A Horse’s Wisdom
The sun radiates from the heavens as my brother and I make our way to a small family ranch in southwestern Montana. In late spring, the grass is a vibrant green pocketed with bursts of yellow flowers, waving pleasantly in the afternoon breeze. The sunlight is a warm, golden delight, so rich I think if it could be bottled and drank, it’d taste sweeter than honey.
We wind our way past ranch after ranch, spotting cows and inadvertently running magpies off the side of the road. Our excitement and curiosity for the weekend grows. We don’t know what to expect from a Memorial Day weekend doing equine therapy with a group of military veterans. In my mind, we’re about to spend a leisurely few days enjoying the countryside and riding horses, an activity I’ve always been highly fond of even with little expertise. Eventually, nestled at the narrowest point of the valley between two small peaks, we reach our destination at Upper Canyon Outfitters.
Pulling past a pen of at least two dozen horses, I spot a few mules and donkeys at the far end, and a few cattle dogs are poised near the main lodge to greet us. After signing in and meeting some of the ranch workers, we have plenty of time to roam, relax, and meet the horses before dinner. We soak in the scenery near a pond at the ranch’s end where a bald eagle has her nest. Trout swim in the water, and a faux alligator head staves off hungry birds. We walk along the fence of the pen and hold out our hands to any horse in search of some human affection, and mostly find the noses of mules. We play some cards as new group members arrive, and fall into conversation with each other as dinner is prepared.
Among us are members from various branches of the military with an array of backgrounds, from infantry and para-rescue to logistics and flying fighter jets. Some of us had intentions for the weekend, some of us didn’t. Some of us wanted to be there, some of us were coerced to be. All of us were filled with our own traumas and haunting experiences that we carried whether we knew it or not, and all of us had things to face, whether we were prepared to or not. The process of learning how to handle and connect with a horse would turn out to be a process of learning how to handle and connect with ourselves. While that process can be scary — even terrifying because of the shadows it means we must face and integrate — it’s also what gives us a greater capacity for the love, goodness, and connection that the deepest parts of our souls crave and need. With the leadership and guidance of the program’s president, a wizardly woman named Cassie, all of us stepped deeper into that part of ourselves and were made stronger by what we found.
The first day consisted of learning the basics of natural horsemanship. Cassie personally paired us with our horses, which we then learned how to catch, tie, and lead through various groundwork exercises. I was assigned a beautiful black horse named Jasper. He had a dramatic mane that reminded me of any early 2000s punk rock band, with a small white mark on his forehead beneath his bangs. He was a chatty fellow, often huffing and puffing about this and that, but he wasn’t skittish or disobedient. When we went in for lunch and our afternoon classroom session, I found myself looking back at him, already reluctant to leave. As he held my gaze, my reluctance grew.
That afternoon, gathered in the sunroom, we talked about bottom-up regulation, a skill inspired by the work of Dr. Bruce D. Perry. Bottom-up regulation involves steadying the nervous system from its foundation, the brain stem, in order to think clearly, especially in stressful or triggering circumstances. Dr. Perry breaks the brain into four parts: the brain stem, which regulates the body’s basic physical functions like heart rate and respiration, the diencephalon, which regulates movement and communication between the brain and body, the limbic system, which regulates emotions, relationships, and connection, and, finally, the frontal lobe, which regulates logical reasoning.
For military members and people who live through extreme circumstances, information can get cut off from the limbic system during traumatic or particularly stimulating situations. When survival isn’t guaranteed, the brain stem, diencephalon, and frontal lobe get amped up, while the limbic system gets turned down. On one hand, in situations like combat, overriding the limbic system in order to focus on surviving the mission can be hugely beneficial. In unsafe environments, this is called adaptive behavior. On the other, when trauma keeps the brain in a perpetual pattern of overriding the limbic system, we no longer fully or healthily process our emotions, navigate our relationships, or experience authentic, meaningful connections, either to ourselves or to others. In safe environments, this is called maladaptive behavior. Overriding the limbic system doesn’t cause the emotions to go away. Rather, the emotions and their energies get compartmentalized deeper in the brain, where they fester like toxic mold. Sooner or later, whether we like it or not, that limbic system comes knocking, and it’s looking for exactly what the rest of the brain wants to avoid: connection.
We live in a world where authentic, meaningful connection can be difficult to come by. In addition to our own life experiences, some of which have probably gone around the limbic system, we have to filter through technology, polarization, and woefully overblown egos as we look for connection in our daily lives. In addition to the things we carry that make connecting to ourselves a challenge, the things we face in the world make it difficult to connect to others, doubling our sense of loneliness and isolation.
When it comes to horses, however, there is no ego trying to override an emotional state, no filter which hides their true faces and selves. They just are, stunning and powerful four-legged tons of muscle and majesty, and they do not care who you are, where you’ve been, or what you’ve gone through.
They just care that you’re going to show up for them, because that’s when they will show up for you.
A human’s electromagnetic field extends several feet around the body, and a horse’s between eight and twelve. When a person isn’t aligned within themselves — when they have fear banging on their mental doors or sadness or doubts or shame shouting through the chambers of their heart — and they step into the radius of a horse’s field, that animal is going to feel the unstable energy and reflect it. In order to connect to a horse and prove that it can trust you to be its rider, you have to approach it from a calm, centered place where the nervous system is regulated from the bottom up.
We weren’t there to learn how to ride horses; we there to learn how to know, connect to, and regulate ourselves so that we could learn to ride horses. It wasn’t like learning how to drive a humvee or fly an airplane (or how to operate a camera or ski). There was no user manual we could turn to if things went wrong. There were no spare parts or jerry-rigs to fix problems. This was about real, raw connection to nature in one of her purest forms, which required real, raw connection to ourselves in our own purest forms.
That evening, we connected with our horses through a process of guiding their direction and speed around a small round pen. One at a time, each of us stood in the center and used a long pole with a handkerchief tied to the end to communicate our intentions to the horse as it ran around in circles. We sped them up, slowed them down, and changed their direction for a few minutes before setting down the pole and turning our back. If the horse was willing, it would approach us from behind and follow us around the pen, ready to be our trusted partners.
Every person’s experience was unique, but each was deeply moving to watch and be part of. Being chosen and accepted by this animal of another language comes with an overwhelming sense of gratitude that’s hard to explain. It’s like the spirit of Mother Nature herself embracing you, telling you that you’re worthy, that you’re enough, that she loves, holds, and respects you in spite of what you’ve seen.
All that from the nudge of a horse testing to make sure you stand on steady feet.
The next day, I went out after breakfast to watch the horses come in, and it was like watching a movie. Horses run with might and purpose. Most of that purpose is to avoid the snarling dogs motivating their movement, but they do it with mesmerizing majesty; their manes blowing in the wind against the morning sun, their hooves clopping gently like a friendly parade. I spotted Jasper and told him good morning, then lost him in the crowd as the horses dispersed into the dry pen for the day. I was nervous to catch him. I felt really off and shaky after a poor night’s sleep, and despite being excited for day two, my emotions ran high and I felt disconnected. Jasper must’ve sensed it, because I was one of the last people out of the pen that morning. He stood in the middle of a dozen other horses, so I had trouble getting to him. He moved away a few times, and the presence of several thousand-pound rear ends didn’t add to my confidence.
When I did finally get to him, I took several steady breaths with my hands on his neck and side, meditating until I felt calm and ready to start. His presence helped me forget the morning’s woes and my fatigue, but he was still wary about following me toward a day of work when I finally got him tied up. Horses are quite lazy, and Jasper was no exception.
We started the day with a simple but wonderful meditation. Standing next to our horses, we put our hands flat on their bodies, and with a deep breath, we fell into a peaceful presence with our animals beneath our touch. We focused on our breath, the sounds, the smells, the feeling of our horses’ fur under our fingertips. I felt the gentle sway of Jasper’s body move slightly back and forth, and I listened as his snorts became more numerous and forceful. After several minutes, we concluded the meditation, and each of us had a calm, relaxed horse by our side. Jasper leaned into me, and I threw my arm over his shoulder and leaned back. Cassie pointed out the signs of a relaxed horse — snorts, bowed head, licking lips, poising one rear hoof on the toe, flatulence — and noted how calm each of our animals were. A quiet gratitude swept through the group, and many of us turned toward our horses once more, gleaming with smiles.
We spent the rest of the morning learning how to groom and saddle, then we spent the afternoon learning the basics of mounting and riding. Jasper was all trot and no walk the second I sat up straight, and his attitude didn’t change. He afforded me a good opportunity to keep calm and use pressure to direct his actions, which he responded to quite well. We went out for a short ride just beyond the pen, and Jasper and I quickly fell into a smooth rhythm. He grunted and snorted as we walked, presumably because he would’ve rather been munching on some grass somewhere. I returned his chatter amicably, which may have been nonsensical but I knew he listened. When the ride was over and it was time to desaddle and turn out, I once again felt reluctant to leave him. What started out difficult and uneasy transformed into gentle and rewarding. I struggled to get him out of the pen at the beginning of the day, but everything after that felt simple. I took my time grooming him — looking for all the mud, brushing all the hair, picking out all the rocks from his feet — and it was a meditative experience itself. I simply moved through the process without thinking about what was coming next, offering Jasper affection every once in a while and feeling his in turn. At one point, I placed my hand on the center of his chest, laid my other arm across his body and my head on his shoulder. I took a few deep breaths, then felt his head turn toward me. For all I know, something interesting could’ve caught his eye, but in that moment, it felt like he was returning my hug.
We had a few minutes to unwind before our evening debrief. I laid on the ground of my room and stretched my body, reflecting on the day as I moved stiff muscles and joints. I thought about Jasper and the way he watched me walk away from him; the ease of spirit I felt when riding him through the valley, the comfort of his presence intermixed with mine, the gentleness of his animal eyes and his swooping lashes. I thought about the way he looked at me when I walked up to him after being gone for a while, as though he recognized me, and it was the vision of his face in those moments that broke me to tears. In one fell swoop, a great sadness washed over me. A dam burst, and the tears flowed freely. I learned that weekend that tears are the most potent form of cortisol; the fastest way for the body to process and release stress. I wondered where this stress, this sudden outpouring of emotions came from. I couldn’t find the answer before it was time to meet with the group.
The group sessions were beautiful, but difficult. We reflected on things that were like magicians’ scarves; where we pulled on one, a whole string of others came with it. People got vulnerable, and I commended their willingness to be so brutally raw and powerfully honest both with themselves and all of us. It is no easy thing to bare one’s heart to so many people as witness. The first day, I didn’t think I’d have anything to be so emotional or vulnerable about, especially that I’d feel the need to give to the group. Ha! The universe loves proving me wrong.
A few people spoke about the day, and reflected on Cassie’s questions. She had the best way of teasing things out of us with her questions. In many ways, Cassie inspired me to a vision of what being my fullest self could mean for me and the people whom I come to serve in this life. She also had mastery over prompting us further, or letting us stew in silence when we needed to. There were several moments that evening when we needed to stew. Many of us had a lot on our mind. My eyes were fountains since I got back to my room after turning out Jasper. There was a particularly long silence at one point, and I told the group I couldn’t speak yet while hopelessly trying to hold back tears. Then, those who had yet to share began to do so with a lot more willingness, and there was no more silence.
It was so interesting to see how eleven strangers could come together in such a unique setting and so quickly start to lean on each other for strength and support. I showed that I couldn’t share yet, and everyone accepted that. I let myself cry as quietly and gracefully as I could muster while the others spoke, and everyone had valuable things to say. It was more open than the day before, which had already been pretty honest, and it was powerful to see how we were inspiring each other to do the work, the real work, of going within, getting uncomfortable in our honesty, and communicating our truths out loud. We made a safe space for each other to do that. Maybe it had something to do with us being veterans. We each had completely different experiences, but we each volunteered to be part of the same something that goes beyond ourselves. These were good people who wanted good for the world, and they knew they needed to get good with themselves in order to bring that about. That’s my perspective. That’s my own journey. That’s why I’m trying to do the work.
When it was finally my turn to share, I calmed down enough to explain what was going on in my head and heart. It wasn’t just sadness; it was all of it. The tears that poured from my eyes and down my cheeks held all the emotions I felt for everything. It was the joy of connecting to something so beautiful, the sadness of having to say goodbye to it, and the things I left unsaid, like the anxiety and fear of inadequacy, the shame of ego, the anger toward greed, cruelty, and lies, the gratitude toward love, laughter, and friendship — the sacred, unspeakable beauty of all things in the Divine. I told them how much I was going to miss Jasper, and in spite of being so grateful for the connection I made with him, I was so incredibly and viscerally sad that I was going to have to say goodbye. I think I was also sad to say goodbye to all of them, that family, and that place — a slice of heaven in the rolling hills of Montana, a haven for those who need healing and hope. And it was okay; I understood that all things are temporary, that every hello inevitably comes with goodbye, that all things must end. And yet there I was, my logic failing to stop the tears from rolling down my face.
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At this point, Cassie had repositioned herself in the circle to sit next to me, which I thought incredibly thoughtful and kind. She offered her calming presence while I processed my emotions, and she didn’t need to say anything about it in order to do so. After I spoke, she gave me a concerned look, but the glean of a powerful wisdom lay behind her eyes and came through her words.
“I hear you speaking in a scarcity mindset,” she said. “Connection is hard and scary, because it always goes away. You don’t want to connect because you don’t want to feel the pain of losing the connection.”
She said a bunch of other wise stuff that I wish my brain could’ve perfectly recorded, but it really struck me. I reflected all evening and the next morning. I often viewed life and existence with a scarcity mindset. Everything would eventually end. On the other side of love’s coin is loss, and when it is time to cast it into the well of goodbye, letting go can be an incredibly painful process. As someone who has had to navigate a fair share of loss, I can easily fall into a scarcity mindset and only see the loss in something beautiful.
But the thing is, in an infinite and eternal universe, there is always love and connection. It may appear like it isn’t around us in our lives or in the world, but if that’s all that we see, then it isn’t what’s out in the world that isn’t functioning right; it’s what’s going on inside our own hearts and minds. We always have love and connection; it’s within us. When we learn to cultivate our connection to ourselves and we ground that relationship in love, then there is never a time when we are without love. Yes, we experience love in and from the world, but that love, whether by death or by circumstance, does end. This is the nature of reality. It’s how physics understands energy; energy and matter are in a constant state of flux. It’s how the Buddha described a fundamental aspect of existence; annica or impermanence. Everything is always in flux; our relationships to others, our relationships with ourselves, our understandings of reality. We are consistently navigating these as we go about our lives, and if we’re doing so from a place of disregulation and inner turmoil, we are failing in some or all respects to uphold them with honor, integrity, and honest love.
A horse reflects all of this. It does not matter that you run it around a pen for a few minutes one evening and shower it with affection for a while after. You’re both different beings the next day, even if just slightly. You have to readjust to yourself and get regulated, whatever that means, every single day. Then, you have to adjust to the horse for the day. You don’t slack off on grooming because you don’t feel like reaching further down on its chest. You do it because that’s proper care. Your care leads to its comfort, which leads to your care and comfort in turn. They are mirrors to our inner realities, and because we don’t want to spook or overwhelm animals who could crush us even if they don’t know it, we have to confront those realities and turn over what stones need to be turned so that both and all spirits can exist peacefully and well.
To help us find those stones, that evening we were taken to a rock pile down the road and up the hill overlooking more of the valley. The rocks came from granite slabs in the earth that were slowly removed by the multiple generations of the family that owned and ran the ranch when they built on the land. Our task was to pick out as many rocks as felt right to pick, and write things for our horses to carry up the mountain where we would be free to leave them or take them with us. We were also encouraged to grab rocks for anyone we wanted to honor for Memorial Day. I found a few for the things I wanted to leave behind, and one for my dearly missed sister and friend, Sydny. My brother picked one up for our oldest brother who died 15 years ago this May. He didn’t serve, but we could still remember and honor him with this ritual.
The next day, we caught our horses and led them through groundwork to warm them up for the morning ride. In spite of the previous day’s whirlwind, I woke up feeling refreshed, relaxed, and excited in all the best ways. I knew there would be a goodbye, but I wasn’t going to let it stop me from having a great ride with Jasper and enjoy a beautiful day on the mountain. I intended to be fully present with him, because I wanted to soak in every moment and detail that I could. It was the only way to face the reality of the goodbye. I thought, if everything in life ultimately amounts to an end, then perhaps it is our task to live so that every ending and goodbye is beautiful, passionate, authentic, meaningful and sacred. Isn’t that what connection is all about? And is it not true that without an ending, there would be no meaning to what happens in the middle? Live for the middle, live for the end, live for the abundance of hellos that exist thereafter! Is that not what life is ultimately about? Is that not when it is at its fullest, deepest, richest, and most vibrant in its manifestations of possibility?
I wanted all the riches and all the vibrance in the valley that day, and that began with me and Jasper. I caught him easily, and we were one of the first in the pen to warm up. I groomed and saddled him, then braided his mane in several sections. He looked very handsome, and got a few compliments. He seemed to like the attention.
Before our ride, we were all gathered in the pen trying to get straight and still enough to listen to instructions. Cassie led us through a quick meditation. I closed my eyes and settled into the saddle. Jasper stood still beneath me, swaying slightly as he moved his head between a bowed and standing position. I felt his lungs move his body between my legs, and soon my breath fell into rhythm with his. Within moments, I don’t know how long it was, I felt the whole valley disappear beyond me and Jasper. We were one in a void of light, and I felt anchored to roots with direct connections to the Great Spirit.
We stepped off, and Jasper seemed eager to be near the front of the line, but he was not eager about going up hills. Unlike the day before, he was quite content to just walk. He did his own little side switches up the rocky road where his feet felt unsure. I let him do his thing, fully present and aware of each moment, existing nowhere else but under that warm Montana sun with Jasper and our calvary of brave, beautiful friends before and behind us.
When we got up to our reflection spot, Cassie instructed us to take some time and think about our experience, our rocks, whatever else we needed to reflect on. I walked Jasper a little farther along the hill until we came to a small pile of dirt. It made a nice mound on which to set Sydny’s rock, but it was hard to convince Jasper to move ten more feet so I could set it down. After some cajoling and ensuring him that the grass over there was just as good as the grass over here, I set her up with a nice view of the valley, then sat down to think about what I’d learned, what I discovered I have yet to learn, the new goals, new visions, and new inspirations I found, and what I wanted to leave behind on that mountain.
I thought about the sadness I felt the previous day, but it felt transformed as I sat on that hill and watched Jasper munch away at the grass. His braids had long come out by then, which I expected. I was terribly sad to say goodbye to him, but I was also deeply, eternally grateful and overjoyed that I got to have the experience with him that I did. I thought about how that applied to other parts of life, to other relationships that change and end. I thought about the others and their journeys, the growth I’d seen in all of them but especially in a particular few, the power in this kind of therapy and our connections to each other. I thought about how I didn’t want to shy away from life and connections to others because of goodbyes. That’s no way to live.
That day on the mountain, I left a lot behind. Of course, it’s all stuff that I will continue to process and work through until it is truly transformed, but this experience was a huge stepping stone in the river of understanding myself and navigating my journey. As I reflected with the others on their feelings about leaving the ranch, going home, saying goodbye to everyone and the horses, I knew they all felt the same in some capacity or other.
We rode our horses down the mountain and home. The ride was smooth, noted by one of the cowboys at the ranch who was impressed that the ride went as well as it did. My heart swelled with sorrow knowing the time was coming to dismount Jasper and send him on his way, but it did not overcome the peace I felt on the journey itself. I surrendered to the knowledge of goodbye, and in doing so, it did not hold power over the present moment where my connection with my horse could be felt and experienced to its fullest, greatest extent. After I removed his saddle, I brushed him off a bit. I meditated in the gratitude I felt. I stroked his neck, his mane, his side, his back, his face. I thanked him for everything he showed and taught me, for the acceptance and trust he showed me, for the connection he opened and shared with me. I stroked his long, gentle nose while speaking my thanks out loud. When I was feeling nearly ready to go, he lifted his head and put his nose in the crook of my neck. He kept it there for several moments, breathing hot breaths against my skin. It was an intimate moment, like someone you love putting a warm blanket over you as you fall asleep. I felt like he was telling me that he was thankful too, that he had fun, that he taught me everything he could and I was ready to go into the future with my newfound insights and gratitudes. I gave him a big smile and looked into his eyes, and we put our foreheads together for a while. When I felt ready, I led him into the pen and gave him another hug, thanking him once more.
At our final debrief that day, we got really real with each other, which was tough but highly rewarding and connecting. We bared and held each other’s souls and pain, and it was beautiful. Everyone had their own things to process and their own ways of processing, and we gave space to each person’s navigation. After one young woman shared her experiences with grief and the feeling that it stopped her from loving and connecting, which really resonated with me, Cassie asked if I’d share. I reflected about how I’d processed my emotions since the day before and what I was feeling that day, which was a lot of deep gratitude and surrendered bliss, but I also further recognized grief as the flip side of love. I was reminded of a term in Japanese philosophy, monono aware. It is the acute, bittersweet awareness of things’ transience. It’s that feeling you get when you’re overjoyed with love and gratitude but carry a sharp awareness that it will end. We can accept the love and gratitude with the grief and feel it wholly, which is where life is most alive. Or, we can attach ourselves to things under the guise that they won’t disappear, or take them for granted as if we’ll have them forever. Either way, sooner or later, we don’t, and we regret the days that we weren’t more present with what or who we loved. I didn’t want to regret missing out on time with Jasper, so I surrendered to each moment as it came, and when it was time to say goodbye, I felt ready to. I lived for the goodbye, and the goodbye was whole, complete, and good.
That afternoon, we all climbed the hill facing the ranch, a steep incline of about a thousand feet in half a mile. There is no trail, so we meandered our own ways to the top where a tree guarded a plastic pipe with a notebook inside, on which summitters could inscribe their names. I took my time, feeling high from the morning ride and content to saunter my way through the sagebrush and grasses. The sun was hot and the climb was taxing, but every look back at the valley was really what took my breath away. At the top, we chatted and reflected a bit more on the day’s events. We took pictures and laughed lightheartedly. Two people broke off quite early in the trek, and we weren’t sure of their status. We waited for a while, and eventually thought maybe they decided to turn back. We began to walk down the mountain when two heads crested a mound below, and someone yelled their names. The heads popped up and arms sprang into the air. I couldn’t hold back the whopping cheer that came from the bottom of my chest as my own arms shot up excitedly. A few of us walked down the hill and finished their hike with them. It only felt right that all who started together finished together. Their perseverance made the experience whole.
We enjoyed the rest of the afternoon and evening with a casual celebration. We watched a slideshow of pictures and videos of our time, awing and laughing at all the right moments, and had birthday pie for one of our group members. My brother’s birthday was that Sunday, and the cooks graciously made him a cake to celebrate, which he received with touchingly tearful eyes ripe with gratitude. The following day was another man’s birthday, who received his own celebration with equally tearful gratitude.
The weekend was full of celebration as much as it was full of unearthing our pain and expressing the emotions that came with it. Full. Whole. Real, and meaningful.
The next morning, it was hard to say goodbye, and I was grateful for that. It was a good goodbye — with Jasper, the others, the ranch — and it was a goodbye I couldn’t have expected to be so profound. That family opened their ranch to complete strangers because one of their own saw an avenue to helping our community, and she does so with the purest of hearts and sharpest of instincts. Everyone there made us part of their family for the weekend. We broke bread together, enjoyed moonshine together, threw knives at each other’s feet in a very thrilling game where we all learned a lot of things very fast, and made a safe, welcoming, loving space for each other to feel, heal, connect, and grow.
I went into the pen one last time to say goodbye. I found Jasper hanging with his usual crew. He didn’t move at all when I approached him. He was giving me that look that made me feel seen and recognized. I laid a hand on his shoulder and stroked him for a while, chatting a bit and again thanking him for his time with me. I placed my head on his forehead and stroked his face, moving my hand slowly from the thicker fur beneath his bangs to the soft flesh of his nose. He hardly moved as I stroked him, keeping his head perfectly still against mine. In my meditation practice since then, I’ve used this moment as an anchor for my mind, and it’s very calming. When I opened my eyes, I said goodbye and dropped my hands. He didn’t move at all. He just kept his eyes on me, expectant, like he didn’t really think I was going to walk away. He was right. I gave him another few pets. Then I turned and waved, and walked over piles of horse poop of various sizes, glancing over my shoulder every once in a while to look back. He still didn’t move. Jasper watched me until I lost him behind horses and fence posts, but the image of his lasting gaze behind me is burned into my memory as a moment alight with the meaning of life.
I have a similar snapshot from a trip I took a few months ago to see my nephews. We had a great time, as always, because Auntie Ang is the best. I really bonded with the little one, who just turned two, and he was the hardest to say goodbye to this time. Standing on the sidewalk about to get on my bus to the airport, I finished hugging everyone goodbye and thanked my brother for the visit. I looked into the backseat where my nephews were buckled into their carseats, and found little Dex peering out at me with huge globs of tears in his eyes and a trembling lower lip that glinted even in the overcast gloom of the Pacific Northwest. He knew I was leaving. He can’t form the words yet, but he understood. It was heartbreaking to see that innocent little face bear such sadness, but it also touched my soul in the most meaningful way. Those tears weren’t just tears of sadness; they were tears of love.
Just as I will keep that image of Dex in my heart, so too will I keep that image of Jasper watching me walk out of the pen. He will always have a place there, and I will always hold gratitude for the love he gave me, the love he showed me exists within myself, and the abundance of love that exists in the universe beyond. With Jasper in my heart comes the whole ranch and family, who are deserving of far more gratitude than could ever be put into words.
Things end, but they also begin. If we live for the ends by living for the beginnings and the middles, then at the ultimate end, when it is time to move on from this life, the goodbye will be completely pure in the goodness of a life lived fully and well, made whole by the gratitude of a heart grounded in love and connection, and glorified by the sanctity of a story well told, which can only be a story with a good ending.
