“Let us envisage a rider on his horse, cantering along the side of the mountain. ‘I’ is the rider, ‘Myself’ the horse; ‘I’ this individual essence, this potential being, ‘Myself’ this power of functional manifestation…
With his hand securely on the rein, his mount will have no chance of straying down the path that leads to the precipice. Wide awake, the rider keeps an eye on ‘Myself’, the horse, and guides him unfalteringly along the ridge. The one keeping watch, the other carrying the watcher, they make a complete whole.
Thus related, they will go far.”
—Henri Tracol, from a lecture given at the Salle du Musee De L’homme, Paris, on March 6, 1967
My horse’s name was Barney. Her coat was reddish brown with a lighter mane. She stood at a height of 12 hands, technically a pony, but she was not small. Her mother, as I recall, was Shetland and her father, American Quarter Horse. Sitting on her bare back when I was six or seven years old, her size matched mine perfectly.
We lived on a homestead in far north New York, near the Canadian border. So vast was the pasture that I often had to search for Barney when I got home from school. On hot days I walked the craggy landscape to find her hidden in the shade of a copse, standing in the cool stream that ran under the trees. In winter, when her coat was long and thick with undercoat, she might be on the far side of the barn sheltered from the wind.
She would be munching grass or hay with one ear barely turned toward me as I approached but I knew she sensed me coming long before I found her. As I drew near she lifted her head and I scratched her neck and buried my face in her mane.
When I was little I led Barney to a stump or big rock to get on. As I grew I was able to leap onto her back from the ground. At first, I dove on belly first and swung my leg around. I was eventually able to hold on to her mane and swing a leg over in a graceful arc. She barely acknowledged me perched on her back while she grazed.
In the pasture I would give a kick and try to encourage Barney to take me for a ride but she ignored the command and continued her grazing. If I really wanted to ride I would get her bridle and try to get the bit between her teeth even as she clenched her jaw in resistance. This was a cue to go for a ride and I opened the gate to travel into the forest on the far side of the pasture.
Barney had a pleasant gait but her trot was punishing, especially without a saddle, so I pleaded with and cajoled her to break into a canter. No amount of kicking with my heels or yelling “Giddy-up, Barney! Giddy-up!” had the desired effect. She would canter unenthusiastically for a little way, then slow to a painful trot, and then back to a walk again. She ran when she wanted to, for instance when we were returning to her pasture where she would once again graze in peace.
Once, after a frustrating period of encouraging Barney to run, she suddenly broke into a gallop and ran at full speed under a tree branch. I was instantly clotheslined and I found myself on my back on the forest floor checking to see if anything was broken. It never happened again, as I learned to duck low when she ran for the trees, suffering only some scrapes as the branches raked my back.
But when Barney decided to turn it on she ran flat out and so fast that the bobbing rhythm disappeared. I could feel and hear the pounding of her hooves but at top speed her gait became smooth. The wind pulled tears from my eyes and I bent down over her strong neck, her head reaching out in front. These were the moments that I craved, not only for the thrill of speed but because it felt like my will and the will of this powerful animal were one.
Barney and I loved one another. We were friends. She showed me how to love and receive love. She taught me something about coming into a right relationship with the animal of my own organism. The process of coming to symbiotic power, of cooperation and unity of rider and horse, left an indelible glimpse of how I may relate with Myself.
This article appears in December 2024.
