Lessons From My Horse, Part 2

What do you do with grief, any grief, perhaps, but more so a really traumatic grief, the kind that didn’t happen at the right time or in the right order, in its proper place?  Those who have never faced this kind of grief don’t have the ability to fully comprehend it.  Those who have are not experts in it.  They only know where they’ve been and where they are.  And even that sometimes feels elusive.  Loss has existed for as long as the world has, certainly longer than humanity has, and yet in societies where we’ve managed to substantially cut our number and types of losses, we’ve also managed to lose our understanding and handling of grief.  We so easily forget.  

Traumatic grief changes people.  It changes every part of who you are.  You fear things you didn’t used to fear.  You don’t fear things you once did.  You have more patience for certain things and less patience for others.  You care differently, see differently, feel differently, experience everything differently.  And you want every person you know and every new person you meet to know all this, to know what happened, to know your life was once one way and is now another, to know that what they see is so little compared to the strange, inexplicable depth beneath that, to know that this is important to you.  But you don’t want to say it, because that doesn’t naturally come up in conversation.  And you want it to naturally come up.  You want it so badly.  You want to be able to say to that new friend, that new co-worker, that new boss, that you got up this morning feeling happy and content about the sunrise and hot tea, and excited about new things at work and that you’re also afraid and sad and basically going crazy inside, and all that feels normal to you.  Because it is normal now.  Because we humans can live in the middle of greater paradox than we think we can.  And because if it ever happens to them, you want them to know they won’t be alone.

Grief is strange.  We can go along for weeks, months, maybe years just living our lives, when one thing that has happened a hundred times, hits a different button than usual and knocks us to the floor, making us feel little different than we did days after the original tragedy.  Someone named that experience for me.  She called them grief attacks.  They show up when they feel like it and don’t bother consulting your schedule first, maybe even forcing you to email your new boss and explain why you can’t function like normal and have to take the day off.  Or maybe not.  But probably.  And you hope she can handle with care the burden that has just been unwittingly handed to her, because not everyone can.

In these dark moments, unplanned and unexpected, the ones where you feel the most out of control, your brain seems to halt all activity of normalcy while simultaneously racing through all your life experiences and relationships desperately searching for the one thing that will make you feel normal again, the thing that will give you back your sanity.  It is no surprise that some people land on destructive behavior.  Sometimes, I’m surprised more don’t.  For some of us, maybe many, the spinning wheel of possibilities slows to a stop not on family or friends, but, interestingly, on our animal companions.  

For many people, in a desperate search for normalcy, we discover no one gives us that better than our animals do.  Our pets are uncomplicated: they eat and they sleep on the same schedule every day, and they love you so long as you keep it that way and maybe even if you don’t.  They don’t ask questions.  They don’t wonder if they’re saying or doing the right things.  They’re not afraid of your loss and your grief, and most of all, they don’t look at you differently for the rest of their lives.  You existing and loving them and feeding them on time is the only criteria they need.  In the kindest way, our animals remind us that time keeps on ticking and the world goes on.  The elderly Ms. Threadgoode remarks in Fried Green Tomatoes, “A heart can be broken, but it keeps on a-beatin’ just the same.”  Sometimes the only heartbeat that keeps us moving is the one we feel when our animals lean up against us.

Last week, I was surprised by grief and had to leave work.  I sent the truth to my boss and a short email to everyone else explaining nothing and saying I wasn’t feeling well and just packed up and left, with tunnel vision, speaking to no one.  It took everything I had to get out while looking like I was at ease, even though I couldn’t get enough air and the world was pressing in around me.  I got in my car and headed out to the one place that gave me peace.  I went to see my horse.  

When I got out of my car and called out her name, her ears perked forward and she looked up and walked toward the fence.  In that moment, when just minutes ago the world seemed crazy and foreign, there is nothing better than a thousand pound animal, in a pasture full of distractions, responding to your voice.

Stella was the first place I went after receiving the news about my sister and nieces; she was my solace in the weeks following, and she brings me peace, even now, when I need it most.  When I walk her in circles and work to get her hind feet moving, she is not wondering how I’m getting by.  As I guide her through serpentines, she is not distracted by my grief.  More curiously, neither am I, because in that moment, I’m focused on what she’s doing and she’s focused on what I’m asking and the world beyond us is of no concern to either of us.  For that hour, all is right and uncomplicated.

What do we do with our grief?  When you’re spending time with the four-legged friends you love, nothing, I suppose.  We don’t have to do anything with it.  As I sat observing a nearby horse clinic today, the trainer encouraged the only pre-teen rider there and said to her, “As you grow older, you’ll discover that things will let you down in this world.  It is true.  It will happen at some point, and it will happen a lot, but your horse--your horse will never let you down.  Not ever.”  Animal companions are consistent and unwavering when all else is muddy and uncertain. They’ll sit with you.  They’ll walk with you.  They won’t ask you awkward questions, and they’ll love you today no differently than they did yesterday.  Because no matter how different you feel and how your heart breaks, their heart keeps on a-beatin’ just the same, and it’ll beat for you until yours is strong enough to start again.  No questions asked.  

Lessons From My Horse, Part 1

So I have this horse. She doesn’t actually belong to me, but I see her all the time, and I'm pretty sure I love her more than anyone else, and I hope someday she gets to be mine.

Working with a horse has been a frustrating, eye-opening, and remarkably rewarding experience. Horses are powerful. They can break your bones or kill you if you're flippant or foolish around them. And yet if you know how to ask, they will do anything for you. They will trust you, and the trust of a horse is no after thought.  It is a trust that says, I know I will not die as long as you’re here. 

Training a horse especially when you've never trained one before, is challenging for a very specific reason. The horse can't speak. She can't understand English. And I can't speak horse. And yet, horses can be taught to do the most incredible things. Why? Because horses can learn from non verbals. In fact, that's the only way to teach them. And they learn surprisingly fast. They learn so fast, that you better know what you're doing before you ask them to do it or you could end up teaching something you have to un-teach and fix at a later date.  Like, next week when you realize you didn’t mean what you taught.  Or is it that you didn’t teach what you meant? 

Working with a horse has taught me a lot about action. I can stand in the middle of the round pen and look at my horse and say, "Okay, it's time to lunge,” (which means exercising on a lead rope in a circle around the trainer) and she'll just stand there and look at me. But if I step to the right so I'm in line with her hip and simultaneously move my left hand, with the lead rope in it, out and point to the left, she'll instinctively start walking. I don't have to say a word. I may train her to understand the words "walk," "trot," "run," but she will only understand those words because they were connected to non verbals as she trained. 

Working with my horse has taught me that what I do matters a lot more than what I say and what I say MUST be connected to what I do, and I don't think this is any different than with people. The difference is, people can understand what I say and if I say something that is disconnected from what I am doing, they can judge me for it.  

In a place and time where people throw words around like healing balm and gyuto knives all at once, perhaps we would do well to hold our tongue and consider a different way of understanding one another.  I think it would do all church leaders some good to connect with someone who truly understands the equine species and learn a little of what it means to work with a horse. Who knows? It just might do wonders for the church. Maybe even miracles.

Horses are incredibly forgiving.  They fill in places we're not capable of filling ourselves.

--Buck Brannaman