Come gather by my sacred fire. Toss in your demons for transmutation. Warm your heart in its glow. Rise anew from the ashes. Let your spirit fly up in the smoke. Light your path with its embers. You are loved and welcomed here.

“Where are you, you ungrateful little asshole?!” Crouched behind the woodpile, I hear dad storm out of the house and slam the front door. Startled, I look up to see the splintered fingers of hemlocks surrounding me, wispy blue sky peeking through. I feel the course grain of dirt, twigs and needles on my hands and feet with the woodpile the only thing standing between me and his unpredictable, fiery rage.

Moments before, I had wrapped myself in nature’s small cocoon with my fort of creative fantasy. Now, as I feel the hard spikes of adrenalin rocketing through my limbs, fighting for every breath, I wonder – just what is it that I have done? I search my heart and mind while the woodpile silently stands witness, as fortress and refuge. I never found the source of his angst, and he never found me that day, either. Nonetheless, the woodpile still stands with me, taking many forms through the years.

It took the form of a cluttered, oak dining table. On one side my father sat with his open Bible, boasting yellow highlights interspersed with red underlines. “God has a calling for my life, and you’re going to be part of that,” he said. I feebly nodded from my chair on the opposite side. At 12 years old, I was too young to know what it felt like to be dead inside. Still, while I witnessed the world moving around me with vibrant colors, inside I felt gray and bleak. I consoled myself by thinking this was my devotion – to shut down and endure. Both safety and love became tethered to being agreeable and muted.

The woodpile took the form of a victorian hardwood church pew juxtaposing a man behind a pulpit – plumber by weekday, preacher on Sunday. Like a peacock, he led every church service in his suit and tie, his wife dutifully playing the piano in a plain skirt and faded cardigan. Oh, how I loved to request hymn number 432 every Sunday. Music and animals awoke the colors inside me. One Sunday evening, as we reflected on Genesis 1:26, I boldly shot my hand into the air. “My horse and I have a special bond. He comes to me, and I feed him carrots. I know he feels things!” The resulting laughter soaked through my body and settled in the woodpile around my heart. “No,” said preacher plumber man. “No, they don’t have souls and they don’t have emotions. Only humans do.”

A manager’s cubicle became a woodpile too. I spent my days encapsulated in that square, gray box that held my tears. 42933 – the number on my badge that granted me exclusive access to the server closet, air-conditioned and humming with the blinking lights of hard drives and storage area networks. To this electronic sanctuary, I slipped away, hot tears spilling silent and dark, one woman in a field of men.

The woodpile became a staircase – one that separated me from the man who, for 17 years, I called husband and best friend. I checked all the boxes that were supposed to make me happy, but the colors still eluded me. After 16 celibate months, all that remained was me, asleep upstairs in our bed while he walled me out downstairs on the couch. There was no more try left inside. I didn’t want to be married anymore.

Today, I sit alone by the fire and write, dozing cat purring beside me. The second love of my life gone now, too. I reflect on all the years and how that woodpile formed my way of being. I begin to wake from my own slumber, that inner death that once defined my safety has truly become the barrier to my fulfillment. A woodpile can serve to light a fire, but in my case, it served to protect me for many years. Or so I thought. In the end, that woodpile kept life out and me in. The time is long overdue to light a fire to that pile and pull my heart from the ashes.

Trepidatious. I know that feeling when I have convinced myself that I need to ride. Wrapped up in red – red fuzzy pullover, red Guess sweatpants, red BMW hurtling me closer to the barn. 7,500 feet above sea level my choice awaits me – a 1,200-pound bay horse with his curious eye and soft, winter fuzz for a coat. He might as well be a dragon today.

I tap the four-digit gate code on the silver pad as a blue Toyota pulls up behind me. My friend Megan patiently waits for the gate to haltingly glide open. She always seems to be patiently waiting for me like this on my journey of stuttering leaps and halts.

We park, then walk and talk our way into the barn alley where the frigid wind can wipe the comforting glow from even the warmest garment. “We going to ride today?” I ask, knowing the answer. “I’d like to,” Megan responds. I play it cool, grabbing his purple rope halter and pulling open the stall door. I steel myself to move forward as both my feet and my heart sink in wood shavings.

Clip, clop, swish, clip, clop, swish…the sound of my cowboy boots on the partially frozen ground of the 14-foot run signal my approach. He hears me before he sees me. He comes to me. He always comes to me.

I open the gate to his paddock, and he says hello in his way – furry muzzle reaching out to examine my hands and pockets. 98% of the time I have treats for him. Maybe they say that the way to a horse’s heart is through his stomach, maybe they don’t. It certainly seems to be the case for mine.

I open the halter and he places his head through the noseband, cradling his 120-pound head in my arms as I loop the crownpiece over his neck and secure the knot – over, under, make a D, then loop it through. Perhaps from an outside perspective, this would appear to be a touching moment of sweetness and connection. Yet, my body tenses as he snaps his head up, ears alert – looking into the distance and prancing. I question myself, did I pick the wrong day to ride?

And the truth is, I’ve had this day over 300 times in the four years we’ve been together. And 297 days have been wonderfully magic. But those other three days are what make today a force of will. The experience of the horizon rocking back and forth as the ground draws ever closer till it reaches you with a bone-crushing smack – the shock never quite left my nervous system.

But I refuse to let those three experiences define the rest of my life. Today is a new day, and even though when we approach the alley where the other horses are either waiting to be groomed and saddled or standing patiently tied while their caregivers put away the tack, he whinnies in that shrill way of desperately looking for his herd, I refuse to give in to my own fear.

The other horses whinny back a grasping reply. I sense their acknowledgment and concern for each other. “It’s okay, buddy. Your only job right now is to relax.”

“Ladies, is it okay for us to come through?” Megan and the other rider nod their agreement and press their horses to one side, making space for us to pass through. I walk confidently past, and yet my 16.1 hand companion hesitates at the door to the indoor arena.

I press on the lead rope, “Come on, buddy!” He balks, lifting his head high in the air. I release the pressure momentarily and ask again. He refuses a second time, shaking his head high and backing. In a battle of strength between a human and a horse, the winner is obvious. But I’m not up for a battle of wills today.

Instead, I step out of the pillowy arena sand back onto the cold pavement of the barn alley. We turn and walk for 20 feet, and turn back again. This time I walk directly through the door and he follows me seamlessly. I relax a little more inside of myself with the give and take that is our timeless dance. What do you need? What do I need? How do we accomplish that together?

I grab a dusty black whip as we walk to the center of the arena, and I untangle the long purple rope that serves as a lunge line. I gently ask him to walk out the circle, hoping to connect and relax together before riding. I’ve learned from my past experiences that regardless of the circumstances, it is most dangerous when we are disconnected from one another in our fears and stories, and can no longer feel or hear the other.

He relaxes, and I relax. Or was it the other way around? Either way, I’m ready to ride. I slip off the halter, slip on his bridle and walk over to the mounting block where I ask him to stand. I slowly step up…one…two…three stairs and lean over his bare back in my first attempt to mount. He begins to walk away, and I abort. On my third try, I finally slide on. I feel my tailbone on his spine and examine my position relative to his withers. I press my body position back slightly so as not to impinge on his scar tissue.

Megan has already saddled and entered the arena, and is now walking, trotting and cantering with her horse at varying intervals. I know we won’t be doing that today, and sadness and despair tug at my cells and envelop my heart. We used to be there, but we are building again from the baseline.

He immediately drives a buddy sour line to the other horse, seeking the comfort of his herd instinct. But I ask for something else – something that presses against his natural inclination. “Let’s go the other direction, buddy.” He resists, pulling his head the direction he wants to go. I feel that familiar terror rise inside of me as I think to myself, “If I don’t give him what he wants, something bad is going to happen.”

Because how many times has that really been true in my life? That way of accommodating has been my survival. And here he is – my magnificent mirror showing me the barriers that need breaking inside me.

And in that moment, I catch myself. In the past, I gave in to that crushing pressure inside to let him have his way, to allow him to dominate. To bulldoze me. To disregard my asking. But this time, I simply ask again. And again. And again. Until he acknowledges my request. I didn’t bulldoze or dominate him in return. Instead, I asked with clarity, kindness, strength and faith.

And as simple as that, with no drama, he turned and went the direction I requested.

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That’s all for now. Until the next impulse, I hope you revel in the magic that you are, now and always.

Love,
H2