Massimiliano's first encounter with a horse came when he was small, a pony ride at Villa Borghese. He loved that walk through the green on the gentle little horse, its hoofbeats steady and measured, and more rides followed—though I grieved for the ponies themselves, tied tight to carts and standing motionless for hours, waiting for their small riders. To be complicit in that no longer, we soon decided to find a real riding stable. His neuropsychiatrist suggested a few equine therapy centers, but we chose one recommended by Eleonora, the mother of Filippo, a friend of Massi's. I remember being struck by the word "therapy" attached to something so simple: taking my son to an open-air place with no white coats in sight, where other children gathered—some with disabilities, some without—all eager to pet, brush, and ride those huge, unobtrusive creatures.
A horse is present if you seek it out, but stays where it is if you don't. It was this restraint that allowed Massi to draw close to them in one of the most beautiful and enduring relationships of his life.
Going to the stable became a fixed point, something crucial—especially after school ended and there were no more gratifying places to gather, nothing but empty time.
Going to the stable became a fixed point, something crucial—especially after school ended and there were no more gratifying places to gather, nothing but empty time.
For fifteen years now, every Thursday except during the hot months, the rainy days (and lockdown), Massi goes to the stable even when he doesn't feel like riding. There's Maria Teresa, his beloved handler all these years, other people, other young riders, dogs and cats, meadows, plenty of trees including mimosa, and the extraordinary ruins of Roman aqueducts.
Going to the stable became a fixed point, something crucial—especially after school ended and there were no more gratifying places to gather, nothing but empty time. There were activities, yes, but nothing social. The Grey Horse, by contrast, has always been open, and the days there have continued at the same steady rhythm, always reassuring for Massi.
Arrival, picked up by Maria Teresa or Alessandro or someone else at the big gate. A walk. A "ride" that depends on his mood. Lunch from a bag, all together. And the laughter—always—over my carefully portioned meals and Massi's raids on everyone else's! Then a nap, and another walk, even through the mud, thanks to his boots.
It's clear that Massimiliano's wellbeing (and mine) has come from meeting open-minded people. But that beautiful place in nature, and above all the horses themselves—their strength and calm—have been equally decisive over the years. Animals have their own way of communicating. But horses have something more: a quiet dignity, a particular charisma that even Massi, who has always been aloof with animals, could not resist.