Simplicity and Grace in Grief

It is with great sorrow that I can now write about the loss of both of my key equine partners and friends, both inside and out of the arena.  Misty, my steadfast, loyal palomino, passed away two months ago from Cushings disease.  Her mate and partner, Captain, a loving, communicative, devoted Morgan, passed on eight weeks after her.  If that Rainbow Bridge poem means anything, now is the time for me to have faith that I will one day, see them again, full of nickers, whinnies, and begging for cookies.

My main concern through this heart breaking transition was for my kids, the children I work with in partnership with horses.  Many of them had grown very close to both Misty and Captain, loving their antics and gentleness while learning about life from both on top of and next to these generous creatures.  Many of these children have suffered loss in various ways already at young ages, and I was unsure of how to approach this topic of death; this inevitable passing onto another state of being.

Sometimes as adults, we forget the simplicity of childhood imaginations and dreams, thoughts and feelings.  I really did not have to make it complicated, and at the same time, wanted to offer any of my kids, (at the risk of sounding possessive, I do reserve the right to call them mine to a degree!...Parents, humor me please...:) the opportunity to process any feelings they may have had about losing their trusty mounts.

In keeping with my goal of staying as real a person as I can be at any given time, and especially while working with clients, I decided to do just that; be real.  So, as kids came down to see me, see the empty stalls from where Misty and Cappy once nickered "hellos", (or in Captain's case, "Gimmie snacks now!"), I allowed myself to grieve.  I'm not saying I balled my eyes out, but I did cry, spoke with a shakey voice and spoke about how it felt having them gone.  It felt, (and still feels), lonely, lost, like a big hole is there.  And that I shared.  I gave space for some of the kids who needed expression to go ahead and express.  Thoughts, feelings, ideas, questions, etc...were presented.  It felt right and easy to just be okay with how I was with all of this grief.  As one of my young adult, autistic clients said to me with great simplicity and wisdom, "It's weird being in her stall, and....it feels empty."  Pretty much comes to that.  Thanks, Marc, for those  simple, graceful words in grief.

Thank you Misty and Captain, for sharing your beings with us.  Believe me, you are greatly missed!