I remember when I was a little girl our neighbor’s horse got out. My dad found it close to our house and made my oldest brother ride it back to the neighbor’s (about 3 miles on a gravel road through a swamp and he was seven.) It was a young horse and hadn’t been broken yet, and my brother was riding bare back. The horse threw him onto the gravel road. My dad and I were following in the car. My dad calmly and quietly got out of the car, walked over to my brother and asked if he was OK. My brother said, “Yes.” My dad said, “Get back on the horse.” My brother said, “I don’t want to.” My dad gave him “The Look”. My brother got back on the horse and rode it to its owner’s house.
In the car my father explained “the situation” to me. “It wasn’t a nice thing to do, making your brother get back on that horse, but it had to be done. For one, if you let the horse get its way so easily, they’ll never be able to break him. The second thing is, that scared your brother. He needed to face his fear right then before it became too big to deal with. If he had not gotten back in the saddle, then every time something scared him or if he failed someway in life, he would just give up. And that is no way to live your life.”
That being said, I went to class Wednesday. I did tell them that I had hurt my shoulder and had to be careful. I didn’t mention the dislocation part. I didn’t want to “scare” them or make my training partner feel any worse. He already feels bad enough. I did what I could with my right arm cradled and earned the nick name “The One Arm Bandit”. Which is appropriate considering it was my first time “Back in The Saddle”, so to speak.