There’s a track that winds up past the greenhouse and then cuts through a gathering of Kānuka trees to finally finish at the paddock where I keep the horses. It’s rocky and stony, and now a patchwork quilt of puddles, a result of spring rain that’s been testing the edges of my patience.
In this moment, the sun is shining, and for that I’m very grateful. I have a retreat coming up in the next few days (the first one that I’ve ever held at home) and my friend is here, which means I am taking the weather personally, and spending much of my time explaining that it’s “not usually like this”.
That rain. This wind. This level of changeability.
I am leading my baby pony Ada, and we are out in front. Having her next to me this far away from her home paddock is a luxury. I am conscious that her limits for stretching further away from her friends are not the same as her older brothers, and so to be here with her now means we have company. That someone else is with us, which is not usually the case.
I pause for a moment, looking back. I stroke Ada’s still-downy, fluffy neck. And I am struck.
Ever since I was young, I’ve had a habit of taking photos with my mind. I can’t tell you where it’s come from, I just know that if I tell myself to remember this key moment, it does so. An imprint is created.
In this way, many friends, human and non-human, some with me and some since passed are carried with me, etched in behind my eyelids and my mind.
I looked and saw my dearest friend walking with one of the horses of my heart behind us on the track. I saw them in slow motion. She looked happy and so did he.
I admired him in that way we do when we are struck by the essence of someone. His mane down around his shoulders, his gaze view finding. His body purposeful and well.
And my friend, who had travelled all this way, her big heart shining all around her, was now touching, holding the horse I had told her of many times, in the place- my place- that I had spoken of endless times as well.
We can love things for ourselves and alone and that undoubtedly holds a certain beauty.
But to hand over the lead rope of your horse is often the closest thing we have to handing over our heart.
And that creates a joy that is not doubled, but instead forms its own equation that I have neither the numbers nor the skill level to count.
