THIN PLACES

It only happens when I’ve worn a day’s pale morning hours into the saddle, when I’m emptied out of comfort, heaviness, and idleness. All the clutter is out. Muscles are instead filled with aches. Mouth filled with salt and dryness. Sometimes I think about my riding posture, or I absently watch the silvery black tips of my horse’s ears. But on rare occasions, in the woods late at night, little blinks of stars peek through tears in the forest roof, catching my soul. In the sweltering, buzzing afternoon, I sometimes feel a warmth distinguishable from my nearly overheated body. I become aware of all that humans are made of—the chemicals, the atoms, and the light stuff between and in and around. Baking under the sun, I come to the realization that parts of me are invisible to science. In muggy June of 2021, when my horse and I finished a mile-long climb by 2:00 a.m., we emerged on a plateau, bordered by a halo of violent orange art. A flickering orchestra of an electrical storm rumbled across the grey pallet of a Montana night sky. We were on a stage, moving swiftly through the wind, God our audience.

I’ve been told that humans are the only creatures with souls, but I know, too, that horses have a way of bringing out the soul in their humans. Not an inner child, but a timeless self. In a methodical joining of hands with past horseback travelers, I watched the stars punch through the dark like coils of tin, punch through me. Up on that plateau, there were bites of heaven that zapped me clean of worry, until I was windburned and bruised with new love. There was no voice. The soft plod and faint click of my horse’s steel shoes against the jagged ground told me he cared. And like a heaven-sent friend, he wanted to carry me to the edge of all that I knew and explore a nightsilent land together. Wind thrashed around us, and, like children holding hands, we both wanted to race into it. In jockey fashion, I leaned against his neck, feeling the air crest over my back as we thrilled through it. By morning, we were slowly meandering over hills. Night’s parade was over, and all was hushed by the blue mercy of dawn. The sky felt close. I fought tears as we marked our 75th mile. My horse was tired, having expended every stride of energy he possessed. When he couldn’t sustain a trot, with patience he resigned to a slow, persistent walk, a motion as seamless as the sunrise around us. With vigor, he accepted every challenge, and with shared wonder he took me through thin places, where matter and mystery are one. And I laughed into tears because, in my horse’s tired, hopeful, trusting submission, I saw that he, like a human, had character that could be called virtuous. He was so patient and willing to endure what had to be at times excruciating, that I saw reflections of God. All along my thin place was right there, brown-eyed and curious, carrying me.