When I was in fourth grade, my longing was centered around horses. To convince my parents that I needed one, I spent time on hands and knees. Not praying, but neighing. 

 

My mother went way out of her comfort zone, and budget, to send me to horse camp. Probably she hoped it would get the obsession out of my system rather than fuel it. The steed I cared for was named Avatar, and was the color of honey. It did sate me such that plastic Breyer toys and a blue bike were again enough. 

 

Bryn Athyn College Adult Academy hosted an equine retreat last week. For three days, I joined a cohort of women under the guidance of a trainer. We pressed pause on our obligations, and stepped into the ring. One at a time, we looked into the eyes of a being who is unruffled by social mores. We brought few words, but could not disguise our emotions. Which was what mattered. 

 

I entered the pen with Duchess, a mare who willingly carries a rider's weight. Gradually I loosened the grip on my burdens. She knew this. As I stood crying, she scooped her hips around me in an arc, rather like an embrace. There was no need to explain, or give me pity. 

 

Suddenly there was a child shouting across the street, and Duchess moved her great girth between me and the sound. She protected me. 

 

The next day I felt lighter. The task was to mirror the horse's behavior, and in preparation we humans practiced with each other. Those of us who lean heavily on words can forget how to simply observe and respond. In the pen, a Paint named Mira approached. She turned her head toward me, and I copied. Twice more, we regarded one another, and then she sauntered off, expecting me to follow. It reminded me of the scene in The Sound of Music, where Frederick learns a traditional dance from Maria, and after three curtsies they go for a little walk. 

 

This gentle encounter filled me with the joy of having a friend. 

 

Another woman who has some physical limitations took her turn in the ring. The horse brought her nose close to the cane the woman relies on, and gave full attention to her shoes and legs. She understood the need to be gentle. After a wordless exchange, the horse moved away, facing the other direction. She positioned herself within inches of the woman's rear. 
 

"She's got your back," the trainer translated. 

 

My third time in the pen, I savored the feel and lines of the horse's body. She was gracious enough to allow me to pet her fur, including a whorl on her neck. Her ears had a life of their own, turning independently, in acute attention to floating messages from every direction. I wished I had her capacity for listening. 

 

As I return to the world of people who expect things of me, I am grateful to the sentient beings who accept us as we are.