Wednesday, 10 November 2004 | I'm at a retreat

The others played paintball. The less aggressive of us rode horses. I wasn't nervous about it, only about galloping, but somehow I became known as "the scared girl," the one with the least experience. The director of the stable kept seeking me out, asking how I was doing, overdirecting me, and babying me. Where's the girl who's COMPLETELY FREAKED OUT? I would reluctantly raise my hand, secretly wishing that I hadn't claimed to be a novice.

My horse was named Candy, and was known as being the ideal animal for uncertain riders. Girl scouts and grandmas ride her, I was told. She was chestnut colored (I believe that's what it's called) and remarkably furry, thanks to the dropping temperatures. I rubbed her neck a lot and said hello from time to time. She seemed to want to see who was riding her, so I leaned forward and to the side. I anthropomorphize a lot.

Candy crunched through leaves while the tips of my fingers turned pink and dead. She followed the horse in front of her with blind dedication, her head moving gently up and down with each step.

Toward the end of our quiet, slow walk through the woods, I broke the rules and put in my headphones. Sometimes I need that sort of thing (music, camera) to fill in the empty space between me and the world, which is kind of too bad.