It drags on, flies by, costs nothing, is money, marches on, stands still, will tell, won’t wait, and we can waste it, save it, spend it, and keep it. Time remains one of the few elements of our lives that we cannot change, and so we move with it, at warp speed or snail’s pace.

We have moved into summertime here in the upper Midwest. Sorel boots are stowed, down coats dry-cleaned, mittens moved to the baskets on the upper shelf, replaced with sandals, shorts and sun hats. Stall fans are plugged in where the heated buckets hung for the past 6 months.

Our practically perfect seasonal switch has allowed for textbook turf in the pasture, and we’ve already reached all-day grazing mode – in May, an all-time record – which makes for very happy horses.

New pasture access can prove difficult for the fragile inner workings of these mighty beasts who are susceptible to gorging in Mother Nature’s candy shop. But we’ve eased into it, building tolerance and intestinal fortitude by limiting the input and monitoring the output for consistency in amount and texture. Because the going is good, and I see Biskit and Chicago occasionally, on their own accord, wander away from the all-you-can-eat buffet that is the open paddock, I know their guts have shifted into summer gear.

Back in the day, Chicago would trot out of the barn after his noon nap, breaking into a canter when he hit the grass line of the pasture, which Rowdy took as his cue to channel the inner herding dog and bolt after him, barking and circling. Rowdy found it great sport, but it was obvious to the rest of us that he was the only party who bought into the idea of an actual threat. Chicago indulged the pretend power trip by half-heartedly kicking a leg in the golden’s general vicinity, and I’d yell at them both until Rowdy ran back to the barn energized and exhausted by his efforts.

These days, Chicago mostly walks into the field as Rowdy watches from the doorway. If he does follow along, it’s more of a trot than a run and Chicago barely lifts his head, let alone his feet, in acknowledgement. And I say nothing, knowing the game has altered with age, and that Rowdy will return momentarily, pick up his squeaker ball and lay down to catch his breath in the barn aisle.

As we make this seasonal shift, I’m mindful of some other lifestyle changes in the works. I dipped my toe into the waters of the horse world by volunteering at an equine-assisted therapy program nearly 25 years ago, fulfilled the childhood fantasy of my first horse a couple years later and relished every minute of learning about horses. Though I sometimes miss the days of boarding barn buddies, clinics, lessons, and trail rides, those days of total equine immersion, I’m mostly content with our simpler, quieter, stay-at-home horse life.

In April I went to the annual Minnesota Horse Expo, an equine extravaganza of demonstrations, exhibitions, and vendors. Back at the turn of the century, this was a 3-day must-see, up close and personal, event that I attended as a veritable sponge, soaking up all my mind would absorb about living with these creatures I love.

This year, I went once. The Expo has shrunk some over the years, likely due to aging-out of organizers, the outbreak of a contagious equine virus followed by the outbreak of a contagious human virus, so there was a little less to take in, but I saw most of what I’d highlighted on my pre-printed schedule, laughed at the feisty donkey foals who kicked up their heels and ran from their mamas, marveled at the moxie of the people who rode their horses in the very scary fairgrounds coliseum, and savored a cheeseburger and a cold beer from that concession stand in the corner by the arena gate.

I replenished a couple insect repellant products for the pasture ponies, but mostly just browsed, content to look at the latest versions of the gear and gadgets I’ve spent the last year re-homing from my tack room.

While I remember well the thrill of new horse ownership and the fun of First purchases, the truth is that I no longer need a hot pink manure fork, a monogrammed saddle pad or a “Not my pasture, Not my bullshit” tank top – though I’ll admit to an ongoing pursuit for a purple plastic feeding pan for my pot-bellied palomino.

I’ve spent money, made friends, realized dreams, survived disappointments, and worked through fear, fatigue, and frustration. I still find fun in equine education and appreciate any opportunity to hang out with horse people. I adore the two big beasts in my backyard, yet still hope to see horses on the trails with I hike with Rowdy.

Biskit, Chicago and l have our small arena and wooded trails to walk under saddle, in long lines, or on a lead rope. I don’t ride much these days and have spent too much time trying to figure out why – fear, other priorities, sloth, or something else – so for now have opted to grant a little grace and just enjoy the horse time spent with all 6 of our feet on the ground, even if that’s an hour in the barn, silent, save for Biskit’s impatient interruptions, watching the shiny copper coming through a curried coat, feeling the satisfaction of wind-whipped snarls in a mane or tail giving way to my conditioner-covered fingers, and smelling the heavenly scent of all things horse.

Here at Four Sticks, we’ve relaxed into the rhythm of a finely ripened relationship, content to connect in ways that don’t involve a left-lead canter because life looks plenty good at a steady-paced walk.

We’ve got chore time, grooming time, farrier and vet time, as well as just plain old hangin’ out time, surrendering some of the things of our youth, but always embracing our blessings.

Transitions.