My first dream was named Sue. I was six years old, and, no, Sue wasn’t a girl. She was a horse, more precisely a Paint mare. Paints are white with a patch (or patches) of another color. Sue was solid white with a splash of copper on her neck and mane.
Can’t remember exactly how it happened. We didn’t live in the country, and there were no horses in the family, just a dog, cat and parakeet—“More than you kids can take care of,” said Mom.
I guess Dad knew my dream. Even now, I can’t remember when I didn’t want a horse of my own, and Uncle J.C., who did live in the country, found Sue.
Can still remember my first ride. It lasted pretty well all day, as my new best friend and I explored J.C.’s pasture together.
I rode bareback, which taught me something about being saddle sore (for you city slickers, being saddle sore includes aching joints all over your body, especially in the areas affected by sitting astride a horse).
What did I learn? One doesn’t have to sit in a saddle to become saddle sore. I ached for days after that ride.
And I’m still aching. And chasing.
Aching for the pleasure of dreams come true and chasing one or two of them every day.