by Marianna Lamare

Created on: October 01, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

Annie's gone now.
The mid afternoon breeze undulates through my white bedroom curtains, they remind me of her white mane and tail alighting in the wind. We spent a little over a year together, Annie and I, by the good graces of two patient friends, Jane and Debby. That year I was on disability leave from my teaching job and recovering from an illness along with trying to make sense out of a mid-life catastrophe.

My life had fallen apart, my confidence shaken to the core, and I was lost in a way I had never experienced before. After being reunited with my estranged husband, who I divorced a few years earlier, I had moved home to build a new life with my family. I was sick so I could become well, I was lost so I could find myself. Among the many blessings that came to me that year, one of my most beloved friends was Annie, an old Arabian mare with a large hernia extending from her right belly and a blind right eye. Annie arrived at my friend's ranch in very much the same shape as I: broken and in need of a new life.

I will never forget the first time I saw her. She was gorgeous; Annie was, with her long white tail and Arabian complexion.
Big, soft brown eyes sparkled with life so my friends weren't ready to turn her out to pasture just yet.
Annie became very useful as a training horse for new, young riders. Although she would plod along sometimes, sometimes literally dragging her feet, Annie would perk up and come to life when saddled up and mounted by a student. I loved riding her as I could feel her Arabian blood surfacing, the ancestral speed and dance of amazingly sensitive and beautiful horses galloping across the desert. I could feel Annie's life spirit rising and the joy of moving from her body; we became one as I exercised her around the arena. In spite of the dust engulfing us, she was so free and happy when she knew she had work to do. I am grateful Jane and Debby gave Annie another chance at life. I didn't ride her for long, however, as I felt strongly Annie should only be ridden by children, lighter than my 110 pounds. Her stamina and strength gradually seemed to be fading and I enjoyed just walking with her on bright, sunny autumn days and into the spring time when Sweet peas emerged around the arena.

Annie and I spent a little over a year together and in that time she came to show me what I yearned to see in myself: a strength and determination to live and a joy of just being. Three times a week, through heavy rains that year I traveled back and forth

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