There are photos of me standing at the fence of our yard, as far back as I could be with my arm extended as far forward as it could go, holding on to a baby carrot by the tippy tips of my fingers, all in an attempt to not get too close to the horse. Oh, who was that woman?!
One of the ranch horses was Gent. He was a gorgeous dark bay Thoroughbred/Quarter mix. He was the alpha of the herd and really didn't mind making that undeniably obvious any chance he could get. I was in love with Gingerbread Man, a buckskin Arab/Quarter cross. He got much of my attention as he was low on the pecking order, and who else wanted to be over there at the fence with that skittish woman anyway. Then I took steps closer to the fence, then I had a bent arm, then I had an open palm, then I quietly reached forward, then I began to understand the energy that flows between two hearts seeking whole.
Gingerbread and I continued with our tête-à-têtes and my draw into the equine world would become irreversible.
This went on for a while. If you know horses, you know they can sense your tenor the moment you open a door. As my comfort with Gingerbread Man grew, everything about me was different when I stepped out onto the deck. And that is when Gent started to pay attention. One of those days, he acknowledged me as one of the herd.
Two geldings vying for my attention required deft tactics. I would quietly walk around the other side of a structure to get time with Gingerbread Man because any time Gent approached, he smartly moved off. And then we had a hot summer lazy day and Gent was under the Ponderosa Pine tree, beside the gurgling creek, steps away from the water trough, head hung low and back hoof cocked, indicating he was at deep rest.
I'd like to think it was my sing-song voice, but maybe it was just his mood. He came out from under the tree, to the fence rail, put his head in my hands, closed his eyes, and feel asleep. There I stayed with him for what seemed hours, in absolute awe of the size of his head, and how soft his muzzle was, and how steady his breathing was. I would come to know this experience over and over, just about daily. I was drunk with how much was going on inside of me. My heart was growing and beaming, and feeling so much more at peace and safe than decades before.
Years have passed. Things have changed.
I drove by that property this afternoon and saw the horses out in the far end of the pasture. On my way back, they were closer to the fence. I pulled over, got out of my car, and walked to the fence saying, "Are you Gent?" There were three horses. Two did not even give me an ear flick, but one walked directly over to me, put his neck over the fence straight into me. I took his head in my hands, looking over him, noting that he had lost an eye, still asking, "Are you Gent?" There were things about him that seemed so familiar, yet the size and shape of his head seemed bigger. And didn't Gent have white stockings?
This boy stayed with me, eye closing, breathing with intention. I continued to talk to him and I asked again, "Are you Gent? How am I to know?" Within a moment or two, he raised his head and pulled back a bit back over the fence, he looked at me and a tear fell from his right eye. It was a tear. A dropping tear. It wasn't gunky eye stuff that horses can get in the summer as they defend their keen sight from dust and flies. It was pure, clear tear. It would go without saying that I offered one in return.
Later this evening, I learned from the owners of the property that Gent was euthanized three and a half years ago. His body may have left this physical world, but I am here to tell you, his spirit is alive and strong.
As I was telling a friend of this afternoon, I looked up and in my container of a roasted sweet potato, staring straight at me was a heart. #weareone
With Gent, 2007/2008
If you believe it, you will see it, 2018
