"I and Thou" at Ring Lake Ranch, 2017

I’ve never been a horsewoman. But I wanted to be a horse girl. In fourth grade I asked for cowboy boots and a hat (those didn’t come until I bought them for myself as an adult). I also wanted a horse. Something drew me to horses, so that in the summer, when my family traveled to Colorado from Kansas, I prayed that horses would be involved. Years later, I even hoped that the surprise honeymoon which my father and husband-to-be were planning would involve a ranch in cowboy country. And it did. (Which, by the way, was not the best choice for a honeymoon, if you catch my drift.)

Years later John and I took another horseback ride, this one in the Hollywood Hills. We were accompanied by our Los Angeles family of grown children and their spouses. The six of us headed up and up the hills, as the sun set over the Pacific and the lights of the city twinkled below. Over the last hill we rode, finding a Mexican restaurant that felt like Shangri-La (we never could find it again by car). However, climbing into the saddle after dinner, my “sit bones” cried out for mercy. I think I stood up in the stirrups the entire ride back, moaning. John and I made a promise never to get on a horse again.

But yesterday my notion of horses shifted in the most magical of experiences. At Ring Lake Ranch in Dubois, Wyoming, the wrangler invited us to come to the corral. Several of us gathered on the porch and he told us the story of eleven-year old Martin Buber, the great Austrian born, Jewish philosopher. That summer Buber was once again visiting his grandparents on their estate. Whenever he could steal away unobserved, little Martin walked to the stables to be close to his favorite horse, a dapple-gray. One day, as he was petting the neck of this beautiful creature, his hand began to feel a connection he had never known with another creature. Instead of his horse being an “it,” the horse became the Other: not an object, but a subject. Connected to God.

Dewitt, our wrangler, wanted to find out if that connection might be possible for us. He began his introduction to the experiment by remarking that the only difference between a horse brain and a human brain is the absence of the prefrontal cortex. Like us, horses have a limbic system, emotions, and the ability to connect. Dewitt had created his plan last summer when he realized that we humans are always doing things to horses: saddling, riding, brushing. It was time to let them call the shots.

Our group stood in silence for ten minutes, quieting ourselves in order to be open to what might happen in the corral. Being a bit scared of horses, I was the last one to enter the corral. I found a spot near the gate and stood still with my eyes closed, repeating my mantram (mantra) of Deus meus et omnia, and listening to the sounds of creation – waiting to see if any horse would approach me.

Not a minute passed before two horses shuffled by, sniffing me up and down. As the one on my right began nibbling my arm (I could feel the TEETH), the one on my left began licking my face and my jacket. I tried not to jump. Of course I opened my eyes. That’s when I saw how enormous their feet were. And these two were so tall. My cowardice battled with a sense of wonder at the link that was building with these behemoths, and in an instant, the wonder won, and I fell in love.

Oddly, my fear didn’t entirely leave me, but was surrounded by a caress, like the caress I was giving the necks of these animals if they came and nudged me. My heart melted as I felt them responding back to me with gentle pushes and playful nips, trying to remove my hat. I continued the silent recitation of my mantram (in English: “My God and my all”) as we related to each other; I persisted in repeating it even as they grew curious elsewhere and moved on. Over the next several minutes, other horses came by to size me up, and as coached by the wrangler, I let them make the first move.

I was experiencing a physical meditation, I realized, much like the thirty minutes of Passage Meditation I commit myself to each morning as I silently repeat scripture and prayers. Except that this time, I witnessed giant teeth, huge nostrils, stomping hoofs, and strange, alarming mouth noises. I descended into a visceral contemplation, and the distance between horse and human dissolved.

My stress and brittleness of this summer began to soften. Here was a creature that needed choice as much as I did, whose very life was as important to creation as mine. I thought about how John teaches the first two chapters of Genesis that instead of dominating the world, we are called to protect and serve it. I thought of all the times these horses – and other animals – are employed to serve our needs. Now it was time to see us as equals.

We could just hang out, luxuriating in the connection. I and the Other.

Deus meus et omnia.

    Tigger and me.