I’ve become a big fan of Brandi Carlile this winter, having discovered her through her work with Tanya Tucker and her documentary on the singer.

I’ve been reading her memoir, Broken Horses, and when I read this passage, I completely related:

Brandi is right. I can remember right now the heavenly scent of the fur of my black quarter horse and how I loved to stroke his long, strong neck and study his big black eyes. I loved hanging from his neck too. When riding him, I loved his mane. Sometimes my dad would shave it off, but I loved it long. And I loved his forelock as well. If I had known then what I know now, I would have decorated my black horse, in the way they did in the European courts. It would have been a more humble version, but I would have loved it and my horse enjoyed all of my attention (we had a special bond, he and I) and I think he’s have borne it well.