The Vision

I'm am hesitant to post this, but one of my hopes for this blog is to be a true record of the path with horses that life is offering me.  So, must go back and tell how it began. Here is my story:

I am standing on a dusty road, outside the gate of a large church. It is a hot day, very silent, no one else is in sight. Standing in front of me is a dog and a horse, waiting for me. I reach out my arms and extend my hands over them in blessing. The road behind them stretches out of town, into the desert and up into the hills. I feel that we are to be companions and will travel that road together.


I am outside the church, outside the reach of the church, outside the authority of the church. I need no one’s authorization to bless these animals. I am the blessing to them, as they are blessing me in return. I can see no further than this moment. I cannot see where the road is leading, where we are to go. It is a mystery that we will travel together.

This is a “vision” that came to me many years ago, at an art therapy workshop. It floated up from the inner depths of the psyche, and brought me face-to-face with my own future. It also confused the hell out of me; at the time, I was working as a therapist and program leader at a hospital in Kansas City. I was about to leave my long career in psychiatric nursing to take a job in the Episcopal church, to explore a call to ordained ministry. I lived in an upscale neighborhood in the suburbs of Johnson County, miles away from the nearest wilderness or countryside. The only horses I saw were trussed up in fancy bridles and saddles, trotting around at the nearest riding stable. I was allergic to cats, was an obsessive housekeeper, liked expensive clothes, and preferred going back to the Holiday Inn versus going back to the land! Our two Scottish terriers were the extent of my animal family back then.

Fast forward five years: I’ve been on the staff of our parish, become trained as a spiritual director, become a faculty member at a nearby monastery, developed a Benedictine Oblate group at our church, led retreats, taught classes, participated in liturgy. And guess what, I am leaving the church. I do not know it at that time; I think I am just leaving my job at the church, having decided that ordained ministry is not for me. I’ve also become active in wildlife rescue and rehab, and in fund-raising for our local animal welfare programs. I take a job in psychiatric nursing again, and become involved with equine-assisted psychotherapy. Wow! I love it. Initially, I am scared to death of the horses, but it awakens a childhood love of them, that overcomes the fear. I love everything about the horses, their smell, their soft breath, their shiny coats and lovely faces. I am in love.

One of the equine therapists agrees to take me on as an apprentice, on her farm, for the summer. I fit this around my full-time job, and am a sponge for the knowledge she offers. How to feed, what to feed, how to lead, how to ride, how to run the tractor, repair the fences, shovel the manure. Everything about the farm makes me happy, even the dirt and the heat and the sweat. I sleep in the living quarters of her horse trailer, and discover the brilliance of the stars without the competition of the city lights.

I buy a horse.

Fast forward five more years: We’ve done it. My husband and I. We have sold our house in Kansas City, moved back to his family’s farm in Indiana, built a log home. We’ve added horses, lost a few, given away a few. We’ve fenced pastures and added a small barn. I’ve become a student of the Parelli system, and passed “Level One” with my paint mare, Susie.

Oh at what a price these changes have come. I’ve lost so many identities, so many relationships and roles. I’ve buried my mother, moved miles away from my children and grandchildren. I’ve moved to a place where right-wing preachers replace gentle Benedictine sisters. Where my liberal views stick out like a sore thumb. Where the closest decent restaurant is a 30 mile drive away and the only clothes I need are black slacks for work, and blue jeans for everything else.

I spend the first four years here wondering what the hell we have done, and looking back, always looking back. The horses help save me. They give me a purpose, and the Parelli system gives me goals and friends to study with. I go from being a total novice to a fairly competent beginner.

My grief begins to subside. I begin to see the place we are in with new eyes. I get taken down a few notches, realize I am no better than my neighbors….actually, not as good as most of them. Not as dependable, or honest, or competent in the ways of living in the country. I begin to see much to be admired here. I begin to see that we did not make a mistake. This is where we are supposed to be.

Nature becomes my religion, my place of communion, my place to find the Sacred One. I come to know the specific birds and animals who share our land, I know where the bittersweet grows each fall and when the wild roses bloom. I start to hear what my animals are saying, what they are hoping for, and asking for. Books fly off the shelf at me, books that talk about animals in a way that is both new and ancient. Human voices echo what I am hearing from the horses. “I am enough.” “My body belongs to me.” “I love you, too.” “No, I don’t want to do that. Please give me a choice.”

So, I’ve come to the place in my vision. The place where blessing is offered and returned, where companionship is born, where a new journey is beginning. I am a student of the herd, and I hope to be humble.