It is the season of a frozen earth and a deep look inward. Albert, my husband of thirty-nine years, and I are struggling with what, for us, are some painful changes in the marriage of our eldest daughter. Her decisions feel like rocks thrown into a frozen lake, sending sharp cracks of pain through our family. My heart feels bruised and broken. I can see no path forward.
So for Albert’s seventy-second birthday on March 28th, we decide to seek refuge in a safe place. We rent a small cottage on the Friesians of Majesty land in Townshend, Vermont. We had been there nine years before when I took my horse, Max, for a Parelli Natural Horsemanship clinic. There was something magical about being close to the herds of Friesian mares and foals and visiting with the magnificent stallions.
As we enter the driveway, the clarity of the moment when I arrived with Max is as present to me as it was then. Max’s bay coat shone in the autumn sun. He held his head high as he sniffed the air of a new environment, and he walked off the trailer with a seeming sense of his own importance. I marveled at the fact that this magnificent Morgan belonged with me. My childhood dream of owning a horse had come true in mid-life.
In the autumn of 2010, Max and I had spent three days at the farm learning how to communicate with each other on the ground, no riding involved. I had been working with this type of natural training for about a year and my relationship with Max had improved. On the last day of the clinic as we waited our turn in the large indoor arena, full of obstacles and jumps, I felt nervous. We were doing a liberty exercise from the ground. It involved working with your horse using only hand signals and body movements to guide him. Max was not tethered to me by any rope or rein. Each participant’s task was to ask her horse to jump over a couple of metal barrels lying on their sides. My anxiety grew as I watched the other women guide their horses.
They began with sending them to canter a circle and then expanded the circumference to include the barrel jump.
When it was my turn, no matter how many times I stood in the center of the circle and sent Max cantering towards the barrels, he stopped and refused to jump them at the last second. Thoughts of failure and feelings of frustration niggled at me, further taking me out of my body. I felt foolish in front of the audience of peers. The choice clarified. I had to either exert my will and cause a confrontation or decide to surrender, regardless of what it looked like to the people watching. I called Max to me, patted his neck, and chose to let go. Did I really need him to jump barrels at my command? Would we ever do that again? Probably not. It was a turning point for me in trusting my horse and listening, rather than trying to prove to the other clinic participants that I could “make” him do what I wanted. Today I understand that Max picked up my unconscious fear which said, “Do not jump these, it is dangerous.”
My mind returns to the present moment. As we drive up the winding driveway to the farm, I feel how much I miss Max, who died over four years ago at the age of thirty-three. With my horse behind us I had felt excitement and anticipation, but now my heart feels broken, my spirit depleted. Pain, confusion, and fear have been constant companions for the past month. When we open the door to the cottage, I stop and look back towards the fields inhabited by dozens of gorgeous black horses, all standing silently, staring at me. Their hooves sink into the spring mud. Serenity radiates from their bodies. I can almost feel their collective spirit welcoming me into the herd. Come to us, let us heal you.
As soon as the light fades we go to bed, surrounded by total darkness save for the glory of the stars. I lie in bed physically cold and emotionally frozen, begging for transport into a sleep that is a long time coming. As the dawn light filters through the cottage, I am instantly awake. Albert is snoring gently and I feel envious of his ability to sleep so deeply, but only for a moment. Adventure beckons. I gather my mala beads, the polished stones I pray with every morning, put on my jacket and horse boots and silently open the front door of the cottage.
Every horse in the nearby paddock raises its head in greeting. Black, fuzzy ears prick towards me as I make my way through the mud to the fence. There are several paddocks in this area, all full of horses, shadowy figures in the morning mists. The day is grey and damp. Gentle raindrops cling to my jacket.
I chant my mantra aloud, caressing each stone through the fingers of my right hand, stopping here and there to stroke a soft black muzzle with my left. As I walk the white fences, the herd of mares seem drawn to the sounds. Several of them walk over to stand in front of me, still and silent, listening. The vibration of chanting the ancient words fills our bodies and souls bringing peace and focus. Our spirits merge as we stand together. Slowly the dark knots in my heart begin to weaken their stranglehold and the threads of my angst untangle leaving space to allow my grief to surface. These black creatures, with their huge mammal hearts, literally breathe with me, inhaling the depth of my sadness, exhaling the steady joy of their presence into my being.
After thanking the mares, I make my way to the barn at the top of the hill. It is time to make a visit to the king of stallions. As I approach his stall, I breathe in the smells of horse manure and hay, fragrances that fill my being.
“Good morning.” I whisper as I place my palms together and bow. Othello is standing with his tail towards me and ignores me. Just another visitor. So many come to pay tribute to him that I understand his standoffish, disinterested behavior. I stand near his stall door and turn slightly away from him, my eyes on the ground. I continue to chant. The stallion’s ears flicker back and forth and within a minute or two he turns, walks towards me, drops his large black head over the stall door and relaxes into stillness. We stand cheek to cheek as I repeat the beautiful sounds of the Hindu Gayatri mantra, a meditation upon the radiant source of all things. Om bhu, om bhuvaha……
When such a majestic animal shares his heart with you, it is like receiving a flame from divine fire. Ohello’s energy is fiery yet incredibly gentle at the same time. Shakti and Bhakti energy in balance as the Hindus would say. Shakti, the decisive energy of will, the power of doing in the world, and Bhakti, the devotional giving and receiving energy of Love, the power of being in the world. He is the male leader of this equine community in Vermont, terrible to behold when he is angry, yet loving and tender with his large family, nuzzling his foals and caring for his mares. He watches over and leads his beloved community.
Later that day, after his own visit to the stall, Albert will write:
OTHELLO
Othello the Friesian is
Not really a horse.
When the mares walk past
Him he stands tall as four oaks
The Fire in his eyes is the
Ancient heat of the universe.
The air of God, the warm
Air of God that breathed
Upon the waters.
So I wait here outside the
Prison cell which
Keeps us locked into everything
That isn’t Othello.
I bow my head and close
My eyes submissive to
The rhythms which drum
From his Giant Heart
And threaten to explode
The patched and trembling
Cymbal of my own.
Othello is not a horse
Othello is an archangel.
Whether it was this angel’s message or not, the weekend proves to be profoundly healing. Albert and I talk and sip tea in faded rocking chairs.
“How could she do this to us?” my husband asks. Our anger finds expression in all the “why” questions, but it is soon exhausted.
“It hurts so much.” I say quietly. “I never could have imagined this happening.”
“Perhaps we have to look at our expectations,” Albert says.
“We want her to live a certain way.” I say gently.
“Yes, we do.” Albert sighs, his head in his hands.
Our tears fall. Haltingly our sorrow reveals that we have to surrender our projections. We begin to pray. Our prayers lead us to see that as parents we have to set our child free to live her life and to learn from her journey. This insight is only the invitation to the hard work of practicing this attitude moving forward, but it gives us a new beginning. As I learned at this special place years earlier with Max, I cannot use my will to dominate. I can only be present, speak my truth, ask for cooperation, and then let go of my need for my daughter to be anyone other than who she is. Gratitude fills my heart for the grounding mammal presence outside our window that soothes our hearts as we stumble towards this truth.
Fifteen mares at Friesians of Majesty are with foal. The first is due to arrive the following week, but on our second full day there, one of the mares begins to leak milk from her teats. This is her first pregnancy so she is brought inside to a birthing stall and put on watch. I spend much of the afternoon at her stall, watching, waiting and whispering to her. One of the bucket list dreams I have fulfilled since I retired from teaching is to train as a birth Doula, a woman who companions a pregnant woman and her partner in preparing for, and journeying through, the birth process. It is a process of surrender. Surrender to the physical pain that opens the body to allow for the baby’s journey into the world. It has been an honor and privilege to do this work. To bear witness to the miracle of each birth.
That evening I go to sleep wondering if the foal might be born during the night. Suddenly, just after midnight I awaken, and looking out the window see the lights shining far away in the barn. Something is happening. I dress, decide not to wake Albert, and with a rather feeble flashlight step out into the deep darkness to slog once more through the black mud up the hill. I cannot see more than a foot in front of me, and I almost turn back when I trip on one of the deep ruts caused by the tractor wheels, but a voice inside tells me to keep moving.
When I reach the barn it seems quiet, but I notice the pine door, leading to the birthing stalls, is closed. I approach quietly and hear voices on the other side. I push on the door and it opens a crack, enough for me to squeeze through. The farm’s owner, his son, and the interns who work at the farm stand in a circle near the stall. In the center, a large placenta lies on the stone floor. I smile at them, hardly daring to speak as I turn and peer through the bars. A tall black foal stands on much too long, wobbly legs, its body still damp from birth. The foal is a filly, the firstborn of the year. Within minutes she is strong and steady on her feet. The mare’s tongue licks her daughter’s black coat of spiral whirls, curly and womb wet, and gently nudges her in the direction of her milk. I wonder if there is anything more fascinating on earth than a newborn. This filly’s presence, like all newborns, is so magnetic and magical that she invites me into eternity. Time stops.
After she has nursed, the foal collapses her legs awkwardly as she lowers her body to the straw to sleep. The owner, as he does with all the foals born at his farm, lies down next to her. He supports her head in his hand and curls his body around her back. The filly resists this strange creature at first but as he sings to her she closes her eyes and allows her body to relax against his. This is the reason why all the horses at the farm are so friendly and at ease with humans. The owner imprints his scent, his presence and his love on to each foal in the first few hours of its life. As I watch, spellbound, he runs the palms of his hands over the foal’s whole body and his fingers down each spindly leg, all the while still lying beside her. He massages her belly and strokes her from nose to tail, as he continues to sing to her. The mare lies down and munches mouthfuls of hay, calm and unconcerned as she watches the man who welcomed her into the world welcome her offspring.
Finally, at about three in the morning, I pull myself away to trudge back down the hill through the mud to my bed. As I lie awake I allow the magic to fill me. The Spirit of the Universe has given me the most precious of gifts. This night I have been shown where my truth lies, in surrender, the surrender of birth. The fog of confusion and doubt clears, replaced by a deep knowing that whatever happens I can continue to practice devotional love toward my daughter, the kind of love I witnessed flowing from a beautiful black mare to her newborn filly. I return to the moments of giving birth to my firstborn, of holding her tiny body against my chest and whispering my love. I know that our soul connection can never be broken, only frayed.
One of the sayings of Jesus that has troubled me is when he tells his disciples that unless they “hate” their mother, father, in fact all those they love most deeply, they cannot be his disciples. Perhaps he means that all emotional attachments need to be willingly relinquished if they are obstacles to our total surrender. Our spiritual journey is a path to the deeper places within, the True Self. I remind myself that I made this difficult passage with my mother. After a rocky midlife period of “hating” her as I struggled with my inner self, we now have a more loving, less attached, relationship. Perhaps my daughter is “hating” us just now, but it may be the very thing she needs to do to find her True Self. Isn’t that what we have always wanted for her?
Perhaps hearts break only so they can birth the deeper treasure within. I smile into the darkness. By slogging my way through the mud, a lotus has blossomed in my broken heart.
Thank you I whisper into the darkness.
