There are whole books devoted to discussing why everything matters and simultaneously nothing matters. How the "lightness of being" is unbearable. How the ability to let go is essential in being able to move forward in life.
It's fair to say that attachment isn't too helpful as a trainer. But attachment is somewhat natural too, because if you're a trainer for the right reasons, you recognize each horse as an individual personality and at least for most of them, can find a way to build a bond so that they enjoy working with you and for you. And that happens over time... and time spent in any relationship, well, leads to a little attachment.
But horses come into training for a variety of reasons -- and then some get sold, some retire, some need to take some time off, some move away with their owners... Today for example, I got to work with one horse that due to a previous history of abuse (now with a fantastic owner) gets very defensive under saddle, and he finally trusted me enough to relax and do a stretchy trot for a "10", both directions, around half the arena. That physically warms my heart. Another very sweet horse who had been improving drastically in training came out today physically not fit, needing time off. That feels deflating.
Then there is a sale horse we currently have at the barn. He's cute as a button and been coming along so well. We are on "yeah, we're cool" terms now. But I'm sure someone will snatch him up shortly, so I try not to kiss on him too much. Last summer I had my eye on a mare that was for sale and had planned to talk to the owners when I returned from vacation, just to find out she had tried to leap out of her paddock and beat herself up pretty well so that the owners took her back home (and off the market). Then the cute paint that moved to Seattle with her teenage girl. The little black mare who went off to new adoring owners. My favorite guy who only comes to visit for weeks at a time when his mom is traveling.
But the new older gelding is starting to develop a topline, and the little mare is getting better about using her back and stretching into an honest contact. The horses on my schedule every day need me to show up fully for them. Hanging on to the horse that left last week isn't going to make me a better rider, or change anything about the fact that life has a funny way of moving on.
And of course, it's a little different yet when you own the creature. I feel like I owe a certain little grey mare this tribute. In 2010, I bought a 4 yo dapple grey Holsteiner mare who was smart, gorgeous, intelligent and determined to make me a better rider. I adored her from the first ride. While the first year was a big learning curve for both of us, we proceeded to have so much fun together. She was awesome on the trail. For a whole year we had a trail buddy; and early every Saturday morning, we'd head out to beat the flies. She loved nothing more than to gallop up the steep hills of Marin County. Riding in the evenings after work or early mornings before work, she let me hop on bareback in a halter or hack up and down the road before doing her job in the ring. I spent every spare minute with her: riding, grazing, hand-walking, hanging out. I moved close to her barn so I could see her mornings and evenings. I was hoping she'd be my Prix St. George horse.
Two years ago she injured herself. Vets, diagnostics, injections, more vets, more diagnostics, hand walking, treatments, then resignation to turnout. Nine months after that she looked sound in pasture, so I took her back to the barn. When she was in the trailer headed to my trainer's barn, that was the first time I cried. I just wanted my horse back. Unfortunately the weight of the rider (even someone light) proved too much and I had to turn her back out. Still hoping for a miraculous recovery with more time. After another 6 months I started riding her again -- and here I am pulling her out of a herd on 50 acres, and she's saying: Yeah, cool, saddle, bridle, lateral work. No prob, mom! But again, moving up to the trot proved too much.
So a couple of weeks ago, I put her on a trailer again. This time she was headed to a new home and a new career as a broodmare. And that's when I really cried. All I hope is that her new owners will love her as much as I do, and will take as good care of her as they said they would. This one hurts deeply, but it was the right decision for her as much as for me. We both needed to move on.
When I sobbed into my retired Thoroughbred's mane I couldn't help but think that he felt that things were finally restored back to their rightful order: just me and him, like in the olden days.
