Three months ago, I unexpectedly entered into a relationship with a horse.
I met Zor during a visit to Liberty Stables in Florida, where I had gone to spend time with a friend’s horses. I had no particular expectations. I have no background with horses, no training, and no experience in equine-assisted therapy. I simply met this magnificent Friesian, and something quietly familiar unfolded between us.
I fell in love.
Not in the dramatic way we sometimes use that phrase, but in the quiet recognition of feeling unexpectedly at home in the presence of another living being.
When I returned a few months later, I wondered whether he would remember me.
He did.
I have found a deep contentment in being with Zor. Grooming him in his stall. Massaging his neck and shoulders. Singing softly while he lowered his great head to graze. Standing beside him without needing anything from him. I have never asked Zor to attend to me, carry me, or teach me. His quiet companionship has awakened something joyful in me. That has been enough for me.
One afternoon, I carried my chair into the pasture and placed it beneath the shade of a tree.
It was one of those Florida afternoons where the heat seems to shimmer above the grass. The horses grazed quietly under an endless blue sky. I settled into my chair, content to watch the horses, listen to the birds, and perhaps take a nap. As I entered the pasture, Zor lifted his head and followed me with his eyes. Once I was seated beneath the tree, he returned to grazing.
For a long while I simply sat. My body softened. My mind became quiet. My eyes sometimes closed as I listened to the song of nature.
After a while I noticed that Zor had slowly changed position. He moved in a gentle arc that gradually brought him closer.
Having heard stories about the way he sometimes greeted people, I stood and stepped in front of him to say hello. I preferred not to discover what happens when a two-thousand-pound horse decides to make his presence known by tipping over my chair.
Once met, he returned to grazing.
I remained beneath the tree to have my scheduled phone session with a client. It had been a rough week. Testing revealed that the tumors in her body had grown.
As painful as the diagnosis itself was the experience of trying to receive care. Tests were delayed. Decisions postponed. Phone calls unanswered. She wasn’t simply carrying cancer. She was carrying the exhaustion of trying to find her way through a medical system that seemed unable to meet her with clarity or care.
The phone in my back pocket, an AirPod in one ear, one hand rested on my heart, and the other rested on his.
Quietly, in my own awareness, I introduced them and returned to listening. Zor continued grazing as we moved together across the pasture.
Eventually he wandered beneath a small tree, stopped grazing, and looked directly at me.
For the remainder of our conversation, I stroked his face while listening to this lovely woman navigate this challenging season of her life.
In time, something softened. Her voice became lighter as we moved from frustration toward the next small steps before her. Zor remained completely still beneath my hand. No one hurried the conversation.
This exchange included two humans, a horse, birdsong, the warm sun, and a gentle breeze. Everything belonged.
Toward the end of our conversation, Zor lifted his head, gave a great snort, and calmly returned to grazing. My client heard it through the phone. She laughed, as did I. “I think we’re complete,” she said. Reminding me how her dog always knew our conversation was ending a few minutes before we said goodbye.
“Please thank that horse for me.”
I returned to my chair beneath the tree and closed my eyes. For a long moment I simply rested in that experience.
There is no miraculous ending to this story.
I don’t know whether that afternoon changed her treatment, her health, or even her day. I don’t need to know. I only know that I was part of something beautiful.
A woman seeking healing. A horse quietly grazing. One hand resting on my own heart. The other resting on his.
Three hearts participating in the same quiet field of presence.
Peace be with you and with all. No exceptions.
Learn the one essential skill that allows you to face any challenge with confidence, sturdiness, and inner calm.
More than a technique. It’s a game changer.
I walked out of the gym one morning into a cold, dreary New Jersey rain.
After my challenging workout, I gingerly lowered myself into the driver’s seat. Taking stock, I felt cold, damp, and hungry. My butt muscles hurt and I didn’t think my packed lunch was sufficient to fuel my entire work day.
I was driving home with my daughter when we noticed a large snapping turtle crossing the roadway. It was a tiny back street lined with a small pond.
I recently found myself thinking about activism. About the many ways we show up for what matters to us.
As I considered this, three memories arrived. Rapidly, as if they were part of my contemplation.
The first was a conversation I had with a woman in my town. She was giving me an update on her recent gathering with other mothers protesting against gun violence. I was interested as we had explored what mattered to her as she approached retirement. Protecting children in schools and on street corners mattered, so she joined with other moms who cared about the same.
Three months ago, I unexpectedly entered into a relationship with a horse.
I met Zor during a visit to Liberty Stables in Florida, where I had gone to spend time with a friend’s horses. I had no particular expectations. I have no background with horses, no training, and no experience in equine-assisted therapy. I simply met this magnificent Friesian, and something quietly familiar unfolded between us.
I fell in love.
Eight years ago, I traveled to Costa Rica for a week-long retreat centered around ayahuasca, breathwork, yoga, and deep inner exploration.
Like many people who are drawn to these experiences, I went seeking something. You might call it a Divine encounter. You might call it awakening. You might call it healing.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. I only knew there seemed to be a place people spoke about. That place beyond ordinary life.
The women who arrive in my classes, retreats, and therapy sessions are sincerely looking for healing, expansion, clarity, or sometimes just a little room to breathe.
They are thoughtful women, deeply engaged with the people and work they love. Rarely do they arrive because they want another spiritual philosophy. Most are carrying something much more ordinary.
A life that has become full. Beautiful in many ways, but crowded.
