Learn To Be Still

Lessons From a Horse

On the coldest Vermont days, when the temperature drops well below zero, making the hair in your nostrils clang against each other, an exhaled breath evaporates into a white cloud before you can say “goodbye.” The Earth seems to stand still. Everything is standing at attention, enraptured by the sheer beauty of the chilling quiet. Snow crystals radiate the colors of the rainbow like a diamond as the sun caresses each one. All of them are individual expressions of the light reflected from the wintry white orb above. To wander outdoors and leave the comfort of the wicker rocking chair by the woodstove is to invite adventure. Walking across the driveway to the barn, the snow crunches like small pieces of styrofoam underfoot. As I approach the barn where the horse will be stabled for the night, the thought “how did these animals ever manage to remain on this planet for all this time under such extreme conditions?” Sitting in the upper paddock with this mystical being invites me to ponder their spirit. This fourteen-hand Polish Arabian pony enjoys his solitude. Quiet, Unassuming. Always alert, but calm with the knowledge that he is protected, fed, and loved every day. Sitting in the pasture with him, saying nothing, and fully present, we have no expectations but to enjoy each other’s company and practice just “being.”

Many times, I wrestle with the idea that I should “be more,” that I am not “enough.” But to sit with this majestic animal, it is clear that the lesson I need to learn is to recognize that, at this moment, I am enough. It is enough to be here. Now. To share this cold winter’s day in the paddock with him. To smell the woodsmoke rising and falling from the chimney. To feel the warmth of his muzzle as he rests his head on mine. He likes to place his teeth on the top of my skull. Not as a threat, but as a sign that I can trust him. Perhaps in an effort to quiet my mind with his unique sense of humor. He knows it’s not necessary to “think” all the time. His kind has been roaming this planet for fifty million years, in comparison to ancestral humans, who have been around for only about two million years.

His head raises, and his muscular neck stretches upward to catch movement across the snow-laden field. I track his sightline toward a ditch in the distance. A red fox pops out of the swale, jumping in a carefully planned trajectory, his head following the sharp nose into the deep snow. The leap is almost comical, but when he bursts back up through the surface, there is a rodent in his mouth. I can’t tell at this distance whether it is a field mouse, a mole, or a vole. But to the fox, it doesn’t matter. It’s a meal.

As the sun begins to slide slowly downward toward the distant Adirondacks, turning a dark purple on the western horizon, this meal could be the difference between surviving the night of -20 below temperatures. Or not. The fox knows the importance of the hunt. I sit in a folding chair next to my pony. He nudges my red-and-black plaid hunting hat to let me know he depends on me to keep him warm and fed. I amble into the barn, holding out a handful of senior feed. He doesn’t resist even though his instinct is to stay outside. Walking softly into the barn, I reward him with a full bowl of horse feed and three flakes of the high-quality hay grown on the farm.

The hours-long silence is broken when I place my face on his withers and inhale deeply the sweet fragrance of friendship. With a gentle pat on his rump under the thick blanket covering him, I break our bond of silence. “Goodnight, my brother. Sleep well.”