AS NATURE INTENDED
Authentic Companionship in Life and Death
By: Greta Matos, Chile
“But aren’t you afraid the pumas will eat him?”
Color rose to my cheeks as I felt a whisper of guilt rush in. I paused and took a breath. The guilt quickly burned away as my breath offered space for witnessing it as a projection, not actually what I felt within my bones, within my core, to be true.
Color rose to my cheeks as I felt a whisper of guilt rush in. I paused and took a breath. The guilt quickly burned away as my breath offered space for witnessing it as a projection, not actually what I felt within my bones, within my core, to be true.
I knew what was needed for this horse and this land and for my own interwoven spirit. I knew there was nothing to fear about the natural cycle of life, nor the incredible intelligence of this Earth. An intelligence guiding the process of life and death in a manner that serves an integrated, larger whole; an essence of truth that we struggle to grasp with our minds, but we find our way toward through our hearts.
The conscious journey with any being through life toward death is a sacred process of revelation and connection. Too often we are discouraged from wholeheartedly engaging with death in a manner that honors the natural purpose in a relational way. While living in close relationship with the herd and the wild lands of southern Chile that he belongs to, we companion Harimau in his last chapter of life. As we do, the horses, the Earth, and our own hearts, beckon us to consider what might be revealed when we slowly feel into the dying of another, in a manner that enriches our presence with the sacredness of our own mortality.
The conscious journey with any being through life toward death is a sacred process of revelation and connection. Too often we are discouraged from wholeheartedly engaging with death in a manner that honors the natural purpose in a relational way. While living in close relationship with the herd and the wild lands of southern Chile that he belongs to, we companion Harimau in his last chapter of life. As we do, the horses, the Earth, and our own hearts, beckon us to consider what might be revealed when we slowly feel into the dying of another, in a manner that enriches our presence with the sacredness of our own mortality.
Harimau
Dissolving and Emerging Relationships in Life and Death
It was a clear day when the traditional relationships and bonds between the horses was severed. There was still tolerance and allowance among the herd, but I could feel the sudden distance between Harimau and the other horses.
Several years prior, our herd of seven Chilean criollos came together in a rather unique way. Picante, Aysén and Zalig el Rey Pilchero were from the far reaches of Patagonia. Our relationship and guardianship with these three began when my husband and I traveled south in search of adventure. With our two dogs and these three magnificent horses, we embarked upon a long ride north across the wild, windy region. When we arrived back home in Pucón four months and more than 1000 kilometers later, four more long ride horses found their way into our care. Harimau, Blacky, Pichi and Salvador had also just walked together nearly 1000 kilometers south along the coast of Chile. Their owners, who had been filming a documentary during their long ride, needed to return to Australia. They were desperate to find the horses a home where they would be kept together and live a well-loved life. And so came to be this bonded herd of seven– three from the south of Patagonia and four from the northern middle coast of Chile – all of whom were accustomed to long, slow journeys in partnership with one another and humans.
Harimau’s condition was declining slowly. He’d been managing well enough, but of late he’d been losing the herd. For months he’d been dropping weight despite the abundant and fertile land he was free to roam across, as well as our more conventional efforts to support him. It started with his weight, but slowly I could tell his senses were fading. Soon he could no longer sense where the herd was, by sight, sound or even energetically, and I felt an awareness of release among the seven of them. Well, I felt it among the six of them, but Harimau remained attached.
For two weeks it went on like this, I’d hear his anxious calls for the herd when they’d left him behind. I’d trek out to the field or the forest, collect him and slowly walk to find the others. I felt this unsettled sense of uncertainty in the pit of my stomach. Harimau is dying, this I can feel, but how are we meant to accompany him on this journey? The herd was leaving him behind. Despite his deteriorating body, he was unwilling to be left. So, what kind of relationship was evolving now – between him, the herd, the land, and us - the humans acting as his guardians? From my human perspective, I struggled to know what was best for him.
It was a clear day when the traditional relationships and bonds between the horses was severed. There was still tolerance and allowance among the herd, but I could feel the sudden distance between Harimau and the other horses.
Several years prior, our herd of seven Chilean criollos came together in a rather unique way. Picante, Aysén and Zalig el Rey Pilchero were from the far reaches of Patagonia. Our relationship and guardianship with these three began when my husband and I traveled south in search of adventure. With our two dogs and these three magnificent horses, we embarked upon a long ride north across the wild, windy region. When we arrived back home in Pucón four months and more than 1000 kilometers later, four more long ride horses found their way into our care. Harimau, Blacky, Pichi and Salvador had also just walked together nearly 1000 kilometers south along the coast of Chile. Their owners, who had been filming a documentary during their long ride, needed to return to Australia. They were desperate to find the horses a home where they would be kept together and live a well-loved life. And so came to be this bonded herd of seven– three from the south of Patagonia and four from the northern middle coast of Chile – all of whom were accustomed to long, slow journeys in partnership with one another and humans.
Harimau’s condition was declining slowly. He’d been managing well enough, but of late he’d been losing the herd. For months he’d been dropping weight despite the abundant and fertile land he was free to roam across, as well as our more conventional efforts to support him. It started with his weight, but slowly I could tell his senses were fading. Soon he could no longer sense where the herd was, by sight, sound or even energetically, and I felt an awareness of release among the seven of them. Well, I felt it among the six of them, but Harimau remained attached.
For two weeks it went on like this, I’d hear his anxious calls for the herd when they’d left him behind. I’d trek out to the field or the forest, collect him and slowly walk to find the others. I felt this unsettled sense of uncertainty in the pit of my stomach. Harimau is dying, this I can feel, but how are we meant to accompany him on this journey? The herd was leaving him behind. Despite his deteriorating body, he was unwilling to be left. So, what kind of relationship was evolving now – between him, the herd, the land, and us - the humans acting as his guardians? From my human perspective, I struggled to know what was best for him.
Embracing the Discomfort of Relinquishing Control
I restlessly tugged at the thread of my past journeys with horses across the threshold of death. As a child growing up with horses in the USA, euthanizing or “putting a horse to sleep” was such a standard and common practice that it was usually considered the most “humane” thing to do. This topic alone touches a deep grief within my heart, and within so many hearts of those I know who’ve loved a horse. I am not here to say what’s right or wrong. What I will say is the initial ways that I was trained to care for horses did not involve listening to my body for what I was sensing about the horse and what it needed. Nor did it involve any form of inquiry with the horse itself, or the herd it lived with (if it was lucky enough to live in a herd), nor the land it inhabited.
Instead, the decision of life or death came down to practical conversations with vets about suffering and pain and expenses.
But here in Chile, I don’t live with horses the same way I’d grown up with them. Here they have autonomy. We live in close companionship, but we acknowledge our natural limitations. We honor that even the most caring human and well-kept barn would never tend to the whole wellness of their nervous systems, immune systems and spirits, as well as life in a herd and freedom on the land.
With this herd we travel slowly together across long distances and treacherous terrain. We’ve learned to listen to one another. The wellbeing of the herd guides my way of being with them. It guides what “work” we do together, the way we adventure through the world together, and the way in which we build relationship with land and place. With wellbeing at the center of our relationship, we cannot ignore what we feel about the spirit of one another. And although this horse had begun his dying journey, I could feel the lightness of his spirit. He wasn’t ready to leave just yet.
There are untamed aspects of Chile that feed the wildness of my soul. Living with domestic horses in untamed environments expands this feast beyond imagination, as I feel the way the land feeds their souls as well.
However, the untamed aspects of nature, in reality, are not so romantic and dreamy. The harmony of life is beautiful, yet can also be brutal and raw. When we decided to move Harimau with the herd up to the high country, the concern others raised about a puma killing him were not unfounded. It was possible. When we commit to walk with life (and death) in a manner that does not resist the untamed aspects of nature - within ourselves and within our environments - we’re invited into uncomfortable, yet often essential, territory.
I restlessly tugged at the thread of my past journeys with horses across the threshold of death. As a child growing up with horses in the USA, euthanizing or “putting a horse to sleep” was such a standard and common practice that it was usually considered the most “humane” thing to do. This topic alone touches a deep grief within my heart, and within so many hearts of those I know who’ve loved a horse. I am not here to say what’s right or wrong. What I will say is the initial ways that I was trained to care for horses did not involve listening to my body for what I was sensing about the horse and what it needed. Nor did it involve any form of inquiry with the horse itself, or the herd it lived with (if it was lucky enough to live in a herd), nor the land it inhabited.
Instead, the decision of life or death came down to practical conversations with vets about suffering and pain and expenses.
But here in Chile, I don’t live with horses the same way I’d grown up with them. Here they have autonomy. We live in close companionship, but we acknowledge our natural limitations. We honor that even the most caring human and well-kept barn would never tend to the whole wellness of their nervous systems, immune systems and spirits, as well as life in a herd and freedom on the land.
With this herd we travel slowly together across long distances and treacherous terrain. We’ve learned to listen to one another. The wellbeing of the herd guides my way of being with them. It guides what “work” we do together, the way we adventure through the world together, and the way in which we build relationship with land and place. With wellbeing at the center of our relationship, we cannot ignore what we feel about the spirit of one another. And although this horse had begun his dying journey, I could feel the lightness of his spirit. He wasn’t ready to leave just yet.
There are untamed aspects of Chile that feed the wildness of my soul. Living with domestic horses in untamed environments expands this feast beyond imagination, as I feel the way the land feeds their souls as well.
However, the untamed aspects of nature, in reality, are not so romantic and dreamy. The harmony of life is beautiful, yet can also be brutal and raw. When we decided to move Harimau with the herd up to the high country, the concern others raised about a puma killing him were not unfounded. It was possible. When we commit to walk with life (and death) in a manner that does not resist the untamed aspects of nature - within ourselves and within our environments - we’re invited into uncomfortable, yet often essential, territory.
PC: Elena Adorni
The Power of Authentic Companionship
As I realized there was nothing more for me to “do” than to be present with Harimau through this transition, something mysterious happened. Picante, the elder of our herd, suddenly began tending to Harimau as a hospice nurse would. In the four years prior Picante hadn’t given Harimau an ounce of care (at least not in a way that we could observe). And here he was caring for him so deeply that I could feel an intense vibration of love encircling them both whenever I came near. Picante entirely disconnected from Aysén, his deeply bonded partner, and gave all of his presence, energy, and attention to Harimau.
Harimau, in turn, would tuck himself close to Picante’s gut and hind quarters and there he would stay as they grazed, rested, and walked with the herd. If Harimau wandered a bit too far, Picante would call to him with a loud and direct whinny, and he would come running back like a young foal runs to his mother, nickering along the way.
I was astonished. I’d observed horse herds since I was a child, for nearly 35 years, and I knew that relationships between the horses were quite dynamic, and changes of preferences and bonds might shift over the years. But I’d never seen anything like this. Nor had I ever felt anything like what I felt between them when in their presence. Harimau was being companioned lovingly by another horse, who had clearly chosen to live in close companionship with his imminent death. Within my own body I felt a deep sense of relief and gratitude that he would not continue his journey alone.
What brought that relief and gratitude forth within me? I’d always felt a longing to be allowed to die alone in the mountains, somewhere I wouldn’t be a bother to anyone, where nature could run her course without intervention or interruption. However, the relief I felt for Harimau revealed a deeper longing within me to be companioned in my own death. And within this longing, perhaps not just for a caretaker to be with me, but for it to be someone who chooses to do so with such authenticity and love; someone who embodies this same vibration of love that encircled and emitted from Harimau and Picante.
What if we were all companioned this way? And what if we were willing to companion one another this way? Not because of guilt, or shame, or obligation, but because we chose to follow the intuitive pull that says yes, now this is how you are meant to be of service for this other being. What might be different about the way we inhabit our lives and our deaths, individually and collectively?
As I realized there was nothing more for me to “do” than to be present with Harimau through this transition, something mysterious happened. Picante, the elder of our herd, suddenly began tending to Harimau as a hospice nurse would. In the four years prior Picante hadn’t given Harimau an ounce of care (at least not in a way that we could observe). And here he was caring for him so deeply that I could feel an intense vibration of love encircling them both whenever I came near. Picante entirely disconnected from Aysén, his deeply bonded partner, and gave all of his presence, energy, and attention to Harimau.
Harimau, in turn, would tuck himself close to Picante’s gut and hind quarters and there he would stay as they grazed, rested, and walked with the herd. If Harimau wandered a bit too far, Picante would call to him with a loud and direct whinny, and he would come running back like a young foal runs to his mother, nickering along the way.
I was astonished. I’d observed horse herds since I was a child, for nearly 35 years, and I knew that relationships between the horses were quite dynamic, and changes of preferences and bonds might shift over the years. But I’d never seen anything like this. Nor had I ever felt anything like what I felt between them when in their presence. Harimau was being companioned lovingly by another horse, who had clearly chosen to live in close companionship with his imminent death. Within my own body I felt a deep sense of relief and gratitude that he would not continue his journey alone.
What brought that relief and gratitude forth within me? I’d always felt a longing to be allowed to die alone in the mountains, somewhere I wouldn’t be a bother to anyone, where nature could run her course without intervention or interruption. However, the relief I felt for Harimau revealed a deeper longing within me to be companioned in my own death. And within this longing, perhaps not just for a caretaker to be with me, but for it to be someone who chooses to do so with such authenticity and love; someone who embodies this same vibration of love that encircled and emitted from Harimau and Picante.
What if we were all companioned this way? And what if we were willing to companion one another this way? Not because of guilt, or shame, or obligation, but because we chose to follow the intuitive pull that says yes, now this is how you are meant to be of service for this other being. What might be different about the way we inhabit our lives and our deaths, individually and collectively?
A Final, Transformative, and Loving Embrace
Harimau died within almost one year of the day I noticed the shift in his energy and condition. Within that year, Picante guided him for 8 months. About two weeks before Harimau died, I observed and felt Picante and Harimau release themselves from one another. When I walked the 1200 acres where they roamed freely, I’d find Harimau far from the others. However, now there were no anxious whinnies. There was no reaching or searching. The herd and Harimau were no longer relying upon one another, and that was okay. Something larger was holding Harimau and he could feel it, as could I.
When I found Harimau’s body, he nearly blended in with the color and slope of land. Even though it had only been a day or so, the Earth had already begun her mysterious and ancient process of integrating his body back into the wider web of life. And just as I had felt the vibration of love encircling Picante and Harimau as Picante guided him, I now felt that same vibration of love emitted from Mother Earth as she brought him back into her womb.
When I sit with all that the journey of companioning another toward death brings up in me, I keep returning to a quiet well of grief within. Grief that is invoked as I touch the distance that I feel within my own culture between us and our dying. Grief with the awareness that we actually have no control over whether our personal journey toward death will be companioned in an authentic and loving way. And yet, beneath this grief, as always, I find my love. My unconditional love for this life. My love for each being I am so privileged to encounter in this lifetime, and for all the magnificent and loving encounters that embrace me along the way. Love is what I find, again and again. For this generous Mother Earth awaits every single one of us with a long and loving embrace, to transform us with divine purpose – just as she’s always intended. ~*~
Harimau died within almost one year of the day I noticed the shift in his energy and condition. Within that year, Picante guided him for 8 months. About two weeks before Harimau died, I observed and felt Picante and Harimau release themselves from one another. When I walked the 1200 acres where they roamed freely, I’d find Harimau far from the others. However, now there were no anxious whinnies. There was no reaching or searching. The herd and Harimau were no longer relying upon one another, and that was okay. Something larger was holding Harimau and he could feel it, as could I.
When I found Harimau’s body, he nearly blended in with the color and slope of land. Even though it had only been a day or so, the Earth had already begun her mysterious and ancient process of integrating his body back into the wider web of life. And just as I had felt the vibration of love encircling Picante and Harimau as Picante guided him, I now felt that same vibration of love emitted from Mother Earth as she brought him back into her womb.
When I sit with all that the journey of companioning another toward death brings up in me, I keep returning to a quiet well of grief within. Grief that is invoked as I touch the distance that I feel within my own culture between us and our dying. Grief with the awareness that we actually have no control over whether our personal journey toward death will be companioned in an authentic and loving way. And yet, beneath this grief, as always, I find my love. My unconditional love for this life. My love for each being I am so privileged to encounter in this lifetime, and for all the magnificent and loving encounters that embrace me along the way. Love is what I find, again and again. For this generous Mother Earth awaits every single one of us with a long and loving embrace, to transform us with divine purpose – just as she’s always intended. ~*~
PC: Alejandro Matos
