04/12/2025
One of the biggest surprises to me, as I have aged, is this feeling of becoming invisible.
I’ve never really wanted to be a limelight person—I mean, I certainly wasn’t when I was younger—but I did get used to the idea of catching someone’s eye. Just a smile, a nod of understanding, a door held open, a mild flirtation, the feeling of light that comes when another human being sees that you exist.
I’m not talking about the young man at the grocery store check out, who puts my bags in the cart, aims it my way and dutifully asks, “Do you need a hand with these, ma’am?” But there are days when he is the only one who has asked me anything, or made reference to the fact that I am alive. So, bless him for that.
Sitting in a public gathering area, like an airport, is a fast reminder. Peoples’ gazes will slide right over you, unchecked, like the tide. I’ve lately taken to smiling at random strangers, just to see if they can be jolted from their own thoughts. Some never notice, some shy away from my odd advances, some crinkle their eyes and warm up, in return.
One never knows how a gesture of humanity will be received.
When you’re older, you begin to recognize patterns. Things coming around for the second or third time in your life, being rebranded, touted as new and improved. It could be another cover of an old song you once loved and danced to, or the return of a hemline, or a breakthrough way to handle a horse. You begin to see that there is literally nothing new under the sun, unless you count billionaires buying flights to outer space. That’s pretty new.
As you age, you will have days that are far more invigorating, than others. There will be times when one is feeling especially well, when one is walking down a sidewalk full of energy and radiating some sort of magic that will magnetically draw others to you.
Other days, you may as well be sat propped up in a corner, wearing a beige bath robe, with your hair uncombed for weeks. Don't worry. Nobody will take note of your decline.
Ready or not, you have joined The Invisibles.
This is perhaps one of the reasons many of us resolve to stay in the saddle for as long as we possibly can. Upon a good horse, we are not limited by our physical selves. We are still young and fearless (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). We still have our hopes and plans, our own little betterments. Despite our knee replacements and pill bottles lining the window sill, while we are riding, we can still spread our wings.
This is why I so loudly sing the praises of older, high-mileage horses. They will stand in the far corner of the corral, well out of the melee, their heads hanging down and hip shot. They may have been powerhouses of performance or ideals of conformation, once upon a time and yet, now, most peoples’ eyes will pass right over them.
“Why don’t you pick something younger?” I am asked. “A horse with more to offer than just the past? A horse with some get up ‘n’ go, with some spring in his step?” I can see that they mock me, just a bit, even though I have started more than my share of young horses. No. They do not understand.
They see only nostalgia and think, well, that can't be much of a ride.
They are keeping themselves busy, scanning for possibilities: the proud athleticism, the untapped power, the arching neck. Not me. I am seeing evidence of long hours in the saddle, a few white hairs at the withers, proof of a horse who was once reached for and saddled, again and again.
I am looking for eyes that radiate wisdom and peace. A body that balances good riding with untold miles.
We settle the neck rope on and lead this horse out, to be brushed and saddled. He reaches for the bridle, knowingly, giving the bit two or three calm rolls, as you straighten his forelock. This thoughtfulness alone, as though savouring a hard candy, is enough to show me that I am in for a treat. A real education.
It is always an honour to hold the reins of a grand old horse.
The head comes up, with ears pricked. Our old campaigner stands at the ready. In motion, he is reminding us of all that we may have forgotten, if ever we really knew. He gives a glimpse of old ways that have lost favour, in light of what is newly trending. He is showing us exactly what we were too busy, too judgmental, too unschooled—or too impressed by youthful flash—to see, at first glance.
As I have aged, I have made it a point to really honour these older horses. I want to capture their beauty and knowledge, before it is lost forever.
I want to know their stories. To bask in their past accomplishments and also, feel their pain. I want to rejoice in their movement, those beautiful moments of sharing. I want to learn from them, if they are willing to teach me. For they can improve my 'feel'—that hallowed, elemental property—better than anything so mundane as paid lessons, or the reading of books.
They hold riches that are hidden to those who are too hurried to notice.
They are the soul mates of all who have known great horses, or those who are wishing they did.
They are—like so many of us—the invisible ones. But not to me. Never, that.
