When I seriously needed rescue, I had no trust in humans—I chose a white horse, well a flea bitten grey Irish Draught instead.
It wasn’t that I thought it out. There was no plan. I just followed the well-worn path girls like me have taken for hundreds of years. While some might have sought sanctuary with their friends, I found my spiritual safe-haven in the field.
I was made welcome in this relationship like other lost souls before me.
To this day, a deep, slow whisper of a nicker, barely audible, is a balm to my soul. Just thinking about it gives me those lovely, gentle goose-bumps.
Horses have challenged my courage every day and I have done some daring and stupid things in the saddle. But nothing has prepared me for the raw courage and gut strength it takes to watch my soulmate grow old, and then to pass into spirit.
My hands know his body by heart. How many times has my hand touched his shoulder just to feel his warmth? How many times have I bathed him? He always had an arrogant tail, flashing it with each emotion.
He has told me more with his ears and his tail than most people do with an entire vocabulary.
He still speaks to me still.
A simple acknowledgment is all any of us want—just a nod and a touch.
When I meditate and I can feel his spirit connect with me, sometimes I tell him about my day; that I shared some skill that he taught me.
When I do a good job, he gets the credit.
I imagine resting my head on his neck and inhale that oh so familiar smell that still lets me know I’m home.
I'[d give anything for just one more physical touch, my palm flat and still, tucked in the warm place just under his mane, breathing with my soul horse.
I owe him a huge debt; he’s the one who brought me up in this world, and I will honour his lessons, until I am with him again.
Thank you Harvey x
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