Packing for Tonimbuk

We gather up the dinner dishes, and I tell my husband that I am off to feed the horses and pack for tomorrow. He nods with indifference, and returns to bath preparations with our daughter. To him it's just another night. To me, this is the night before the day of reckoning.

Up till now, I have trotted my horse six times over a cross rail, and tomorrow we will do a jumping lesson, followed by two rounds of freshman's showjumping: 45cm high, and 60cm high. Am I mad? Is my horse ready for this? Am I ready for this? Do I really know what I am doing? Every wise horseperson I have listened to, every book I have read, tells me that what I am doing is right. But I have a sinking feeling of despair, a loss of faith, a feeling that I am standing at the gates of doom.

I focus all this energy into packing, as though I was preparing for the end of the world. Bridle, spare bridle. Extra spare reins. Girth, spare girth. Morning feed, lunchtime feed. Hay, hay and more hay. Magnesium orotate, hydrogen peroxide. With a suspicious calmness all items take a logical place in the car, and I feel I have everything. I am not "ready". I am just "prepared". Prepared to face the demons I have created.