Breathe

As part of my chaplaincy training, I once spent several weeks working with veterans in a residential substance abuse program. On Sunday mornings, I would hold group meetings with the residents, trying to get them to talk about issues such as forgiveness and trust. One morning, I was explaining a trust-building workshop I’d heard about called “equine therapy.” The idea of the program is to train people to gain a horse’s trust so it will let them lift up one of its front legs and look at its hoof. As it turned out, one of the veterans at the substance abuse clinic that day knew a lot about horses and how to work with them. Someone in the group gave him away.

“Hey, chaplain, you should ask Chester about that. He’s a horse-whisperer,” laughed a short, stocky Navajo with a bulbous nose.

I was curious. “Is that right Chester?” I asked, turning to the long faced Anglo in a checked shirt and jeans who had been quietly sipping his coffee the whole time.

“Aw, shit!” he offered in response. “That horse-whispering is a bunch of crap. I’ll tell you how to handle a horse.” All eyes were now on Chester.

“The first thing you do is you just stand outside the corral and talk to the horse. I talk about what kind of a day I’m having, whether it’s good or bad, what I read in the newspaper that morning, what I had for breakfast, anything just so long as that horse can get to know my voice. And even if he’s got his rear to you, believe me, that horse knows you’re there. I want him to get used to me, see.

“Now this isn’t going to happen in one day, so I just go back day after day and keep talking to him until I think he’s ready. Then I get in the corral with him, and I keep talking. Pretty soon, he’ll turn around and look at me. And then I start walking slowly towards him. Some horses will back up and some will meet you half way. But when I get close enough, I raise my hand to stroke him.”

Chester raised one hand and gestured. The group was totally silent now. We had all fallen under the spell of this, slow, easy talking man.

“Now most folks want to rub a horse up and down his nose, but that’s not the right way. I just lay my hand on his neck and stroke him gently, talking all the time.” He gestured to show the motion, stroking an invisible horse in the air in front of him. “Then I run my hand along his side, down his forelegs and up between them, and along his flank. I always keep real close especially around his rear,” Chester smiled wryly. “That way, he can’t kick me! And I run my hand down his back legs, under his tail, along his belly and back round to his neck. Then I step away in front of him. Now that horse will look me clear in the eye and he’ll come close to me until his face is right in mine. Then I look down the length of him and watch his breathing. I watch for the moment his flanks stop moving, and I think ‘When is he going to take another breath?’ And I hold my breath too.”

Caught up in the story, we all instinctively held our breath.

“Then, when I see him get ready to breathe, I let my air out just like this….”

“Whooosh!” Chester blew out his breath loud and strong across the table, making the edges of my stack of papers flutter.

“…and that horse will breathe in my air. And then we’ve bonded. You see, you don’t choose a horse. The horse chooses you. And once you’ve bonded, he’ll never forget you. When he breathes your air, he’s bonded with you forever.”

Silence. My mind was racing now as goose bumps prickled my arms and the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise.

“You know, this reminds me of a story in the Bible,” I said. Everyone around the table smiled and laughed at me, but I went on. “Do you remember that after his resurrection, Jesus comes into the room where his disciples are hiding and he breathes on them?” A few nods of recognition around the table. “Well, I never quite understood that story until now.”

A few more heads nod. Then, in the most matter-of-fact way, Chester, that run-down old alcoholic veteran, looked at me and said.

“Sure. He was just making them his own.”

© 2013 Chaplain David Pascoe