Honouring My Grief
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Junzi stood at the fence, staring at me. His dappled bay coat was glistening in the sunshine, his long thick mane a mess from burrs and wind. His liquid brown eyes were soft and calling to me. When I looked at him, he tossed his head and stomped his foot, trying to get my attention. I rolled down the window and told him I loved him. I told myself I was on my way to work and didn’t have time to stop and say hello. I didn’t want to acknowledge the truth.
A week ago, my Rocky Mountain stallion Jacob died. He wasn’t the first horse I had lost in the almost three decades I have been with horses, but his death was hitting me hard.
Although I had only had him for a year, over the last few months I had been working with him, developing our relationship and strengthening our trust. He had just opened up to me, finally acknowledging that the horse-human bond could be more than just domination.
His death was sudden and unexpected. He had managed to twist his back in the field and the inflammation in his spine was making him lose control of his back legs. His last 48 hours were spent with me by his side, helping him stand up whenever he went down. In the end, we couldn’t get control of the inflammation. He went down and no matter what we did, we couldn’t get him up again.
A week later, and those last hours would still flash in my mind. I would see him struggling to stand, a look of pleading in his eyes as I tried to help him get his back legs under him. And finally, the look of resignation he gave me when he knew he didn’t want to try anymore and I knew there was only one kindness I could give him.
The truth was, in the week since Jacob’s death, I hadn’t really gone out to the field. Junzi was reminding me of that. Reminding me that I didn’t have to suffer my grief alone. But I wasn’t ready to acknowledge that yet. I was still in denial. I told myself I was just too busy to spend time with them.
A week later, after dinner, my boyfriend Ben asked me if I would do him a favour and come for a walk with him. He took me to the horses. I stopped and said hi to a few of them, and then we got to Junzi. Normally a handful, and a horse that pushes buttons and boundaries, Junzi stopped and stood quietly in front of me. His ears tipped back slightly, his eyes half closed and he began to lick and chew, a sign that he was in agreement and I was being congruent with my feelings and thoughts. As I stood with him, I felt my heart beat and breath slow as he dropped me into a meditative state. We stood there together, Ben with his arms around me, Junzi with his nose inches from my heart, the other members of the herd standing quietly in a circle around us and the cattle standing quietly around them.
I felt held and loved. I felt my heart slowly opening to the gift of love and comfort they were offering me. I realized that I was not doing as well as I was telling myself. I allowed myself to feel the depth of the grief and I felt Junzi slowly gathering it up and draining it into the earth. Time stopped. Maybe we were there for 5 minutes or maybe it was an hour. All that existed in that moment was a deep sense of being held and being accepted.
A few days later, I went out to the field again. This time it was Jacob’s mares that approached me. The three of them stood around me, noses towards me in a circle but not touching me. Once again, I could feel that deep sense of being held and my heart opening to the depth of hurt and love that were sitting inside it. I began to walk away and Rose followed me. Almost solid black, this petite Rocky Mountain mare is shy and reserved. I felt truly blessed that she had chosen to follow me.
Looking at her, I realized that she was still feeling the depth of the loss of her stallion as much as I was. As we stood together, I cried into her neck. I felt the shift of the roles – while Junzi had gathered my grief and released it into the ground, I was gathering Rose’s grief and releasing it in my tears. As I cried, I realized the importance of these tears. I realized I had been blocking my tears – I wanted to move through this death quickly. I wanted to show myself how far I had come in my emotional agility, how quickly I could get back to neutral.
As I stood with Rose, I realized that I had not been honouring my emotions. I had not been open to feeling the depth of this grief and had tried to by-pass it. I had tried to work through it as though there was some schedule I needed to keep, as if there was a right way to process it. In the presence of Rose’s vulnerability, I allowed myself to be vulnerable as well. Together, we mourned the loss of a horse who we loved and who we missed.
I wish I could say that in those two short sessions, the grief was gone. Instead, the horses gifted me with a shift in my perspective on grief and allowed me a safe place where I could begin to feel it and experience it in its fullness. I spend time with them regularly again, and with each visit, I feel a little more in balance. Grief is a process and it comes in waves. With the help of the herd, I am learning to ride the waves in a more balanced way, not surfing above them and not drowning below them. Instead, I am learning how to float comfortably, feeling the grief all around me when it comes and not fearing it.
Although I had only had him for a year, over the last few months I had been working with him, developing our relationship and strengthening our trust. He had just opened up to me, finally acknowledging that the horse-human bond could be more than just domination.
His death was sudden and unexpected. He had managed to twist his back in the field and the inflammation in his spine was making him lose control of his back legs. His last 48 hours were spent with me by his side, helping him stand up whenever he went down. In the end, we couldn’t get control of the inflammation. He went down and no matter what we did, we couldn’t get him up again.
A week later, and those last hours would still flash in my mind. I would see him struggling to stand, a look of pleading in his eyes as I tried to help him get his back legs under him. And finally, the look of resignation he gave me when he knew he didn’t want to try anymore and I knew there was only one kindness I could give him.
The truth was, in the week since Jacob’s death, I hadn’t really gone out to the field. Junzi was reminding me of that. Reminding me that I didn’t have to suffer my grief alone. But I wasn’t ready to acknowledge that yet. I was still in denial. I told myself I was just too busy to spend time with them.
A week later, after dinner, my boyfriend Ben asked me if I would do him a favour and come for a walk with him. He took me to the horses. I stopped and said hi to a few of them, and then we got to Junzi. Normally a handful, and a horse that pushes buttons and boundaries, Junzi stopped and stood quietly in front of me. His ears tipped back slightly, his eyes half closed and he began to lick and chew, a sign that he was in agreement and I was being congruent with my feelings and thoughts. As I stood with him, I felt my heart beat and breath slow as he dropped me into a meditative state. We stood there together, Ben with his arms around me, Junzi with his nose inches from my heart, the other members of the herd standing quietly in a circle around us and the cattle standing quietly around them.
I felt held and loved. I felt my heart slowly opening to the gift of love and comfort they were offering me. I realized that I was not doing as well as I was telling myself. I allowed myself to feel the depth of the grief and I felt Junzi slowly gathering it up and draining it into the earth. Time stopped. Maybe we were there for 5 minutes or maybe it was an hour. All that existed in that moment was a deep sense of being held and being accepted.
A few days later, I went out to the field again. This time it was Jacob’s mares that approached me. The three of them stood around me, noses towards me in a circle but not touching me. Once again, I could feel that deep sense of being held and my heart opening to the depth of hurt and love that were sitting inside it. I began to walk away and Rose followed me. Almost solid black, this petite Rocky Mountain mare is shy and reserved. I felt truly blessed that she had chosen to follow me.
Looking at her, I realized that she was still feeling the depth of the loss of her stallion as much as I was. As we stood together, I cried into her neck. I felt the shift of the roles – while Junzi had gathered my grief and released it into the ground, I was gathering Rose’s grief and releasing it in my tears. As I cried, I realized the importance of these tears. I realized I had been blocking my tears – I wanted to move through this death quickly. I wanted to show myself how far I had come in my emotional agility, how quickly I could get back to neutral.
As I stood with Rose, I realized that I had not been honouring my emotions. I had not been open to feeling the depth of this grief and had tried to by-pass it. I had tried to work through it as though there was some schedule I needed to keep, as if there was a right way to process it. In the presence of Rose’s vulnerability, I allowed myself to be vulnerable as well. Together, we mourned the loss of a horse who we loved and who we missed.
I wish I could say that in those two short sessions, the grief was gone. Instead, the horses gifted me with a shift in my perspective on grief and allowed me a safe place where I could begin to feel it and experience it in its fullness. I spend time with them regularly again, and with each visit, I feel a little more in balance. Grief is a process and it comes in waves. With the help of the herd, I am learning to ride the waves in a more balanced way, not surfing above them and not drowning below them. Instead, I am learning how to float comfortably, feeling the grief all around me when it comes and not fearing it.
Grief is one of the most difficult emotions to work through. There is no real action you can take to “fix” it.
Instead, it is something you need to experience in all of its pain.
The horses offer amazing insight into how to do this wholely, authentically and meaningfully.
Instead, it is something you need to experience in all of its pain.
The horses offer amazing insight into how to do this wholely, authentically and meaningfully.
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Taylor Beckett Bio Taylor’s earliest horse memories: riding ponies at fairs, stopping at the side of the road to admire them, dreaming of them. They helped ground her throughout her life and travels. During highschool, Taylor and her first horse Jet competed in many local horse shows, advancing to the Ontario Appaloosa Circuit. They were the Provincial Reserve Champions. However, their show career went on hiatus when Taylor left to study in England for a year. Returning to Canada, Taylor rekindled her bond with Jet, but decided to leave the competitions behind. She began looking at different ways of having a relationship with her horses and read about Mark Rashid, Linda Kohanov and Carolyn Resnick. She graduated the FEEL program in 2012 and studied Pair Bonding with Marina Wright. Combining these methods with her own personal knowledge and experience, Taylor has developed a deep and trusting relationship with her horses, one in which their unique personalities are celebrated and their deep desire to help people is encouraged. An opportunity to combine her passion for the horses with her desire to help people reconnect with their heart, Taylor is excited to share her herd with you! www.silverwillowfarmbeyondorganics.com, Silverwillowfarmbeyondorganics@bell.net, 905-517-6859 |