Early morning light: darkness to soft grey, hints of color, then gleaning sunlight coating everything with its rosy hue.

I was on a horse every weekday morning and weekend afternoon for all my childhood. In the dead of winter, on cold dark mornings and into the humid heat of Virginia summers: on my horse with my father.

I could ride one, but could I draw a horse?

Drawing asked for the ability to see. See distinct line. And that was where I faltered: for the first three years of my life, my eyes were uncontrollable. I saw blurry images. I was unusually fortunate: my eye operation was a success and suddenly, I could see clearly.

I attribute the shock of that first clear sight to my continuous fascination with seeing: the amount of blur, the unfinished line, the separation or fusion of colors, how form arises out of darkness or light.

I currently live on Squam Lake in a boathouse that sits right on the water. I’m not riding a horse daily. But I watch the sun rise and set over the mountains as I see the progression amplified in the liquid mirror below.

I see those mountains and I want to take you back with me. To ride with me. To feel the horse under you and be bathed in the light. In all the ways that horses can mean to you. And all the feeling that light brings with it.