Shasta

SHASTA
by Jessica Colvin copywright 2004

We all say our horse is our best friend, our one honest, giving companion. But who can describe the actual depth of feeling behind such words? Words don't come close. Words are a pitiful attempt at understanding something so fundamentally fulfilling to our soul.

Horses are the essence of the physical. They exist solely in the now. They serve to remind us how very precious living in the moment is. They show us how to cherish fleeting beauty, small wonders. There is nothing you can hold for very long. Horses give us tiny tidbits of joy, something that mends the heart, tells us why we keep going.

What about Shasta? Where have you ever seen such a face? Those kind eyes somehow escape explanation. I see her long head over a show stall door, early morning brightness illuminating fuzzy chin hairs, lip hanging, content in the knowledge that breakfast is on the way. Her eyes are filled with wisdom, unflappable. She knows what she's about. She knows what its all for. She doesn't question; she just is.

I see Shasta from the back, waiting her turn at the cutting pen fence, all warm, catching a quick doze before her two point five minutes. Perhaps the day is long and she is a bit onery. One hind leg is cocked, haunches askew in a position of lounging repose, stunted tail, too short, a bit scraggly on top, but the deepest most beautiful shade of red, swishing lazily from side to side. Her ears at half mast, not quite back, but back enough. The set of her jaw is grumpy.

Shasta is never truly grumpy. Her girl is on her back. Her girl sits there looking expectantly at the cattle. will there be one in there that will want to play? One to face up, turn on the magic? The key to the little Shasa-dance?

Her girl perches in the Piland, dressed in purple, looking right. Shasta knows she is surrounded by younger, more compact horses with dishier heads, but she dismisses them with the flick of a whisker. Shasta is a true cutting horse. She has cattle in her soul. She knows how to do the magic Shasa-dance. She and her girl live for that. The moment when two life forces temporarily join, and become one, with one purpose.

The moment has come. Shasta is tranformed. Gone is the rest and repose, and it is now clear that the attitude of crankiness was nothing but "it's all business." Shasta goes and shows those young fancy pants how to play the game.

She walks in one foot at a time, carefully picked up, deliberately placed, soft and assured, radiating calmness to the bovine bunch surrounding her and her girl. Her large eyes scan the herd and if you focus in, the background becomes indistinct. Another time is born, one of no fences, no corrals, just miles and miles of range, a circle of riders, cattle all around, a branding fire hot in the early morning dew. A Cowboy-girl in purple sits upon the wisest type of horse, the top of the top, elite, revered, the cutting horse. Together they select their target, and slow, fluid movement explodes with energy, fast, still fluid.

All watch expectantly as the dance begins anew. All agree there is nothing quite like it, nothing so remarkable as this simple cow dance. Determination shows in two faces, one human, one equine. Both know their role; they voluntarily come together for this dance, a meeting of two souls, so different, needing each other for fulfillment.

Her girl doesn't let her down. She lets the Shasa-dance get underway, staying soft and focused, gently assisting, lending confidence where it is needed, staying out of the way when necessary. A cow faces up in the center. Everyone watching leans forward expectantly. They all know this sorrel mare. They have seen her brilliance and are eager to see the magic happen again.

Shasta gets low. Her lips peel back, ears pin, eyes come together with focus. She begins to glow with energy; it crackles off her, makes her front legs dance in a two step, makes the seconds go by slow enough for all aware beings to be touched by the life force. It awakens something inside, reminds us of the beautiful things. The cow is beat. It turns tail and runs.

Later, the mood is festive. Shasta stands contentedly grazing, drying in the dying light of day, washed and curried as a token of her girl's appreciation. She is content with herself, with her girl, with her life. All is right.

These are the things that can never be taken away. There is nothing you can hold for very long, but some things can never be lost. Shasta is in your soul. She knows how much you love her.