“There's a place where we don't have to feel unknown.” - from “Dear Evan Hansen”
Today, I got to visit my friend Lucy. I’ve been worried about her ever since I heard she lost her beloved companion of many years, Rocky. His passing was not a surprise (he was over 30 years old) but it was devastating for her. He’d been declining for several months and one morning could no longer get to his feet. He tried - oh how he tried in response to Lucy’s increasingly urgent nickers. He rolled to one side, scrambled to get his feet beneath him, but in the end just couldn’t do it. He laid back down with a heavy groan, breathing hard.
The vet was called, his human family summoned, and everyone had a chance to say good-bye. Lucy was there. Lucy knew. Lucy was in the stall beside his as he passed, but in a few short minutes she was suddenly and irrevocably alone. She did not take it well and has been wandering the field they shared whinnying for her friend in a deep, soft voice as if she knew it wouldn’t work but couldn’t help herself.
Hearing all this second-hand from my friend was hard. Lucy lives on my friend’s family farm almost an hour’s drive from my home. I would need a ride to get there. Eventually my friend and I managed to find a time we could make the drive, and we arrived at the farm just after 12:00 (noon) to find Lucy was already waiting.
I don’t profess to be a horse whisper, or any kind of whisperer for that matter, but years of doing bodywork with humans has taught me that all living creatures carry and express emotion. When they experience a trauma - physical and/or emotional - the trauma can get stuck in their bodies. My bodyworker instincts were urging me to reach out and touch Lucy - to put my forehead to hers, brush the mud from her coat, scratch the special places she loves, and help her feel she wasn’t alone.
Before walking into the field I spent a few minutes remembering Rocky’s sweet, generous spirit - his gorgeous bay coat, the star on his forehead and the funny blaze that ran down over his left nostril, the way he would amble over for a scratch but never insist (unlike Lucy who’s quite demanding), and gently nuzzle my hand with his whiskery lips. Then I took all those memories and all the love I felt for him with me into the field with Lucy. She came right up and stood quietly while I brushed and talked to her. At one point she laid her head on my shoulder and sighed. When she’d had enough, she ambled away and started doing the most ordinary of horse things - nibbling at the grass and racing the baby cows on the other side of the fence down to the bottom of the field.
How do I explain the gift Lucy gave me? Horses have always been touchstones for me - along with water and dolphins - but have been absent from my life for a long time. COVID intensified the sense that my tethers to the planet were slipping. My body and spirit were starving, craving the touch of dirt and grass and tree trunks, the smells of wet earth and cow dung, the breath of wind that’s traveled across oceans against my cheek, and the warm and solid presence of a horse who trusts me. Spending time with Lucy pulled me squarely back into the world of living things and for that I will always be grateful. See you soon sweet girl.
Copyright 2024 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
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This is just lovely, Jena, and the way it's supposed to work I think. Your generosity and empathy for Lucy was given with only her comfort in mind, and yet in doing so, her Lucyness anchored you back in a way no one else could have.
What a wonderful heartwarming story. It shows the need for and support of animals in our lives.