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.