He arrived imported, four years old, barely schooled. A living storm wrapped in midnight muscle and raw sensitivity. Every horse I had worked with before had been preparation for this one, though I did not know it yet.
The universe had not sent me a horse to train. It had sent me a mirror that weighed half a ton and refused to lie.
We built the piaffe together inside a bamboo circle no wider than fifteen metres. He felt every ounce of pressure I carried. When I stopped trying to fix him and simply stayed, present, honest, unguarded, he offered me everything.
Today when he sees me, he calls out. He did not just teach me how to train horses. He taught me how to train myself.