It was an obsession. A fixation, an addiction, a burning passion.

With Biiankas unexpected trip to the emergency room on Thursday, I never got around to post the photos from when Johanna and I went horsebackriding on Wednesday! Not that there are that many photos from the event – it wasn’t like we could take the camera with us – but at least you can see how beautiful these horses are.

I’ve never even sat on a horse this well-trained and expensive, and I was so nervous I’d fall off and she would run away and get hurt! But nothing of the sort happened, and it was one of the most peaceful and gorgeous afternoons I’ve had in a very long time. Ridiculously warm but with a breeze, the wide yellow and green fields around us bathing in sunlight, the horse’s repetitive movements underneath me… All I could think was ”I need to start doing this more often. I truly need to.”

As soon as you walk into Johanna's family's hallway, you don't have to be a genious to guess that the people who live in this house think animals are pretty awesome.

A kitty was hanging out in the shade on the front porch. 

Her sister was, too.

Horsies!

This is the gorgeous girl I had the honor of taking for a ride. She was a sweetheart and didn't even mention the fact that I haven't been on a horse for at least three years. No, she was very classy, just went along with it, covering for my mistakes.

Oh... herro there!

One of the main reasons why I started this blog was to practice writing in English, and I had a plan that involved translating many of my columns, stories and articles to share with you. Then I became insanely busy and these past weeks I’m well aware that I’ve mostly written ”busy day today, what to say about these clothes, hmm, I like them”. Now that won’t do! I will definitely put more effort into incorporating my writing into my posts from now on – and since I wrote a column about my love for horses last summer, this seemed to be the time to translate it for you!

Tiny Annika, Big love for horses.

That sound.

Emotions as immediate as they are illogical – excitement, jealousy, longing.

I rush to the window, open it up, widely. Then I wait. Listen. Travel back in time.

Nothing makes me ten years old again like the sound of hoofs against asphalt.

I used to love horses. Truly love. I must have ploughed through every book at the library that mentioned the word ”horse” at least three times, I taught myself the latin names of every muscle (extremely important for a veterinarian to be, I figured), always counting the minutes until next time I’d get on the bus that would take me out to Djurgården’s Horse Center.

I lived for the moments in the stables: the lessons inside the dark manege, the scheduled Tuesday afternoons when I got to take care of Cayenne. For five hours a week, I was allowed to gently brush his golden skin, savor his sweet smell, the warmth of his breath. Pretend like he was all mine.

This was no interest, no hobby, no after-school activity. It was an obsession. A fixation, an addiction, a burning passion. My great love.

I was never much of a talent in the saddle. I had no natural flair for neither jumping nor dressage – I came in last at the riding club competitions, was the one who got left behind when the others in my group were moved up to the more advanced levels. And I didn’t mind. In everything I did, I had to be the best to even bother, I needed to be the star not to lose interest. Everywhere but in the stables.

My love for horses had nothing to do with performance. It was unconditional. Everlasting.

And all the grow-ups would smile, the way grow-ups do, with poorly concealed indulgence: Everlasting, well well! Enjoy it while it lasts - there’s only a matter of time before your precious horses are replaced by boys, oh, you’ll see!

I hated their condescending smiles, I hated that they took the liberty of thinking they knew anything at all about me, that they dared to imagine that they could understand the flaming love in my heart.

And then I hated them because they were right.

We never broke up, the horses and I. I don’t even remember it happening. It was the kind of relationship that slowly fades, slipping through your fingers like the fine grains of sand, and suddenly too much time has passed and it’s all over.

The clattering hoofs are getting closer and yes, there they are. A pinto and a chestnut, glowing with sweat from the heat and the exercise, each with a teenage girl on its back.

I’m standing absolutely still in my window, holding my breath. Longing, wishing. Missing. I’m just not sure of what.

I don’t think I want my own horse, not anymore. I’ve had the chance to get back in the saddle a few times over the years, and it’s been great, even though every limb has been aching like it’s going to fall off for days afterwards. But it hasn’t been the same. Not like it used to.

Maybe I’m simply longing for a time when I always had an obvious answer to the questions: what do you wish for more than anything in the world? Where would you rather be right now? What do you want to do when you grow up?

Maybe I miss being able to give my heart without ever wishing for anything in return. The sweet simplicity of unconditional love.

The sound of hoofs against asphalt is fainter now.

Then, silence.