I've just come back from dinner - company was good but my stomach is still upset so I picked at the food and had a pleasant conversation. I can't wait for Lent to be over and for me to be back to me.
So in the meantime, in the hiatus of all good feelings inside me, I'll share the good feelings of others, k?
If I wanted to, I could see the little palomino by looking at top of my own shoulder, picking her up in my peripheral vision. But instead I just let my eyes drink in the scenery: the rolling California hills, dappled with light falling through the clouds, a truck parked nearby. Everything, including the truck, seems equally beautiful and equally alive. At this moment the palomino is neither more nor less important to me than the sky.
To say I haven't spent my entire afternoon in this state of serene detachment is like saying that the Three Stooges were not neurosurgeons. For what feels like hours, I've been pursuing a herd of two-year-old colts in weird slow motion. I amble up to them in arcs. They wait until I get close, then nervously move to a different part of the field, whereupon I doggedly start amble-arcing toward them again. My instructors have told me that striding up to them in a straight line could scare them off for good. My goal is to serpentine, calmly but relentlessly.
Amble, arc. Arc, amble.
Oops. There they go again.
I keep thinking of that joke about the turtle who's mugged by two snails and later tells the police, "I'm sorry, I can't remember much. It all happened so fast!" Perhaps it was unwise to relinquish my afternoon and good sense to the renowned horse whisperer Monty Roberts and his protégé Koelle Simpson. I've just met both of them (never suspecting that I'll later spend some of the best days of my life watching Koelle "whisper" zebras and elephants). Monty kindly invited me to his farm after I mentioned his horse-training method in a magazine article. He and Koelle have brought me out here to this lush pasture and are now standing by the fence calling instructions and encouragement.
"Keep arcing!" they say. "A little faster -- no, not that fast! Watching out for -- well, that's okay. Manure is easy to slip in. Don't worry, they haven't gone far. Just get up and start over."
My ears burn with shame. Theoretically I'm learning to behave like a strong, determined horse leader, mimicking the gestures, positioning, and energy of a "matriarch mare." (Horse herds are led by experienced females, while the stallions bring up the rear, defending against predators and competing sperm donors.) Monty told me to focus my attention on the little palomino. If I approach her with just the right actions and attitude, she'll follow me of her own free will. I've seen Monty and Koelle do this with other horses. I believe it will work. But for me, learning horse communication is like trying to yodel in Latvian while undergoing dental surgery.
"Don't worry!" shouts Koelle as the herd bolts yet again. "You're doing great!"
Amble, amble, arc, arc, amble, amble, arc, arc. Buh-bye now.
Why the damn palomino, anyway? She's the jitteriest, least approachable horse in the herd. They're domestic-born but not yet trained, and to me the palomino seems almost wild. After an eternity of watching me amble, some of the other colts are so bored with me that I can walk right in between them, gently pushing them aside with my hands. But just when I get within arm's length of the palomino...
"That's okay!" Monty says as the filly tosses her head and runs off, accompanied by the entire herd. "Keep trying! You've almost got it!"
Yeah, I wish.
But then, about fifteen minutes later, by George, I get it.
Maybe I'm so tired I slipped into Wordlessness, though this is before I've learned to value this state. Maybe, there's something in human DNA that clicks into equine communication during emergencies. ("A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!") All I know is that one moment the motion of the herd seems chaotic and random, and the next, everything is meaningful. I don't need Monty and Koelle to tell me why I'm ambling in arcs; I just feel that the horses like it better than the straight-line approach.
A subtle but absolutely clear awareness diffuses through my internal world, like dye colouring a glass of water. It saturates my body, then flows beyond me to the palomino. The moment it touches her, I know she'll let me touch her. I arc up to her, hold out a hand, see her skin shudder, gently move away, move in again. We both draw in a breath, exhale in unison. I lay my hand on her neck, brush off some dust and hay, scratch along the line of her mane. Then I arc away, walk a few yards, and stop.
No need to think.
The California hills, the clouds, the light, the truck. Everything beautiful. Everything equal.
I don't look behind me because I didn't need to; the palomino has already told me she's coming. The stream of communication connecting us feels as real to me as a signed contract. So I expect to hear the little horse's footsteps drawing near. Instead, confusingly, there's a strange rustling sound, like a cottonwood tree in the wind, or a church congregation shifting in a quiet chapel.
I feel a puff of warm, moist air on my right shoulder, and then, a moment later, the palomino's velvet nose. She's accepted me as a leader. She stands behind me radiating the sweet blend of power, guilelessness, humility, and trust that is particular to horses. My eyes fill with tears. Though I've seen "join-ups" like this before, the moment is a miracle. I can't imagine feeling anything quite so magical ever again.
Until I feel a second nose, a second puff of warmth, this time in the center of my back. And then a third, on my left upper arm.
Confused, I look at my shoulder to see, peripherally, what's going on behind me. (Turning and staring would tell the horses to run.) A warm buzz runs through my body and the hair prickles on my arms as I understand what that rustling noise was: not four hooves walking up to me, but sixty-four. The palomimo is the matriarch mare of the herd. When she accepted me, so did all the others.
I walk forward. An entire herd of horses, of their own free will, walks with me. I turn left. They turn left. I circle right. So do they. I stop. They stop. That sweet horse energy fills my body so completely I seem to be seeing through their huge soft eyes, hearing through their fuzzy ears. The loveliness of this day blends seamlessly with their consciousness. There are infinite wonders out here in this pasture: the herd, the horse whisperers, the truck, every mouse and mosquito living in the grass. me.
And there is only One.
Martha Beck
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