The Barn

Sweeping the middle isle of the barn, running a steady beat with the brush across the cold cement, I realized how at peace I was.  The sparrows flew through the rafters above, oblivious to the plastic owl that was there to scare them off.  The only sounds were the horses with their heads in the grain buckets, shifting their weight from foot to foot in the sawdust in their stalls.  The wind was cold and crisp,  whistling through the open half stall doors almost to the tune of the broom.  Every once in awhile a car or truck would go by on the highway, interrupting our melody.  The sounds mingled with the fragrance of the barn.  The sweet grain and lush hay, the leather tack, shining in the light fresh with polish, the aroma of the heat rising off the horses bodies and the scent of manure mixed with sawdust.  There are no lies here, only hard work and a funny kind of silence.

It makes a person stop and think.  Think about love more than anything.  Makes you think about whether this is all there is in life.  Only a strange silence wishing you were somewhere else with someone…that someone.  If you can believe what everyone says about, there is someone out there for everyone?  Do you have to pay a price to find that certain someone?  Are you supposed to find them?  How is it all supposed to work?  What about all the others that have come and gone that you thought were the one?

It is strange how silence can bring the world crashing down on you.  Sweeping a little harder bending the bristles of the broom brutally and wishing the wind would turn to a screaming howl to drown out the thoughts, I try to ignore the visions and words streaming through my head.  Wondering what tomorrow would bring, wondering what would happen if there wasn’t a tomorrow for me. 

Putting the broom down, I take out the maiden of the barn.  An old mare that can hardly see or move.  Grabbing a curry comb, I make long strokes down her narrowing back.  She looks back at me as if she knows I need to groom her as much as she needs to be groomed.  The soothing passes over her back and sides draw my focus to the task at hand.  Slowly down her legs to each hock.  She lifts each foot so I can check her hooves and puts them down as delicately as leaves falling to the ground.  She is one of those amazing horses that you know has had an incredible life.  She may be old and slow, but she carries herself with pride and dignity. 

Sometimes, if you are lucky enough, you can look into an animals eyes and see that when they look at you, they are seeing all of you, inside and out, but they are not judging.  If you happen to get a glimpse of that stare, relish in it, because it will be one of the only times in life that a thing will look at you and not form an immediate opinion.

Putting the old mare away, I take out the young palomino gelding.  He is a being of intelligence and strength.  He is tall and built like a brick wall.  He is wild eyed, impatient  and unpredictable.  His mane is short and tale long, though they look an awkward balance, they shine a stunning gold in the sun.  His creamy coat is dirty from rolling in the snow and mud.  I halter him and he stands tall waiting to be groomed.  He looks down his long forehead at me asking with his eyes, “What are you waiting for?”  With the comb, I repeat the long gentle strokes down his neck and back.  He settles, dropping his head a bit, knowing that the gentle hand is nothing to be afraid of.  I brush his back, moving towards his flanks, and he turns his head to the side and touches his nose to my hand, as if he approves.  Finished, I return him to his stall to finish eating.  Such power and strength, mastered and overpowered simply by a soft hand and warm voice.

I finish sweeping the isle with a little less harshness and start to pick up the barn.  Stacking buckets, putting away grooming tools, putting the lids back on the grain cans.  A light rain starts to fall.  The sound reverberates through the barn.  It sounds like it is pouring down nails on the metal roof.  It is a wonderful sound, breaks the silence.

Letting the horses out of their stalls into their individual pastures, they breathe in the cold air and feel the chilly rain on their backs.  The younger galloping away, bucking and snorting at invisible beings, his shear spirit and feeling of freedom shines bright.  He stops sharp at the fence, an offensive reminder, that he is a captive in his own world…