The Journey from Separation to Connection
Paths to wholeness guided by horses
Judy Brightman, Australia
“It’s easy for us to feel separate from other people and from other forms of life, especially if we don’t have a reliable connection to our own inner world.” ~Sharon Salzberg
Disconnection is an issue that is rife in an over-connected world full of technology driven, and often derived, information. Overwhelm is commonplace, and a sense of separateness, lack of meaning and loneliness lead people to unhealthy coping strategies that often exacerbate these feelings. Horses can model a more cohesive way of being.
Horses in the wild, or living in a natural environment, are connected to their inner sensations, to those around them and to the environment. This is vital to their safety and well-being as a social, affiliative species. We once lived like this too. Let’s explore some horse wisdom to help reconnect through the stories that follow.
Horses in the wild, or living in a natural environment, are connected to their inner sensations, to those around them and to the environment. This is vital to their safety and well-being as a social, affiliative species. We once lived like this too. Let’s explore some horse wisdom to help reconnect through the stories that follow.
“The longest journey you will ever take is the 18 inches from your head to your heart.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh
The woman keeps approaching the bay horse nearby. Every time she gets within arm’s length, he sidesteps, turning his head away. Her work colleagues are grouped outside the paddock, observing. She is the only one of them with experience with horses; in fact, she has several at home. I am closer to her and can see the tension in her as performance anxiety grasps her breath and the inner critic contracts her capacity.
I step in, speaking quietly, my back to her colleagues a short distance behind. “Take a pause and a deep breath,” I sigh to her. Her face fills with frustration. “How about you let go of any expectation and just center yourself, breathing out the tension in your body?” The bay stands still, looking away. Placing a hand on my heart, I suggest she connect to a memory of appreciation, maybe of a horse in her life, perhaps as a younger self, with no agenda. A small smile plays on her face, and the air feels softer. The bay turns toward us. “Now, slowly approach him, pausing and exhaling audibly if he turns aside. Hold a heartfelt desire to connect,” I tell her. Moments later they walk together, connected, though not by a rope, and arc back toward her cheering colleagues, her face beaming.
At the close of the day, she takes me aside and says, “That was life-changing. I’ll look at my own horses so differently now.” “Don’t forget it works with humans too,” I smile in return. She had learned that by connecting to her heart, acknowledging her vulnerability, and allowing authentic communication, she could connect more effectively with others. This vital lesson was embodied with the horse in a way that no leadership role-play exercises can achieve so swiftly. Learning to drop into the heart space can be a long journey; a horse can help shorten it.
The woman keeps approaching the bay horse nearby. Every time she gets within arm’s length, he sidesteps, turning his head away. Her work colleagues are grouped outside the paddock, observing. She is the only one of them with experience with horses; in fact, she has several at home. I am closer to her and can see the tension in her as performance anxiety grasps her breath and the inner critic contracts her capacity.
I step in, speaking quietly, my back to her colleagues a short distance behind. “Take a pause and a deep breath,” I sigh to her. Her face fills with frustration. “How about you let go of any expectation and just center yourself, breathing out the tension in your body?” The bay stands still, looking away. Placing a hand on my heart, I suggest she connect to a memory of appreciation, maybe of a horse in her life, perhaps as a younger self, with no agenda. A small smile plays on her face, and the air feels softer. The bay turns toward us. “Now, slowly approach him, pausing and exhaling audibly if he turns aside. Hold a heartfelt desire to connect,” I tell her. Moments later they walk together, connected, though not by a rope, and arc back toward her cheering colleagues, her face beaming.
At the close of the day, she takes me aside and says, “That was life-changing. I’ll look at my own horses so differently now.” “Don’t forget it works with humans too,” I smile in return. She had learned that by connecting to her heart, acknowledging her vulnerability, and allowing authentic communication, she could connect more effectively with others. This vital lesson was embodied with the horse in a way that no leadership role-play exercises can achieve so swiftly. Learning to drop into the heart space can be a long journey; a horse can help shorten it.
“The breath is a force, a bridge, a tool. It connects us to each other, and to our own nature, our source.” ~Dan Brule
“Would you like to meet the brumbies?” I ask the young boy visiting with his mother. He nods excitedly, and as we wander down to their paddock, I tell him they lived wild and free until recently, so they are not accustomed to humans, and we will need to be calm, quiet, and grounded. He nods, holding his mother’s hand for reassurance. She is one of the few clients I have invited to interact over the fence with them. Over several visits she has learned good self-regulation and grounding, and her energy is gentle.
We stand a few feet away from the fence. The mare has been watching from a distance, unperturbed. Her nine-month-old filly is alert and prancing. Head high, she takes exaggerated steps in our direction, nostrils flaring, then snorts and skitters away behind her mother. “Wow, oh wow!” the boy exclaims and jigs on the spot excitedly. The filly races round in circles as her mother watches us intently.
I model some slow, belly-deep inhales and longer, audible exhales, which his mother mimics, and the boy, between us, joins in. As his breath deepens and his body quietens, he whispers how beautiful they are, how lively and quick the young filly is. As he calms, his curiosity calls, and he inches closer to the fence. The filly mirrors, and as she snorts breath that ripples over his skin, he steps quickly back to his mother, the filly trotting back to hers. They can’t take their eyes off each other. “She’s never met a boy,” I tell him. Over the next few minutes, the boy and the filly engage in approach and retreat, each having the secure attachment and safe harbor of their mothers to return to for reassurance. As the boy consciously breathes with his mother and I holding the space, the boy and the filly reach out to each other until her nose kisses his arm, both their eyes widening in surprise, backing off, then coming back to explore more. It is a joy, an innocent, delightful connection; unforgettable for all.
What an important lesson for this six-year-old, sensitive soul! To be able to self-regulate is a vital life skill, mostly ignored in schools and unknown to many adults. Experiential learning such as this lands the lesson in the body, the felt sensations available to recall whenever the boy draws on his memory of meeting the filly. A lovely expansion of the filly’s tolerance too, engaging in a novel experience in a titrated way with the safety of her mother nearby, and the freedom to move.
“Would you like to meet the brumbies?” I ask the young boy visiting with his mother. He nods excitedly, and as we wander down to their paddock, I tell him they lived wild and free until recently, so they are not accustomed to humans, and we will need to be calm, quiet, and grounded. He nods, holding his mother’s hand for reassurance. She is one of the few clients I have invited to interact over the fence with them. Over several visits she has learned good self-regulation and grounding, and her energy is gentle.
We stand a few feet away from the fence. The mare has been watching from a distance, unperturbed. Her nine-month-old filly is alert and prancing. Head high, she takes exaggerated steps in our direction, nostrils flaring, then snorts and skitters away behind her mother. “Wow, oh wow!” the boy exclaims and jigs on the spot excitedly. The filly races round in circles as her mother watches us intently.
I model some slow, belly-deep inhales and longer, audible exhales, which his mother mimics, and the boy, between us, joins in. As his breath deepens and his body quietens, he whispers how beautiful they are, how lively and quick the young filly is. As he calms, his curiosity calls, and he inches closer to the fence. The filly mirrors, and as she snorts breath that ripples over his skin, he steps quickly back to his mother, the filly trotting back to hers. They can’t take their eyes off each other. “She’s never met a boy,” I tell him. Over the next few minutes, the boy and the filly engage in approach and retreat, each having the secure attachment and safe harbor of their mothers to return to for reassurance. As the boy consciously breathes with his mother and I holding the space, the boy and the filly reach out to each other until her nose kisses his arm, both their eyes widening in surprise, backing off, then coming back to explore more. It is a joy, an innocent, delightful connection; unforgettable for all.
What an important lesson for this six-year-old, sensitive soul! To be able to self-regulate is a vital life skill, mostly ignored in schools and unknown to many adults. Experiential learning such as this lands the lesson in the body, the felt sensations available to recall whenever the boy draws on his memory of meeting the filly. A lovely expansion of the filly’s tolerance too, engaging in a novel experience in a titrated way with the safety of her mother nearby, and the freedom to move.
“We all share the wound of fragmentation. And we can all share in the healing of unification. Healing is the unification…. of the powers of being, feeling, knowing, and seeing.” ~Gabrielle Roth
A couple of weeks later, the boy’s mother returned for a session with the horses. Having uncovered some pain and fragmented parts with her therapist, she is focusing on grieving the childhood wounds and the subsequent fragmentation of her family of origin. We are standing just inside the gate, and, surprisingly, the brumby mare approaches. She looks directly at the woman who is grounded and calm, but also vulnerable and raw. The mare stops within reach directly in front of her; it is a breath-holding, heart-skipping moment. The mare stretches her muzzle and gently touches the woman’s chest briefly, nose to heart. The woman makes no attempt to touch her, not wanting to intrude or to break the spell of this precious gift-laden gesture. For me, the air pulses, time warps, and we are in “wu-wei”,[1] the place of infinite potential.
Tears are free-falling across the woman’s cheeks and misting my vision too. Then the mare takes a step back, turns, and leaves, to stand and yawn, sigh, and shake in the distance before going back to grazing.
The mare has never connected with anyone in this way. She has learned to trust me and share space, but this is a sacred connection of recognition and resonance. The mare was trapped in the wild, heavily pregnant with her yearling filly at foot. She gave birth in the trap yards, and then her family, her yearling, and the rest of the band of horses were sold, and she was left alone with a newborn. A few months later they came to me. The trauma and heartbreak of loss shared and witnessed in a profoundly healing recognition needed no further words for the woman.
As we started to speak again, the filly bounced toward us; she sniffed the woman all over, nudging laughter as her soft muzzle hairs tickled the bare arm. Crouching, the woman let the filly explore her straw hat and hair. Satisfied, the filly strolled back to her mother, and we left them, grazing in peace.
The grief, the loss, the joy…. the connection to these emotions, to fragmented parts of herself and her family, all felt deeply, shared, and witnessed. To be seen, to be known in this powerful state of being with two horses, so attuned to the environment and the energy of others, their wild selves, untarnished, offered a sparkling gem.
A couple of weeks later, the boy’s mother returned for a session with the horses. Having uncovered some pain and fragmented parts with her therapist, she is focusing on grieving the childhood wounds and the subsequent fragmentation of her family of origin. We are standing just inside the gate, and, surprisingly, the brumby mare approaches. She looks directly at the woman who is grounded and calm, but also vulnerable and raw. The mare stops within reach directly in front of her; it is a breath-holding, heart-skipping moment. The mare stretches her muzzle and gently touches the woman’s chest briefly, nose to heart. The woman makes no attempt to touch her, not wanting to intrude or to break the spell of this precious gift-laden gesture. For me, the air pulses, time warps, and we are in “wu-wei”,[1] the place of infinite potential.
Tears are free-falling across the woman’s cheeks and misting my vision too. Then the mare takes a step back, turns, and leaves, to stand and yawn, sigh, and shake in the distance before going back to grazing.
The mare has never connected with anyone in this way. She has learned to trust me and share space, but this is a sacred connection of recognition and resonance. The mare was trapped in the wild, heavily pregnant with her yearling filly at foot. She gave birth in the trap yards, and then her family, her yearling, and the rest of the band of horses were sold, and she was left alone with a newborn. A few months later they came to me. The trauma and heartbreak of loss shared and witnessed in a profoundly healing recognition needed no further words for the woman.
As we started to speak again, the filly bounced toward us; she sniffed the woman all over, nudging laughter as her soft muzzle hairs tickled the bare arm. Crouching, the woman let the filly explore her straw hat and hair. Satisfied, the filly strolled back to her mother, and we left them, grazing in peace.
The grief, the loss, the joy…. the connection to these emotions, to fragmented parts of herself and her family, all felt deeply, shared, and witnessed. To be seen, to be known in this powerful state of being with two horses, so attuned to the environment and the energy of others, their wild selves, untarnished, offered a sparkling gem.
“You’re constantly bringing spirit down into form, and you’re constantly, as a form, moving towards spirit, or the formless. It’s the dance of form and formless. It just keeps moving back and forth in those things, and you begin to experience your life as that, as moving in and out of all these planes all the time.” ~Ram Dass, speaking on the process of awakening.
I am a practitioner of Qigong[1], in which the art of dancing with form (essentially body) and formless (energy) is explored. To me, it feels like an expansion of self and dissolving of physical boundaries. I envisage my cells as pixelating light connecting with all other cells in a oneness. Some mornings, when the weather is kind, I practice in the paddock where the horses rest after breakfast. We all enjoy this. For me, the bliss of achieving this sense of unity with the horses, the land, the trees, the sky, the birds, and the clouds is restorative. It sets me up to meet the day in a compassionate and receptive way. Drawing the energy back into my physical form, I feel more spacious, fluid, and deeply connected to myself and all that is.
Some years ago, before I was a regular practitioner of Qigong, I experienced the expanded state of awareness at home when I was in the arena with my two ponies. Prone to laminitis, a painful inflammation of the sensitive tissue in the hoof, occasionally I would turn them loose in the covered arena, which had soft, waxed-fiber footing. They loved frolicking in there, running, turning, bucking, and rearing playfully. On the firmer ground in the paddock, they were more cautious in their movement.
Standing in the center of the arena, an image came to mind of connecting with the ponies and all of us walking together. I brought my awareness fully to this image, sensing the energy of how it would feel. Marcus, the bigger pony, appears on my left, and I start to walk alongside him, holding the picture of us moving together in my mind. Jaz, the small mare, falls in beside me on my right. The three of us walk in synchrony, their forelegs aligning with mine; we move as a unit, weaving and circling with no agenda but as if we are completely interconnected, formless within one form. Effortless and timeless as peak experience[2] or flow states are, it is completely magical. After a while, we three come to a halt in unison and stand quietly together, still joined, until they peel off and go back to more boisterous play.
I am left changed, humbled, honored, grateful, body buzzing with aliveness and a profound sense of connection.
I am a practitioner of Qigong[1], in which the art of dancing with form (essentially body) and formless (energy) is explored. To me, it feels like an expansion of self and dissolving of physical boundaries. I envisage my cells as pixelating light connecting with all other cells in a oneness. Some mornings, when the weather is kind, I practice in the paddock where the horses rest after breakfast. We all enjoy this. For me, the bliss of achieving this sense of unity with the horses, the land, the trees, the sky, the birds, and the clouds is restorative. It sets me up to meet the day in a compassionate and receptive way. Drawing the energy back into my physical form, I feel more spacious, fluid, and deeply connected to myself and all that is.
Some years ago, before I was a regular practitioner of Qigong, I experienced the expanded state of awareness at home when I was in the arena with my two ponies. Prone to laminitis, a painful inflammation of the sensitive tissue in the hoof, occasionally I would turn them loose in the covered arena, which had soft, waxed-fiber footing. They loved frolicking in there, running, turning, bucking, and rearing playfully. On the firmer ground in the paddock, they were more cautious in their movement.
Standing in the center of the arena, an image came to mind of connecting with the ponies and all of us walking together. I brought my awareness fully to this image, sensing the energy of how it would feel. Marcus, the bigger pony, appears on my left, and I start to walk alongside him, holding the picture of us moving together in my mind. Jaz, the small mare, falls in beside me on my right. The three of us walk in synchrony, their forelegs aligning with mine; we move as a unit, weaving and circling with no agenda but as if we are completely interconnected, formless within one form. Effortless and timeless as peak experience[2] or flow states are, it is completely magical. After a while, we three come to a halt in unison and stand quietly together, still joined, until they peel off and go back to more boisterous play.
I am left changed, humbled, honored, grateful, body buzzing with aliveness and a profound sense of connection.
“Open yourself to everything, and everything opens itself to you.” ~Richard Wagamese
We yearn for moments of expanded awareness, being in flow and feeling true connection, yet block ourselves from these experiences by spending so much time in our heads, engaging in planning, ruminating, worrying, analyzing, and overthinking. When we can become truly present, and intentional, we can open ourselves to connection; open to ourselves, our fragmented parts, others, and all the more-than-humans who share our beautiful Mother Earth.
Connecting to ourselves is essential in appreciating our connection to others and to something greater, call it Source, the Divine, your higher self, or guides. In a busy world where presence can be hard to find and maintain, where true listening is rare and connection to self can mean contacting painful or unwanted feelings, we can take a lesson from the horses. Be mindful, breathe, feel the ground beneath you. Acknowledge your feelings and sensations, send breath and compassion to these, and notice what shifts inside. Then go back to grazing; rather than dwelling on any pain or tension, accept what is. In the presence of a horse, we can access this state more readily; dropping awareness from head to heart feels easier, and the path to connection opens. ~*~
We yearn for moments of expanded awareness, being in flow and feeling true connection, yet block ourselves from these experiences by spending so much time in our heads, engaging in planning, ruminating, worrying, analyzing, and overthinking. When we can become truly present, and intentional, we can open ourselves to connection; open to ourselves, our fragmented parts, others, and all the more-than-humans who share our beautiful Mother Earth.
Connecting to ourselves is essential in appreciating our connection to others and to something greater, call it Source, the Divine, your higher self, or guides. In a busy world where presence can be hard to find and maintain, where true listening is rare and connection to self can mean contacting painful or unwanted feelings, we can take a lesson from the horses. Be mindful, breathe, feel the ground beneath you. Acknowledge your feelings and sensations, send breath and compassion to these, and notice what shifts inside. Then go back to grazing; rather than dwelling on any pain or tension, accept what is. In the presence of a horse, we can access this state more readily; dropping awareness from head to heart feels easier, and the path to connection opens. ~*~
[1] wu wei – noun (wüˈwā)
The practice advocated by Taoism of letting one's action follow the simple and spontaneous course of nature (as by keeping to a minimum governmental organization and regulation) rather than interfering with the harmonious working of universal law by imposing arbitrary and artificial forms: doing or making nothing except in conformity to the Tao.
[2] An ancient Chinese healing art involving meditation, controlled breathing, and movement exercises.
[3] Peak experiences are often described as transcendent moments of pure joy and elation. These are moments that stand out from everyday events. The memory of such events is lasting, and people often liken them to a spiritual experience.
