I have a wooden horse. It’s about 8 inches tall and is a modern art piece of sorts. I remember fairly clearly how I came to posses it. And I have looked upon the horse with that memory for all these years. I didn’t love the memory, so it is rather curious as to why I have kept the horse front and center over all these years.
I was of grade school age and was in a shop with my Mom, siblings and my grandpa down in Portland OR near where my grandparents lived. I fell in love with this wooden horse. I think it might have been a little pricey for what it was, but regardless my Mom said no when I asked if I could have it. I proceeded to have a bit of a melt down. I don’t remember the details other than I cried and carried on and we had to leave the store. Later that day, my grandpa presented me with the horse. I don’t remember thanking him properly, likely I didn’t. I remember feeling surprised by it but grateful and relieved. Like a weight had been lifted. I was supposed to have this horse. For some reason. And I guess I knew it. But why?
Recently I looked up at the horse sitting on a shelf in my tiny house. Storage is limited and precious as is display space. Yet the horse made the list to be here with me, in my small home. At that moment when I gazed at it recently I suddenly forgave my younger self for crying and carrying on so much about wanting it. Or maybe I forgave the adult me who shamed the younger self all these years. I thanked my grandpa (long passed of course) for knowing this one was important in some way.
I still don’t know exactly what significance this wooden horse possesses but I do know it is enjoyable to look at. I always loved horses and wanted one for a while when I was young. I used to wish for a horse every time I saw a white car (I think that was the catalyst). When you saw a white car, you made a wish, licked your thumb and rubbed it in the palm of your other hand three times. Perhaps this wooden horse was the answer to my prayer. Rather than the living version, a more manageable and less expensive as well as a longer companion on my journey.
Simple little things like these in our lives that are curious little treasures we might even miss as such. It could have just remained something from my childhood that I kept moving from place to place with me. I knew it was special. And even though I still am not sure as to the significance, I have expanded my appreciation for it and the part of my story it is. Thank you younger me, Grandpa Higby and the craftsperson who created it. All part of the rich tapestry of a good and curious life.