Soul Nourished, Body Grounded, Heart Renewed

Carrot Therapy

Horses in stalls

Oregon’s coastal mist rolls in, darkening the tree line. Shapes of Douglas fir, Sitka spruce and alder fade as rain pounds on the barn’s tin roof. Its another gray morning at Ocean Ridge Stables, where my neighbors have given me an open invitation to visit, pitch hay, muck the stalls or engage in any other desire of my heart.

 The air is cold on my cheeks, reddening my hands. I zip my jacket, pulling the collar around my neck. It’s early, 6 a.m. Only the horses stir, assuming I’m the person who’ll dump grain into their buckets, throw sections of alfalfa into their stalls. But today, I’m not here to feed them, but to nourish myself.

All week, I've sandwiched my writing, early morning, late at night, around the twelve-hours each day of a care-giving job. Stressed and exhausted, I need to renew myself, not with a beach walk, a mountain hike, nor a hot bath or gardening but with carrot therapy—offering vegetable treats to these four-legged friends.

As I lift the metal lid on the feed barrel, the horses whinny and neigh, trying to get my attention. Feed me! Feed me! I scoop a handful of grain and carry a shoulder sack full of the sweet, orange roots from my garden. Strolling from stall to stall, I nod at Curly, Smokey, Tinker, Choctaw, Flower, Star and Woodchuck. The horses paw and stomp in their beds of straw.

Carrpts

Curly reaches toward me with his muzzle. Stretching his  lips like a chimpanzee, he begs and I offer the grain. Choctaw, a colorful brown and white Appaloosa with black spots, whinnies with his head high. He’s looking for breakfast and snorts at the orange appetizer, but munches it down anyway. I run my cold hand down the warm hairs on his neck.

 
Offering carrots, I savor the musical crunch and chomp of each horse. Woodchuck, a coffee brown Arabian, stretches his neck toward me for another treat and I oblige. These animals have shown me a giving and receiving of sensual pleasure, similar to chemistry with the opposite sex. Their sounds, smells and textures satisfy a primal part of myself. Perhaps that’s because I was born in the Chinese year of the horse.

 
I delight in their neighing and the smells of hay. I love their warm breaths on my hand. In feeding them, my soul is

Horse muzzle

 nourished, my body grounded. I return home, refreshed and present.