Three times I day I bend at the waist, step through the gate, and enter the horse pasture because I don’t want to open and deal with the heavy 16′ long iron gate. (My kingdom for a walk-through gate!) My destination is each of the gates, and maybe depending on the time of day, the bright green hay buckets, where I pick them up, paying attention to how my body feels (stiffer and achier in the morning) and I close the gates. As I do this, I’m aware of the horses too, seeing how senior heart mare is moving, making sure her medicine is still helping, checking the other horses too for signs of lameness. I close the gates and then I feed, a sacred dance that’s done for the entire herd twice a day, and a third time at midday for my senior mare.
Or maybe I’m walking through the herd, pausing to tell them that I love them, to run my hands over their sleek coats in summer or this time of year their fluffy teddy-bear coats of winter hair. I kiss noses and give hugs, aware of how they’re moving, how they’re receiving my attention, and how I’m moving and how my body feels. Sometimes, when senior mare is standing against the windbreak at the northwest corner of the field, or out grazing in the middle of the field, I’ll walk with her, two older bodies living with bad joints and chronic pain, one with pain relief (that’s the horse) and me who manages and maps my body like a cartographer of the soul.
Even in the house, when I’m sitting on the bed with my laptop, or here, at my desk in the office cabin, I’ll often have a cat purring in my lap or within arm’s reach. Sometimes Pixie cat flings herself into my arms, wriggling until she’s laying on her back like a baby, eyes closed as she drifts off to safe, contented, and oh so snuggly warm sleep. I’ll look down at her and marvel. First, because obviously I’m doing something right if such a small, perfect creature trusts me to not only show me her belly, but also fall sleep in my arms. But also, because these small creatures (compared to us) that we call cats have made themselves at home, and in our case, showing up on the farm, announcing their presence, and demanding to turn into pampered house floofs.
I see it when I see someone playing with their dog in the park, or just walking their dog on a warm day. Watching someone with a large parrot perched on their arm, evokes the same feelings. Animals work hard to keep us in the moment, and they work hard to connect us with our bodies. The warm, solid presence of a cat or dog next to you draws your attention to your hip or leg, and maybe the vibration of a cat’s purr or the rumble of a dog’s snore (though my cats snore too), and the warmth of their body. Walking with the horses helps me to connect with and inhabit, fully inhabit my own body, not just use it as a vehicle to get around with.
This, too, is body theology, mapping the divine nature of our bodies and how they connect us to the divine cosmos. My map is richer, more detailed, because of the knowledge that my animal companions share with me. May they help craft your map too.
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