Crucible

“It is strange to be here . . .” John O’Donohue, philosopher and poet.

This is a quote from O’Donohue’s book Anam Cara, which speaks of the power of beauty as a spiritual presence all around us, especially in nature, a power that brings us back to our deepest selves and puts us in touch with our inner divinity. Horses, of course, are always expressing this and they, too, I think, bring us into this presence.

Dorian’s new home has been a wonder in many ways. But one horse seems to be quite a bully and keeps Dorian pinned to the farthest reaches of the pasture, away from the other horses and especially from his new friend, Casey. And sometimes this horse will charge me and Dorian when I try to take him out of the pasture.

I’m going to call him Peter here in deference to his owner. I also won’t be sharing any photos of him, for the same reason.

I’ve thought about how miserable Peter must be. The focus of his entire being seems aimed at expressing dominance, anger, or hatred to horses that might otherwise be his friends. Horses who might otherwise play with him. He could be living a life full of joy and companionship, freedom, harmony, and belonging instead of isolation and pain.

I was told Peter “doesn’t like other horses,” and that he’d been kicked as a young colt—his head has a clear dent in it from the incident.

It’s made me think about how we respond to suffering. Some revered teachers tell us that suffering is the path to compassion. Suffering is necessary. Others suggest managing it is the solution, or delving deeply into it—inhabiting it—for its lessons. Most of us, let’s be honest, run from it or sink into it as if we haven’t a choice.

I recently injured my ribs somehow. Even taking a breath caused sharp pain. I bound myself up in a brace. Isn’t that another way we handle pain and suffering? We tightly bind it to ourselves?

A few days ago, I stood in the pasture with Dorian as he grazed next to Casey in the far corner of the pasture. Several yards in front of us, Peter stood square to us, staring at the pair. I stood between him and the two horses calmly grazing behind me. Peter wouldn’t graze, but kept a trained focus on us.

The interesting thing about this horse is that he follows me or seeks me out in the pasture if I’m not haltering Dorian. He’ll come up to me, lay his muzzle on my forearm, and gaze at me with soft, very young eyes. He’s ten, but being with him in those moments, he seems much younger. He has a hard time if I try to separate myself from him and retrieve Dorian.

I thought at first that, as his rider mentioned, he was a “people” horse. I realized later something else was going on.

Dorian and Casey at the water trough—a rare, sweet moment.

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about what we owe the past. For many of us, its imprisoning messages operate below the surface of our awareness, causing us to live out lives less accomplished than we would want. Lives that leave us perplexed, perhaps angry, stuck in a never-ending cycle of repeating self-inflicted wounds programmed in us from a distant past.

“There’s a place in the soul where you’ve never been wounded.”Meister Eckhart, 14th century German philosopher, theologian, and mystic.

And isn’t it interesting that we attract that which resonates most profoundly with us? Even if it is injury, pain, sorrow . . . or suffering.

The other interesting thing about this situation is that Dorian doesn’t seem perturbed or upset too much by any of it. He’s regained his conformation and topline after a week and a half at the new barn—unbelievable as that sounds, it’s true. He’s alert and seems content to hang out with Casey when he can or quietly graze alone when Peter is on the prowl.

It’s as if Peter’s ugliness doesn’t touch his experience. He’s living in a wholly different landscape than the one I witness. He’s happy, content, serene, and healthy. But at times he’s also vigilant, as if on guard. He’s gotten very good at keeping himself safe while still enjoying his life. Great lesson—have no resistance . . . take in the good, avoid the harm. Dwell in the present reality where all is well, and trust the universe to adjust all to itself.

On the other hand, I’ve had a range of responses! Anger at Peter, insistence that Dorian “stand up for himself,” perplexity at why I’d been prompted to move him to a barn where he was bullied.

But those responses, I came to realize, were all rooted in my own sense of what “should” be happening or what “should” be done.

In fact, a whole new understanding was waiting for me.

One day I took Dorian for a walk in the woods. It was too muddy to ride, so we picked our way through the tall trees and soft, leaf-laden trails. I found myself singing to him.

After a bit, I realized how much Peter’s past and the past of so many people align. As a young colt, he’d been harmed, certainly an unjust and likely startlingly devastating experience from the size of the dent in his forehead. We’ve all endured injuries of one sort or another, we all have experiences that leave dents in our souls.

Goodness, I thought, I knew exactly how to help Peter.

In a moment, what had seemed so directed at Dorian, I saw was perhaps one of the reasons I’d been drawn to the barn in the first place.

Have I mentioned the name of the barn is “Liberty Stables”?

So, again . . . what do we owe the past? Many of us struggle against the harms of childhood. I’ve realized that struggling against them only keeps them active in our experience.

If we focused on abuse, that’s what we create. If we focus on lack, that’s what we experience. If we focus on not being able to free ourselves—well, being “imprisoned” by the past is what we also create.

What Peter was exhibiting was something I knew well—he was creating and recreating the horribly unjust injury and who knows what else, that had been inflicted on him. I had a flash of a small, joyful colt leaping and playing in a long-ago pasture. That had all come to a halt in one instant of pain and disorienting injury.

In the next instant, I went from perplexity, anger, and feeling as trapped by Peter as Dorian seemed to be . . . to wanting nothing more than to hold sweet little Peter and help him release all that was binding him.

I took Dorian back to the pasture and began singing and talking to Peter. As Dorian always does, Peter’s ears twitched back and forth—he was listening to me, taking in the soothing messages of love and letting go.

The next morning, I was doing my preparatory work and suddenly who shows up in my mental field but Peter. He was literally shaking in fear, and that very young little being I’d seen in my mind’s eye was suddenly right in front of me. He was terrified, but I also sensed his desire to understand, to let go of the darkness. I invited him into my arms, held him, and talked to him about what is so hard won in many of us.

“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” Rumi, 13th century Persian poet.

Letting go and being grateful. An odd combination in response to abuse, pain, and injury, perhaps. But a healing one.

And so I think what we owe the past is recognition that we survived, recognition that we are pure and untouched, and gratitude for the strength and gifts birthed in us in crucibles of horror. And then, we can release it all and create what we truly desire.

It is, as John O’Donohue noted, very strange to be here . . . he speaks after this of how the mystery never leaves us. I think the mystery attracts us and allows us to step out of ourselves to look at the life we live and not say “Is there something more than this?” Rather, with a deep knowing, we say “There is something more than this.”

We glimpse it sometimes in the mist.

“Crucible” —a container that can withstand devastating heat.

I don’t know what Peter will do with this new willingness to engage the fires of his darkness. But I’ll be the container in moments of great need if called upon.

And also I think this: perhaps our awareness of how strange it is to be here is the very catalyst that prompts us to step out of the chaos, to endure, to contain what needs to be contained until the darkness recedes in the presence of light.

There are so many of us who can do this work, and it’s never been more needed than now.