Freya’s Last Gift
Tina Turner, Canada
“Life doesn’t feed on life. Life doesn’t nourish life. Death feeds life….
Our deaths can, in every sense the word can be meant, feed life –
unless we refuse to die, or fight dying, or curse dying, or spend all our dying time not dying.”
~ Stephen Jenkinson, Die Wise: A Manifesto for Sanity and Soul
Our deaths can, in every sense the word can be meant, feed life –
unless we refuse to die, or fight dying, or curse dying, or spend all our dying time not dying.”
~ Stephen Jenkinson, Die Wise: A Manifesto for Sanity and Soul
The horses were late arriving. It was 10 pm, dark, and still no word. I expected them hours ago, and it was only supposed to be a six-hour drive at most.
Everything was new for me. Growing up in the city, I had spent a lot of time at horse stables but always returned each night to my suburban bed. Someone else had tended to the horses during the long, dark hours. And, now, finally, after decades of yearning for this moment, my feet were planted on a farm, my bed just a short minute walk from the barn, and five horses were about to arrive to start a completely new life. It was not the equine competitive showing world I’d grown up in, nor the riding school kind where I’d learned about horses. The horse's arrival marked a threshold, challenging everything I thought I knew about them.
I had promised them choice, promised they would be listened to, regarded, and have the freedom to learn what herd means when the wild had been beaten back to the far fringes. Promises were made with good intent, yet with no idea as to what they meant. I was following a thread that felt both mildly insane and, at the same time, ripe with possibility and potential for something long ago forgotten.
Finally, at about 11 pm, the truck lights appeared rambling down the road. A few new neighbours, also waiting for the lights, appeared, and stood with me at the barn doors, ready to help.
I wondered what this moment would be like for the horses. A few knew each other briefly; others were new to everyone. All of them were new to this place. They would be tired and weary from the long hours standing on rumbling and shaking metal ground, the buzz of cars and trucks whizzing by within inches.
One by one we unloaded and brought them into the stalls. I assured them they would live outdoors, 24/7. This was something foreign to my equine experiences. But tonight, I wanted to see how they were; give them a chance to stand on solid ground, and later, in daylight, they could begin the long, slow process of learning about each other and this place.
Everything was new for me. Growing up in the city, I had spent a lot of time at horse stables but always returned each night to my suburban bed. Someone else had tended to the horses during the long, dark hours. And, now, finally, after decades of yearning for this moment, my feet were planted on a farm, my bed just a short minute walk from the barn, and five horses were about to arrive to start a completely new life. It was not the equine competitive showing world I’d grown up in, nor the riding school kind where I’d learned about horses. The horse's arrival marked a threshold, challenging everything I thought I knew about them.
I had promised them choice, promised they would be listened to, regarded, and have the freedom to learn what herd means when the wild had been beaten back to the far fringes. Promises were made with good intent, yet with no idea as to what they meant. I was following a thread that felt both mildly insane and, at the same time, ripe with possibility and potential for something long ago forgotten.
Finally, at about 11 pm, the truck lights appeared rambling down the road. A few new neighbours, also waiting for the lights, appeared, and stood with me at the barn doors, ready to help.
I wondered what this moment would be like for the horses. A few knew each other briefly; others were new to everyone. All of them were new to this place. They would be tired and weary from the long hours standing on rumbling and shaking metal ground, the buzz of cars and trucks whizzing by within inches.
One by one we unloaded and brought them into the stalls. I assured them they would live outdoors, 24/7. This was something foreign to my equine experiences. But tonight, I wanted to see how they were; give them a chance to stand on solid ground, and later, in daylight, they could begin the long, slow process of learning about each other and this place.
Relief, they arrived.
Joy, to see our barn filled with horses.
Uncertainty, a single mother at 50 years old.
Am I crazy?!
Joy, to see our barn filled with horses.
Uncertainty, a single mother at 50 years old.
Am I crazy?!
It took maybe thirty minutes before the thrill of their arrival was punctured by a sign that things were not right. Freya, the tallest of them, a large, lanky, older chestnut mare, began to pace and look confused. It was like something was misfiring inside her brain; it was. She collapsed to the ground and began to seize. Not a full-on unconscious, body-shaking seizure. The kind that happens when the electrical storm stays resident in one part of the brain.
I knew it right away. For more than fourteen years, I had tended to my daughter through her journey with epilepsy and the many different types of seizures she regularly experienced.
The vet came within the hour. Thank goodness we had one prearranged. “They’re rare,” she said. “Most vets will go their entire career and maybe see a handful.” Finally, by 4 am, the seizures stopped. Neither of us was sure Freya would make it. I pulled up a lounge chair pad and slept in the aisle outside her stall for a few hours.
Dawn, first light. The dark receded, and we were all together in our new home.
I knew it right away. For more than fourteen years, I had tended to my daughter through her journey with epilepsy and the many different types of seizures she regularly experienced.
The vet came within the hour. Thank goodness we had one prearranged. “They’re rare,” she said. “Most vets will go their entire career and maybe see a handful.” Finally, by 4 am, the seizures stopped. Neither of us was sure Freya would make it. I pulled up a lounge chair pad and slept in the aisle outside her stall for a few hours.
Dawn, first light. The dark receded, and we were all together in our new home.
“Now, looking through the slanting light of the morning window toward the mountain presence of everything that can be, what urgency calls you to your one love? What shape awaits in the seed of you to grow and spread its branches against a future sky?”
~ David Whyte, What to Remember When Waking, The House of Belonging
I first met Freya when I was wandering a field of about sixty rescue horses, somewhat overwhelmed at the prospect of finding a few who would like to join the pair I had already boarded at a local barn. These were early days; I’d found the farm some five hundred kilometers from where we lived, but we hadn’t yet moved. When I came across Freya standing quietly by herself, I felt a strange bond with her, a shared recognition of the power of sorrow. As though everything else had disappeared, there was only her, sorrow, and me in a moment of pure presence. The invitation into something I could never have known or described was right there, written in invisible ink on the blank page of my soul.
But now, several months later, on this morning after her arrival, after I walked each horse out into their new life, I felt as if I was in a haze. What did I just do? Carting her here with the fervor of my dream? The stress of it all had clearly been too much for her.
But now, several months later, on this morning after her arrival, after I walked each horse out into their new life, I felt as if I was in a haze. What did I just do? Carting her here with the fervor of my dream? The stress of it all had clearly been too much for her.
In the weeks and months that followed, the herd began to form: learning each other’s cues, wandering here and there in twos and threes, and having space to stand apart, grooming each other, standing over while another slept, running, playing, and weathering their first winter together. It was a good fifteen degrees or more colder, but no one chose a blanket. They were free to relate to each other, day and night, with the sun, clouds, moon, stars, and wind.
For five years, Freya rose as the matriarch, the grandmother of the herd. She tended to baby Pearl when she arrived as a young foal. Freya taught Finn, a mini, about courage. She was a strong friend to Echo, our long-time companion. Her seizures were mostly controlled, but she rarely lay down to sleep. Freya was always the one standing over, standing sentinel. Her size was formidable. Her heart was gentle and strong.
And then, one late July day, as the sun was falling toward the tree line, she suffered a huge seizure. It was a hot day. My daughter was home, and together, we bathed Freya, talking gently as she came around. But this time, she didn’t. There was a look in her eye that told me there was something more.
It soon became clear she was in pain. Colic? We called our vet. As she arrived Freya had another seizure. The exam showed that she was colicking too. She prompted us to consider a decision right there - don’t let her suffer; the night was coming.
I needed space and went for a short walk with Freya. Many times it had seemed like the end, and she had risen again. What would you like me to do?
I felt her response so clearly in my body, anchoring me to the surety of the soil beneath our feet.
I’m dying. Send the vet away. Not until dawn.
I began to imagine what this meant. Panic suddenly swirled around me like a fierce wind whipping up out of nowhere. Send the vet away with a sick horse? Walk into the night with you, alone? Stay awake until dawn? This was insane, cruel, irresponsible, and very possibly dangerous.
I could feel Freya’s resolve. But what if I’m imagining it all? Our vet departed. I promised to call her but warned her that it probably wouldn’t be till morning.
A strange calmness seemed to come over Freya that calmed me too. At that moment, I could feel that she was offering something in her final hours, something real and precious. It felt like the culmination of our life together, of her life. My daughter prepared a little backpack for me: water, a protein shake, a headlamp, and an extra jacket. Despite rarely using the horse’s halters and lead ropes, I decided this was a reasonable safety measure. And off we walked into the big paddock where the herd was waiting.
There are many little seasons to the night, and I was about to learn them all. The first is the late dusk and gradual shrouding of everything. The dark creeps in as the eyes and body adjust to a different way of navigating. We wandered together with the others for a bit. Freya wasn’t interested in eating but was happy to follow and walk with them.
Seizure 1 and then, not long after, seizure 2.
Crickets, coyotes, and frogs sing together in a dazzling staccato of voices all around us, making it hard to locate their origin. My favorite summer bird, the killdeer, swooping and running and tending to their busy little ones, constantly in motion in the paddock.
Seizure 4 and then 5. I don’t know if I can do this, Freya.
Yes, keep going.
Night season two: midway between dusk and dawn when the dark is all-consuming. A quietness had descended. We stood side by side, breathing in rhythm. We were developing a cadence. I could tell when a seizure was about to start; she knew to lead me to open ground. Oh, God, this is cruel. Please, don’t come back after the next one.
Again and again, she rose. And then, after the driest July in years, sweet rain, nectar for us all. Freya, the herd and I huddled together in the shelter, the droplets tapping on the tin roof echoing a sense of renewal.
I looked out at the porch light my daughter had left on; two more seizures.
Here I am, being baptized by Freya, the porch light tethering her and me to my sweet child.
I was fading, having trouble staying awake, staying upright. Young Pearl and Echo started taking turns standing behind me, pressing their long heads against my back, holding me up. How could Freya stand with me so quiet and peaceful? How is this possible?
More seizures. If you come back from this one, I have to call the vet.
Don’t you dare.
Finally, the part of the night where you can feel dawn is near before it arrives. The animal voices changed; the robins started their calls.
It soon became clear she was in pain. Colic? We called our vet. As she arrived Freya had another seizure. The exam showed that she was colicking too. She prompted us to consider a decision right there - don’t let her suffer; the night was coming.
I needed space and went for a short walk with Freya. Many times it had seemed like the end, and she had risen again. What would you like me to do?
I felt her response so clearly in my body, anchoring me to the surety of the soil beneath our feet.
I’m dying. Send the vet away. Not until dawn.
I began to imagine what this meant. Panic suddenly swirled around me like a fierce wind whipping up out of nowhere. Send the vet away with a sick horse? Walk into the night with you, alone? Stay awake until dawn? This was insane, cruel, irresponsible, and very possibly dangerous.
I could feel Freya’s resolve. But what if I’m imagining it all? Our vet departed. I promised to call her but warned her that it probably wouldn’t be till morning.
A strange calmness seemed to come over Freya that calmed me too. At that moment, I could feel that she was offering something in her final hours, something real and precious. It felt like the culmination of our life together, of her life. My daughter prepared a little backpack for me: water, a protein shake, a headlamp, and an extra jacket. Despite rarely using the horse’s halters and lead ropes, I decided this was a reasonable safety measure. And off we walked into the big paddock where the herd was waiting.
There are many little seasons to the night, and I was about to learn them all. The first is the late dusk and gradual shrouding of everything. The dark creeps in as the eyes and body adjust to a different way of navigating. We wandered together with the others for a bit. Freya wasn’t interested in eating but was happy to follow and walk with them.
Seizure 1 and then, not long after, seizure 2.
Crickets, coyotes, and frogs sing together in a dazzling staccato of voices all around us, making it hard to locate their origin. My favorite summer bird, the killdeer, swooping and running and tending to their busy little ones, constantly in motion in the paddock.
Seizure 4 and then 5. I don’t know if I can do this, Freya.
Yes, keep going.
Night season two: midway between dusk and dawn when the dark is all-consuming. A quietness had descended. We stood side by side, breathing in rhythm. We were developing a cadence. I could tell when a seizure was about to start; she knew to lead me to open ground. Oh, God, this is cruel. Please, don’t come back after the next one.
Again and again, she rose. And then, after the driest July in years, sweet rain, nectar for us all. Freya, the herd and I huddled together in the shelter, the droplets tapping on the tin roof echoing a sense of renewal.
I looked out at the porch light my daughter had left on; two more seizures.
Here I am, being baptized by Freya, the porch light tethering her and me to my sweet child.
I was fading, having trouble staying awake, staying upright. Young Pearl and Echo started taking turns standing behind me, pressing their long heads against my back, holding me up. How could Freya stand with me so quiet and peaceful? How is this possible?
More seizures. If you come back from this one, I have to call the vet.
Don’t you dare.
Finally, the part of the night where you can feel dawn is near before it arrives. The animal voices changed; the robins started their calls.
I think that was number 12. I’ve lost count. Please, please, I’m going to call the vet.
DO NOT.
Slowly, ever so gradually, the dark began to recede. No rays yet, but a thin line of greyish blue appears on the horizon. And then, the first tendrils of the great Eastern sun crept through the trees. It felt like we were in the final stretch of a marathon. Exhilaration ignited as though we had really done something that asked almost more than I had, almost more than I suspect Freya had.
As my gaze savoured the orange glow emerging in the far corner of the paddock, I saw her, Sorrow, making her way towards us in all her fine regalia. Suddenly, I never wanted the night to end.
I could feel Freya letting go. She was ready. One last seizure, little Finn standing over her with me. No more pleading. I called the vet. As Freya and I walked together through the black gates to the front paddock where we would meet the vet, my phone, stuffed in my pocket, suddenly started playing a song I didn’t know, didn’t even have in my library: Enter the Light, by Pablo Arellano and Nacho Arimany from their album Language of the Soul. Was this real?
Listen, Freya, this is for you!
No, it’s for you.
“Enter the light. Walk the path of darkness inside you. Leave the fears behind you. Be free… Enter the light that shines inside you. Walk with me … It’s true, we arrived at the summit.” ~ Pablo Arellano
~*~
DO NOT.
Slowly, ever so gradually, the dark began to recede. No rays yet, but a thin line of greyish blue appears on the horizon. And then, the first tendrils of the great Eastern sun crept through the trees. It felt like we were in the final stretch of a marathon. Exhilaration ignited as though we had really done something that asked almost more than I had, almost more than I suspect Freya had.
As my gaze savoured the orange glow emerging in the far corner of the paddock, I saw her, Sorrow, making her way towards us in all her fine regalia. Suddenly, I never wanted the night to end.
I could feel Freya letting go. She was ready. One last seizure, little Finn standing over her with me. No more pleading. I called the vet. As Freya and I walked together through the black gates to the front paddock where we would meet the vet, my phone, stuffed in my pocket, suddenly started playing a song I didn’t know, didn’t even have in my library: Enter the Light, by Pablo Arellano and Nacho Arimany from their album Language of the Soul. Was this real?
Listen, Freya, this is for you!
No, it’s for you.
“Enter the light. Walk the path of darkness inside you. Leave the fears behind you. Be free… Enter the light that shines inside you. Walk with me … It’s true, we arrived at the summit.” ~ Pablo Arellano
~*~
