The Horse Told Me To Keep Walking
A Journey from Loss to Abundance
Anita La Selva, Canada
The barn is cool and dark. I breathe in the sweet smell of hay and horses, then slowly exhale. Yes. Something about being here feels familiar, like a memory from my life. I am reassured. I approach each Horse and silently introduce myself, opening my heart, patiently waiting to see if I feel a connection, until I come upon a tall, dark brown Thoroughbred. He is standing a few feet back from his stall door and is so still and quiet that for a moment he looks like a statue. His soft brown eyes rest calmly on me, and instantly I burst into tears. The grief I have been holding at bay all these months rushes to the surface and demands to be released. I use my breath to ground myself and allow my tears to flow. We stand there, the two of us, for what seems like an eternity. I have absolutely no knowledge of this Horse or his past, but I know in my heart that we share a deep understanding of grief. I barely notice the other participants move quietly past me out of the barn. After a while, I have a sense that it is time to return to the group, but I am so deeply connected that I do not want to let this moment go. Finally, he shifts slightly, and I take that as my cue to leave.
I am here at an Equine Therapy weekend in early October at the recommendation of a friend, who thought it might offer me some respite and help me pull myself out of the dark corner I have been sitting in for far too long. I have just come through years of wrestling with my partner’s alcohol addiction and spent the last eighteen months in and out of hospitals watching him die a slow and painful death due to organ failure. I am broken, exhausted, and at a loss. My self-esteem is at an all-time low. My body is completely shattered from lack of sleep due to worrying and pushing myself too hard and my mind is so full of chaos that I have begun to question my own mental stability. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to laugh, how to hope, how to just be me.
We are a group of eight women this morning, all here looking for something. After a debrief, I enter the ring with the tall, dark Thoroughbred. He stands there quietly looking at me. He blinks. I blink. I look at him for a few moments. Nothing happens. My heart sinks. “Who am I kidding? Why would anyone want to make a connection with me in this state? Maybe I’m just too broken to do anything worth anything.” I feel like I am falling backwards, disappearing into the void; my ears block out all the sound around me: “No, no, no, no!!!” I want so badly to be present with this Horse, but I just feel numb. I turn and walk all the way to the other side of the ring and stare into the void, chastising myself. I take a few deep breaths and my grief comes cascading back - not just grief over my partner but grief for myself too. Grief for the person I lost along the way during this whole ordeal. I am ready to tell the facilitator that I should probably sit this one out when suddenly I feel something soft and warm on my cheek, a gentle breath. Ever so quietly, the Horse has come up behind me and is now resting his muzzle on my cheek. He holds it there for about a minute, breathing into me, and my tears begin to flow. He takes a step back, looks at me, and puts his muzzle on my cheek for a second time. Then he signals me to walk with him. He is gentle and compassionate, yet firm and direct in communicating his intentions to me. We walk together around the ring for a bit, and then he stops, checks in with me, and puts his muzzle on my cheek again. This pattern continues for a while, walking and stopping to connect and then walking. As we walk, something inside me begins to stir. I have a sense that with this Horse walking beside me, I might be able to find my way back to myself. His message is arrestingly clear: “I know. I get it. I live with grief too. I understand. But you just have to keep walking. We have to keep walking.” And we do.
We are a group of eight women this morning, all here looking for something. After a debrief, I enter the ring with the tall, dark Thoroughbred. He stands there quietly looking at me. He blinks. I blink. I look at him for a few moments. Nothing happens. My heart sinks. “Who am I kidding? Why would anyone want to make a connection with me in this state? Maybe I’m just too broken to do anything worth anything.” I feel like I am falling backwards, disappearing into the void; my ears block out all the sound around me: “No, no, no, no!!!” I want so badly to be present with this Horse, but I just feel numb. I turn and walk all the way to the other side of the ring and stare into the void, chastising myself. I take a few deep breaths and my grief comes cascading back - not just grief over my partner but grief for myself too. Grief for the person I lost along the way during this whole ordeal. I am ready to tell the facilitator that I should probably sit this one out when suddenly I feel something soft and warm on my cheek, a gentle breath. Ever so quietly, the Horse has come up behind me and is now resting his muzzle on my cheek. He holds it there for about a minute, breathing into me, and my tears begin to flow. He takes a step back, looks at me, and puts his muzzle on my cheek for a second time. Then he signals me to walk with him. He is gentle and compassionate, yet firm and direct in communicating his intentions to me. We walk together around the ring for a bit, and then he stops, checks in with me, and puts his muzzle on my cheek again. This pattern continues for a while, walking and stopping to connect and then walking. As we walk, something inside me begins to stir. I have a sense that with this Horse walking beside me, I might be able to find my way back to myself. His message is arrestingly clear: “I know. I get it. I live with grief too. I understand. But you just have to keep walking. We have to keep walking.” And we do.
At the end of our session, the facilitator tells me I can now thank the Horse and take my leave. Before I even have a chance to reach out and offer my hand to stroke his beautiful face, he has already put his muzzle playfully on my cheek. We all laugh. I thank the Horse, Spirit Walker, and exit the ring. I am reeling. I feel elated. I have never felt so present in my life! My entire career has been about being present: I am an actor, director, theatre-maker, and acting teacher, but what I am experiencing here today is presence on a whole new level. My emotions, my thoughts, my head, and my heart are overflowing with energy. It’s as if a future filled with possibility has suddenly opened up in front of me.
I come away from the weekend feeling that I have had a rare and profound experience. The magic and wisdom of Spirit Walker stay with me, growing day by day, giving me the strength to pick myself up again. I take up walking. I walk for at least an hour a day, making my way through the urban landscape that is my home. I listen to music and podcasts, trying to clear my mind of the negativity, pain, and panic attacks that have been weighing me down for so long. I continue to work, teach, direct, and act more ferociously than I have in years. The light of Spirit Walker does not diminish. In fact, it continues to grow, and and I am confronted with a persistent feeling that I am meant to go deeper with this experience. I have a vague sense in the back of my mind that I need to share my story somehow, and slowly the seeds of creativity begin to grow.
The pandemic hits, and I am presented with time to reflect. How do I talk about my journey of love and loss as a partner and caregiver to an addict? How do I put a Horse on stage without putting a real Horse on stage? How do I weave these two stories together? I begin to jot down ideas that might make for a compelling theatrical play and am accepted into a playwrights’ residency with a small theatre company in town. I am now accountable and must come up with something! I outline scenes, monologues, and images I want to explore. I hold Spirit Walker close to my heart every day as I write and dream the play.
At the end of the eight-month residency, we are asked to share our work with a small online audience. I have so much material and so many loose ends I am not sure what to do, and now I have to share it online!??? No way!! I start panicking. Then out of the blue I say to myself, “Well, if that’s the case, I am not going to embarrass myself by just reading a bunch of self-indulgent monologues. I’m going to make a film! And it’s going to be about how Spirit Walker taught me how to heal myself by walking.”
I come away from the weekend feeling that I have had a rare and profound experience. The magic and wisdom of Spirit Walker stay with me, growing day by day, giving me the strength to pick myself up again. I take up walking. I walk for at least an hour a day, making my way through the urban landscape that is my home. I listen to music and podcasts, trying to clear my mind of the negativity, pain, and panic attacks that have been weighing me down for so long. I continue to work, teach, direct, and act more ferociously than I have in years. The light of Spirit Walker does not diminish. In fact, it continues to grow, and and I am confronted with a persistent feeling that I am meant to go deeper with this experience. I have a vague sense in the back of my mind that I need to share my story somehow, and slowly the seeds of creativity begin to grow.
The pandemic hits, and I am presented with time to reflect. How do I talk about my journey of love and loss as a partner and caregiver to an addict? How do I put a Horse on stage without putting a real Horse on stage? How do I weave these two stories together? I begin to jot down ideas that might make for a compelling theatrical play and am accepted into a playwrights’ residency with a small theatre company in town. I am now accountable and must come up with something! I outline scenes, monologues, and images I want to explore. I hold Spirit Walker close to my heart every day as I write and dream the play.
At the end of the eight-month residency, we are asked to share our work with a small online audience. I have so much material and so many loose ends I am not sure what to do, and now I have to share it online!??? No way!! I start panicking. Then out of the blue I say to myself, “Well, if that’s the case, I am not going to embarrass myself by just reading a bunch of self-indulgent monologues. I’m going to make a film! And it’s going to be about how Spirit Walker taught me how to heal myself by walking.”
I have never made a film before, but I call up a filmmaker friend and ask if she can help me shoot a bunch of footage. The stables where Spirit Walker lives are closed for the pandemic, so I reach out to the facilitator I worked with during the weekend, who I know has a few horses of her own, and ask if I can shoot some footage with one of her Horses, King, another beautiful soul. I drop into the same emotional state I was in when I worked with Spirit Walker; remember, I’m an actor and am trained to do this. Stunningly, King responds to me in a similar fashion but in his own wonderful and engaging way. We shoot additional footage of me walking the city streets and a few other key moments to highlight my journey of dealing with my partner’s addiction, and I edit my text to underscore. I now have a fifteen-minute film. I am nervous, but I share my film online, and the response is overwhelming. The film goes on to be celebrated at eighteen International Film Festivals. And of course, everyone loves the Horse!
I am encouraged by this and am now more determined than ever to get back to my original goal of putting this story on stage. I reach out to a couple of fellow artists and share my ideas. Everyone is intrigued and supportive. I organize a workshop and engage a few collaborators, including a wonderful Movement artist, Brad, to work on developing the character of the Horse with me. I write more, dream more, and experiment in the studio. I am invited to share my work at a Festival of Works-in-Progress, and the piece is met with enormous encouragement. I apply for and receive funding from the Canada Council for the Arts to continue developing the piece and prepare for a three-week workshop.
I am encouraged by this and am now more determined than ever to get back to my original goal of putting this story on stage. I reach out to a couple of fellow artists and share my ideas. Everyone is intrigued and supportive. I organize a workshop and engage a few collaborators, including a wonderful Movement artist, Brad, to work on developing the character of the Horse with me. I write more, dream more, and experiment in the studio. I am invited to share my work at a Festival of Works-in-Progress, and the piece is met with enormous encouragement. I apply for and receive funding from the Canada Council for the Arts to continue developing the piece and prepare for a three-week workshop.
On the first day of the workshop, I take my artistic team for an Equine Therapy day at the same farm where Spirit Walker is still in residence. I am excited and nervous to meet him again. For so long I have held this Horse close to my heart. He has been my inspiration, my healer, my hero; the catalyst for this entire artistic undertaking. I enter the ring trembling with anticipation. The facilitator tells me to take a few deep breaths and slow myself down. I do. Spirit Walker joins me in the ring. I look at him and my heart swells. We stand opposite each other for a few moments. He then takes a few steps towards me and comes to rest his head just over my left shoulder. Instinctively I raise my arm to cradle his head. We stand there breathing together. His energy feels like home. After a few minutes, I hear him speak to me: “It’s okay. You don’t need to hold onto me so tightly anymore. You can do this on your own now. You ARE doing this on your own.” I begin to cry. Deep in my soul I know this is true, but I don’t want to let him go. I want to stay here basking in his sweet breath and gentle, compassionate energy. I am overcome with a sense of pure gratitude and love for this being who has been at the center of my personal and artistic life for the past eight years. I know I have the strength to move forward on my own, but still, pulling myself away from this moment is bittersweet. I am taken back to that first encounter when he gently but firmly told me what I needed to do to start my healing process. I leave the farm that day feeling like the wheel has come full circle. My journey is the one I am meant to be on.
I return to my world and continue to work on the play. I receive more funding to complete the final phase of development with a full theatrical production slated for spring 2026.
I am still in awe at how the events of my life have unfolded since that first October morning years ago. Never could I have anticipated that a Horse could have the power to heal me when no one else could. Spirit Walker, with his simple wisdom and empathy, so generously and gracefully illuminated the path back to creativity and abundance. And for that I will be eternally grateful.
I return to my world and continue to work on the play. I receive more funding to complete the final phase of development with a full theatrical production slated for spring 2026.
I am still in awe at how the events of my life have unfolded since that first October morning years ago. Never could I have anticipated that a Horse could have the power to heal me when no one else could. Spirit Walker, with his simple wisdom and empathy, so generously and gracefully illuminated the path back to creativity and abundance. And for that I will be eternally grateful.
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And of course, I'm still walking. ~*~ |
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