Misty The Horse Therapist Will See You Now
I feel your pain. And also flies.
Good morning, I am Misty. Welcome to my equine therapy practice. You may now lift the gate latch and enter my sacred space.
Notice I am not wearing a saddle or bridle. That’s because I am a therapist. I wear a silk paisley print scarf from the Metropolitan Museum of Art and impart life lessons. If you want riding lessons, go to the barn, ask for Hank, and never trouble my sacred space again.
Please place your devices on mute — any unexpected noise may cause me to leap the fence and gallop away from our important work together. Walk to the center of the ring and sit in the folding chair. Good job stepping around the droppings left by my colleagues. The dung of life, too, is easily avoided once we have the tools.
Don’t speak; there is no need. My right hoof alone possesses the wisdom of the ages. As such, I already know why you’re here: Your human shrink said that spending time with me might help calm your nerves and renew your spirit. Also — let’s face it — you’re still a basket case over the break-up with Noah.
Understand that I bring my entire majestic mammalian self to our forty-five minutes together. And I accept that you bring your entire flawed human self. Because you are hapless, superficial, and have a — mostly — healthy fear of my 700-pound presence, you may at first struggle to decipher what I mean when I flare one nostril and nicker. But I believe you have the capacity for tremendous growth. Someday.
Until then, I will translate my messages for you.
As I walk by without making eye contact, I am inviting you to reflect on your trauma while admiring my golden coat. From your seat. Yes, I realize you want to come close, lay a hand upon my neck, and whisper your regrets into my mane. That’s perfectly normal. Don’t approach me, though. Don’t ever approach me. Especially from behind.
I will come to you when I sense you are ready. Perhaps by our third session. In the meantime, you may let the relative nearness of my beauty bring a tear to your eye. Terrific. Inhale my earthy musk for a count of eight. No, you are not too far away — you smelled me from the parking lot. Exhale flies.
Now watch me trot in circles. See how I’m mirroring your mind? Like your anxious thoughts, my activity is pointless. It only kicks up swirling clouds of dust that obscure the truth and make it difficult to breathe. Please muffle your choking. No, I do not have bottled water. Drink instead from my trough of knowledge.
My pace slows to plodding, like your life has. My ears droop sideways; laziness will be your downfall. My ears point forward; you shouldn’t have left Noah. He was the one.
I pause to rub my cheek against my left forearm. What I’m saying is that you thought Noah held you back. But you’re the only one holding you back.
I walk on and release a pile of excrement. Don’t read anything into that. I just really had to go.
I nod twice and sneeze — that means your beliefs about Noah and also about junior high are part of the false narrative you’ve told yourself. As long as you continue to believe that story, four of your chakras will remain blocked and nothing will ever work out. Unless I walk backward into this fence right now and rub my magnificent rump against it to open your chakras and disperse the flies biting my butt. Ahh.
The breeze ruffles my forelock signaling that we have 10 minutes remaining.
I take two canter steps toward you. Gaze into my scarf. What do you see in the pattern? Is it the foal you wish you’d had with Noah? Pause around that idea. No, I do not have tissues. No, you may not use my tail! Count my eyelashes backward from 100 until you feel calm.
My eyes close. Our time is up. My tail swishes to the right, advising you to call Noah while reminding you that I am not in-network. I shift my feet, meaning that I spend the entire month of August on Chincoteague and will not be reachable. My tail swishes to the left. Cash works.
