessons that Parents of Autistic Children (POAC), our local autism organization, had sponsored. Justin has never really engaged with animals, has generally avoided them, and has even regarded my mom’s dog with suspicion. Plus, I’ve always considered horseback riding to be an expensive sport, and since Justin will cost the equivalent of four neurotypical children, I didn’t think the activity was in the cards for us.

But on a crisp fall day this past October my mom, son, and I drove out to what passes for farm country in western New Jersey, and decided to give our equine friends a shot with Justin. If worst came to worst, even if he hated it, at least it would kill a Saturday.

I figured he’d probably give it a try if we encouraged him from the sidelines, and he lived up to our expectations. He tentatively climbed up on that horse with three people flanking him on both sides, held on for dear life, and at each turn, regarded me with only a slight air of desperation. Since each child only got fifteen minutes on an animal I hoped he’d make it through his timeslot without either sliding off his pony or protesting vociferously, and he did. He even seemed mildly happy about the event afterwards.

When I found out the owner had a slot open on Saturday afternoons for lessons, I decided to jump on the opportunity. I thought we’d give it a month, and if he remained this grim and declined to loosen his death grip on his horse du jour’s mane, we’d call it quits. I’ve found with Justin, you never really know if he’ll like an activity unless you try it. Sometimes, you have to try something many, many times.

Over the last few months he’s fallen into a rhythm with Crackerjack, his newest host. He has relinquished the reticence he experienced during his first few lessons, and instead embraced an exuberance toward this activity that I usually only see him reserve for snack-time. On weekends that he rides, as we pull into the stable, he strains against the harness on his car seat that protects both him and his mother from his Houdini-like ability to escape, eager to be released from its confines so he can visit his old friend. He races inside the barn, and I have to remind him that riding a horse with a full bladder isn’t the most palatable prospect as I lead him to the rudimentary bathroom. As I do so he always glances through the large bay window into the corral, and his entire body shakes with excitement at the prospect of a ride to come.

At first this activity was solely for him, but over time, it has come to have great meaning for me as well. Every Saturday, come rain, sleet, show, or shine, I lead him into the ring where his horse patiently awaits him. I barely have to assist him now as he climbs the mounting block, so steadily and with such confidence. As I watch him ascend with such assurance I am reminded of how difficult it was for him to walk, how six months after he was supposed to be making my life a holy hell by his mobility, I watched him begin to take tenuous, faltering steps, and was concerned at his lack of overall coordination.

After attaining the summit of the mounting block I see him attempt to place his foot securely in the stirrup and swing himself over the waiting back of his ride, and I recall how distressing it once was just to secure him in the car to arrive at an outing such as this, and how he now revels in adventure.

I watch him firmly grasp the reins as he steadies himself on his charge’s back, and see him tentatively caress the mane of his pony as he attempts to convey his affections. There was a time in the not too distant past that he avoided all interactions with anyone not genetically related to him, and I am reminded just how far he has come, how he now seeks out the interplay of discourse, the give and take of simple social interaction. He is no longer afraid to connect.

I find so often, as I am immersed daily in both the tragic and trivial consequences of autism, that I forget to notice his accomplishments, the small strides and great leaps that comprise his progress, that contribute to his peaceful, happy soul. These lessons have given that back to me, have offered me the opportunity to appreciate his courage, to be proud of him for every struggle he surmounts, and even those he doesn’t. This farm extends to him the gift of pleasure, and affords me the opportunity to reflect. I am thrilled to have provided it to him. We both learn something here.

And as I watch him round the corner of the barn, barely glancing at me as I enthusiastically cheer him on from the sidelines, I realize anew how much he has taught me to appreciate the smallest joys, the slightest increments of achievement, the pleasure of surprising him with a newfound love. This gift, he bestows upon me.

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