Therapeutic Riding Lessons

I watched as her mother pulled up in her tiny green car with the sign on the back that said “Baby On Board” and a huge stuffed Dora the Explorer’s face smiling and waving from an uncomfortable-looking position in the tiny hatchback. Her mother stepped out of the car and walked around back, disappearing in the back seat. When they rounded the back bumper of the car and started walking toward the farm, the light began to change. What I had been considering an overly-hot sunny day turned into something magical. Spots of sun on the path. A bright yellow leaf in the middle of a barren concrete stoop. The spots on Silvie the horse. I began to see the world how Theodora sees the world as soon as I set eyes on her perfect head of brunette curls, her pretty-in-pink outfit, and the big smile on her face.

It took about 5 minutes for her to walk down the sidewalk while holding her mother’s hand. When she was born, a series of mistakes made by the doctor caused her to lose oxygen in the birth canal because she was choked by the umbilical chord. Her brain was permanently damaged, especially the parts that control her motor skills and speech skills. Theodora wears braces on her ankles; her fingers are knotted in uncontrolled contortions that make it difficult for her to grip things; from her mouth hangs a constant string of drool that she cannot control. However, her face remains in a constant smile. In her big brown eyes, you can see that the world is an endless playground through which her mind tumbles, jumps, and runs. Her incredible, active, and capable mind—inhibited by lifeless muscles that act as if they are not her own—makes her body an unsuitable vessel.

The mother in me watched in zipped-lips fear as she stood wobbling on the mounting block, her knees cocked as if they would give out at any minute and her head bowed under the weight of her velvet helmet as it glimmered in the sun. I lead Silvie the horse up to the mounting block, and Theodora’s mother and the riding instructor gently lifted her onto Silvie’s back. The second she got on the horse, everything about her changed. She was able to bend her fingers enough to grip the reins. She was able to bend and stretch her legs to a comfortable position beside her on either side of the horse’s back. She kept her back straight and her head upright while Silvie walked forward. The instructor began to play games with her—pushing the reins forward when she wanted to go faster, pulling the horse’s mane when she wanted to stop, and making an airplane with her arms. Everything became easier for her when Silvie became her legs and the world suddenly maneuverable underneath her.

We played other games with soft toys and Velcro, where she would pick up a felt shape of a chicken from a Velcro board and stick it to Silvie’s mane or would count how many of the animals were brown. While playing this game, it became very apparent that her cognitive abilities are very quick and strong, it’s just getting her arm to reach and her fingers to grasp that takes time. To finish, we asked Theodora to pick up her favorite animal from the board. Her eyes darted back and forth from animal to animal and she smiled as she reached for the felt shape of a horse and stuck it to Silvie’s mane, her tiny hyper-flexed fingers entangled in the horse’s brown and white hair.

I found that being a part of these therapeutic lessons is my favorite part of every week. I love watching the change that a disabled child undergoes in their transition from the ground to the back of a horse. I love watching their faces as they learn about their surroundings, about their bodies and minds, and about the horses. I love how the setting changes when they arrive—as if their presence makes the day beautiful and new and magical; as if their tiny, clean hands stroking the horse’s neck suddenly erase the dirt and calluses from my hands; as their laughter that fills the place continues to resonate off of the olive trees and ochre doors long after they leave.