The Hallmark Version Isn’t Wrong

A letter from a movie set, on two actors who don’t ride and the joy that had been standing in my barn the whole time.

Last week I was on the set of a movie.

It was filming at a barn not far from home, and the director is a friend. He got the job because his agent told him, more or less, that everyone wants a horse movie right now. So he offered himself up, along with his partner, a lifelong rider, and I ended up there too, standing around in my breeches as an extra.

I haven’t read the script. I heard the outline, and I laughed and said it was headed straight for the Hallmark Channel. The theme is the healing power of horses. You can probably picture the trailer already.

So there I was, privately rolling my eyes at the whole premise, when the two lead actors got on their horses for the first time.

Neither of them rides. Within a minute, both did exactly the same thing. A lopsided grin spread across their faces, and they started stroking the horse’s neck. Then they ran their fingers through the mane. Then they did it again. They looked a little dazed, like they’d forgotten about the cameras and the crew and the schedule. They couldn’t seem to stop.

Nobody directed that. It was just two people meeting a horse and turning, right in front of me, into softer and sloppier versions of themselves.

And I stood there feeling a little foolish for the eye roll.

What I’d stopped noticing

Lately, I have been feeling weighted down. I told myself, I have to get back to the joy. I meant it. I even wrote it in a reflection: get back to the joy. I’ve been discouraged about my horse and my riding, and I knew it was costing me something. What I didn’t know was how to find the way back. I knew that just writing it down wasn’t enough. I didn’t know what would help.

It turns out it took two actors sitting on horses, enjoying the moment.

I get to do what they were doing every day. I feel the warm breath on my hands when I walk into the barn with a treat. I kiss the soft muzzles. I hear the snorts, the hay crunching, the shuffle of a horse rearranging himself in his stall. I climb on and look down at my horse’s neck and run my fingers through the mane. Those things are so woven into my routine that I’d stopped registering them at all. They had become the part that happens before the real work starts.

That’s the trap of being a serious rider. The horse becomes the partner in the project. We think about the test, the half-pass that keeps losing bend, the score, the next clinic. All of that matters to me. But when the riding is hard, it crowds out the simplest thing, which is that being near a horse changes you before you ever pick up the reins.

No movie magic required

I don’t think the Hallmark version is wrong. It just skips the explanation. A horse can’t be told about your bad week. He only knows what you’re doing right now, so to be with him at all, you have to show up in the present. That’s what happened to those actors, and it’s what had stopped happening to me.

Watching them grin like fools, I recognized it. That wasn’t a Hallmark moment. That was the joy, and it had been standing in my barn the whole time.

A small assignment

Next time you go out to ride, give yourself two minutes before you tack up. No grooming agenda, no warm-up plan. Just stand with your horse. Feel the breath. Stroke the soft muzzle. Run your fingers through the mane like you’ve never done it before.

You might get on a little more ride-ready than usual. And if you catch yourself grinning like a lopsided fool, you’re in good company. I saw it on a movie set last Wednesday.