Eating Dust: What My First Horse Taught Me About Making Bad Art

I am five years old. Suddenly, I hear a joyful shout from my dad, who is on the phone with someone. He’s speaking Greek and sounds excited and happy, but I don’t know what he’s saying. I can tell there are lots of questions and that some kind of big news has just been shared. My mom is standing near him with her hands clasped to her chest, waiting.

My dad hangs up the phone and says quietly, but bursting with excitement, “He is born! It’s a boy, and his name is Macho. We can go see him in a few days.”

My dad has an old college friend named George who is Greek, and whenever they are together they speak Greek. His wife, Leal, is sweet to me. They don’t have any kids, so I thought maybe Leal had a baby—but we had just seen them, and there was no big belly I could see.

The Surprise of a Lifetime

My parents walk over to me with huge smiles. My dad kneels down and softly says, “Elli, we are getting you a horse. His name is Macho, and he was just born. Soon you will have a baby horse here just for you!”

I am stunned. Tears immediately stream down my face, and I can hardly breathe. The feelings are overwhelming. Joy, fear, wonder, and awe sweep me up into my father’s arms as I become the five-year-old princess daughter who just got a baby horse. I remember every moment in my dad’s lap hearing the mythological stories about Pegasus flying through the skies with heroes on his back, or the Amazon women who rode fearlessly as one with their horses. The stories about the land of the centaurs in Ancient Greece flooded my mind.

I am catapulted into a mystical romance. I now have my very own horse.

Six Weeks to a Dream

I can hardly sleep the following nights as I wait to go see Macho. After six long weeks, the day finally arrives.

Macho’s owner is another Greek college friend of my dad’s who owns a big farm filled with horses. His wife and daughters compete in western equitation, and I am told again and again that Macho was born from a mare who was some kind of superstar—so gentle and intuitive that anyone could ride her, almost telepathically.

At five years old, I have never really been on a horse. I watch National Velvet, Black Beauty, and The Black Stallion whenever I can. I can’t draw a horse yet—only scribbles—but I can draw a gate. Over and over I draw a square with an X through it, coloring each triangle a different color. It’s the stall door I see in the horse movies. I draw hundreds of these doors as a child. Later they turn into barns filled with doors. I never knew at the time what my childhood drawings were prophesying for my future life.

Macho’s mother is named Bardie, and the day I meet my baby horse is also the first day I ever ride one. I sit in the saddle in front of the owner’s wife as she holds me close and we walk around. I can’t believe how high up I am, and the slow rocking motion of the horse is unforgettable. When we begin to trot, her movement is so smooth and gentle that I hardly bounce at all. I never want it to end.

Riding Into the Myth

The lady shows me that simply pointing in the direction she wants to go is enough for the horse to turn left or right. I am astounded that this giant creature understands what she is saying and is willing to just do it.

In my mind, I am suddenly on the back of a black stallion galloping down a beach in warm sunlight. Riding a horse is so very primal and raw I can hardly put the feeling into words. I enter a timeless portal where I am both in the ancient past, flying through stars with Pegasus, and in the future, conquering lands and freeing captives as I gallop over hillsides. The beating hooves become drums. I feel the thunderous heartbeat of the horse through my body, and the wind between her ears becomes a life force I can’t live without.

As if riding Bardie isn’t enough, we walk her back to her baby in a small field outside the barn. Macho is lying in the grass, folded up like Bambi. When he sees his mother, he jumps up and immediately runs to her belly and starts drinking milk. I can't believe this cute little baby horse is all mine.

When he finishes, someone puts a halter on him so I can hug him and kiss his nose. He is calm and patient. His chestnut fur is unbelievably soft, and he smells like the perfect mix of hay and horse. I try to hold back my tears, but the joy is overwhelming. I have a horse!

A Long Way Down

Macho stays at the farm until he is weaned. While we wait, my parents build a barn at our house and enroll me in riding lessons. My teacher puts me on a horse attached to a lunge line so she can control the horse while I learn. I love my lessons and look forward to every one.

After a few lessons, she lets me walk the horse around the arena by myself. She steps away briefly to take a phone call while my mom watches from the bleachers.

As I pass a corner, the horse suddenly takes off running. I stay on halfway around the arena, but at the next corner when the horse turns, I keep going straight, hit the wall, and fall. I have dust in my eyes and mouth, and all I can do is lie there in pain.

Back in the Saddle

I see my mom rush in, and she helps me up. I can’t move my arm, and it’s buzzing with pain. She walks me to her van and takes me to the hospital, where the X‑rays show that I’ve broken my arm and collarbone.

My mom kept talking about how my teacher was an “idiot” and the horse was a “wacko.”

“Mommy,” I ask, “when can I go to my next horseback riding lesson?”

“You still want to ride horses after that?” she says. “Well, it will be a long time because your arm has to heal.”

A few months later, my mom buys a little black‑and‑white pinto pony from a friend. Her kids have outgrown her, and now she is meant to be my learning horse. Her name is BeeBee, a naughty little fat cow who lives to see what she can get away with. She likes to take off and run away. She also likes to bite, kick, and buck.

Once my arm heals, I start lessons again at a nearby barn with a teacher named Karen, who I really like. At home, I try to ride BeeBee in our muddy pasture, but most days it’s impossible until summer arrives. In the summers, I ride her almost every day, trying to survive her mischief. I have BeeBee to ride and Macho to admire and love.

When the Fantasy Fades

But no one told me that it would take years before I could ride Macho. No one told me that a green horse needed an experienced rider, so even if he could be ridden, I would have to be really good! I also didn't know waking up at 5am in the dark to muck stalls in frozen Seattle rain would be completely miserable.

Our property became one giant mud puddle mixed with manure, forming a swamp my mom called “Lake Pee.” I had nowhere to ride or practice, and my little Macho sat in his stall most of the time. I didn't know owning a horse in these conditions would be all work and very little play.

After two winters, my parents move the horses to the barn where I take lessons. Now I ride Beebee in my lessons and learn to ride the hard way, which is probably the right way.

Learning the Hard Way

If BeeBee took a corner too fast, she would take off and pretend she was barrel racing. I didn't have far to fall off of her since she was so short, and I started to be able to stay on longer and longer. After a while I only fell off of her if she did something really crazy.

I had to always be tuned in and watch what she was doing or I would get nipped. When I tried to pick her feet, she would stand strong as if she weighed 2,000 pounds and refuse to lift her foot. Sometimes it took a committee to get her to do something. But I really learned how to ride with her and fell off of her almost every day.

I used to jump her over fences bareback and race her against all the other bigger horses. She was smart and wild and a free spirit. She was untamable and, after a while, only slightly behaved for me—just enough to not be sold off.

Beyond the Bruises

At first, I was terrified of falling. I didn’t want to break anything again. I had two motivations, even at that young age: don’t fall off, and get good enough to ride Macho.

As artists, we are often afraid to fall off—to make bad paintings, to show our work and be rejected. But I fell off BeeBee almost every day, and other than scrapes and bruises, I didn’t get hurt. Eventually, falling became no big deal. I expected it.

Making bad paintings is the same. After you make enough of them, you get used to it. You expect it, and it’s no big deal.

I also had incredible rides on BeeBee. We flew over jumps and took corners faster than any other horse in the barn. Just like with art, there were failures, and there were moments of magic.

Riding On

What if I had let a broken arm stop me from riding? What if every frustration, every hard ride, every nasty pony bite, and dealing with Lake Pee had driven me away? I would have robbed myself from a lifetime of rich experiences that have shaped me into who I am.

Every horse I’ve had has been a mentor. BeeBee taught me perseverance. She taught me, no matter how many times I fall off, to dust my jeans and get back on for another ride. I had a dream and a goal. I wanted my National Velvet. I wanted to ride Macho and win a blue ribbon on his back.

You have your own vision and dream. You are bound to fall, but the frustration is just a stepping stone to success. You are worth pushing through the ugly parts. Don’t let a broken arm—or a bad painting—define you or determine your future.

What could you be missing out on simply because you’re trying not to fall?

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