A Blue Morning

Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

It’s strange to wake up like this, like a cloud is hanging over me. No, that’s not the right thing, not the wording I’m looking for. It’s wrapped around me, moist and cloying and seeping into every last little crack in my defences. And my defences feel weak and fragile these days, the structure of my body crumbling at the roots, foundations faltering in my mind.

I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. But I’ve got to get up, got to throw off the covers and face the damp chill of the day with a smile and a greeting on my lips. Everyone expects it, so it’s the appearance that I must give, what I’ve got to keep on going with. Then they won’t ask me what’s wrong and expect me to be all okay. I’ve got to be all okay.

But the blue curls deep into my soul, colouring my thoughts and slowing them down, feet dragging as if pulling each step through a pit of molasses. It is thick and I fight and struggle, growling and grumbling to myself as I force myself on and on and one to the next job and the next task, swearing colourfully when things go wrong. What does it matter, at this point? There’s no one here to hear me.

I flip the radio on. Maybe those thoughts will fill my head instead.

Bad pop music. Just one great equaliser in the realm of sound and life itself. The stables are quiet with little noise other than the drip of rain from the gutters and the patter of droplets marring the concrete. Muck and grime stain the yard and I know that I’ll only succeed in moving it around today if I try to sweep up all the loose scraps of straw. I hate how it ends up like this when I only swept the damn thing the night before, the morning before and so on and so on. It’s a never-ending cycle and not one that I enjoy either.

Not that mucking out is enjoyable in particular, but the rhythm of it is soothing to a frazzled mind. First, the droppings are removed and then comes the wet straw. It’s always in the same place these days, so that’s become a super quick job and the very speed of it is satisfying.

Oh, I forgot. I do that a lot when my head’s like this. Before I start mucking out, I do the water bucket and pop in new hay for her. It keeps her occupied and I feel that those are the quickest to do first rather than rushing to complete at the end. It also helps that I ready hay, straw and water outside the stable the night before, just so it’s even quicker. That’ll change, but I like my routine. Routine is good.

So, the hay and water go in. Droppings and wet straw are removed. I fluff up the bed and make a nice base with what’s left and only then do I add fresh straw on top. Hm. I stand back to survey it. A bit thin. I’ll have to add more later, maybe it’s all been going into my banks, though I hardly mind having nice, big ones to make sure she doesn’t get cast in the night. The price of straw is a small price to pay.

Going back out into the rain dampens my mood further and I grumble a curse not for fair ears as I hustle down to the muck heap. As much as the routine helps, it cannot soothe every last bit of worry from my mind.

But what worry is there? There is nothing, nothing seated in the rational, at least. This worry is irrational and it burrows its way into every last corner of my heart like a worm seeking sustenance, deeper and deeper for the hidden fruit. Tipping the barrow over when I’m nearly at the muck heap seems just like that last straw and I hurl a swear to the wind, flinging my hands up as if that’s going to do any good. It doesn’t even make me feel better.

Best to get things all over and done with on a blue day like this. It’s just not going very well at all.

Taking the mare out is slow and steady. I think maybe she’s as tired as I am, weariness in her stride. She had a lot of work the last couple of days and I can’t fault her for it. It’s hard work stretching out onto circles, large and small. So she deserves a rest for it too.

But when I unclip the lead rope and slide the head collar free, she doesn’t meander off as she usually does, but nuzzles me, clearly anticipating food. Perhaps she knows me too well, for a carrot has indeed snuck itself into my pocket, a splash of orange on an otherwise dull and grey and ragged landscape of a day.

She crunches it up and the sound has life and vitality in it, the snap of teeth breaking the treat in half enough to make even my ears prick up. She doesn’t have blue days, not like me, but perhaps it could be said that she has off days, just like any other person or any other horse. We cannot fault ourselves for something that simply comes naturally to our natures, whether equine or human.

Head down, the grey mare noses at my hands, searching for carrots. There are none left, but I still can’t help but smile at the sheer tenacity of her. She’s sweet when she’s trying to mug me, though not too aggressive. I wouldn’t tolerate that. But sometimes it’s as if she knows that I need her close and, for that, I am glad.

Together we stand looking down the length of the field, the wind picking up raindrops to flick into my eyes. I tell her she has a day off today. I don’t think she understands, but she nudges my shoulder regardless. Sighing, I lean into her and she braces all four legs for my weight, supporting me, lifting me up.

It doesn’t fix things, but it helps.

Just a little.