It’s Sunday morning, and I’m walking down a dirt road in the Ozarks in Jasper, Arkansas. My son is still sleeping, and we have a five-hour drive ahead of us to get home.
It’s quite a trip to make for a single day of hiking, but spending that time one-on-one with my middle son has been worth every mile.
The Airbnb where we’re staying is surrounded by cows and horses. As I walk down the road, I can’t help but laugh at how nearly every animal stops what it’s doing to stare at me.
The air is cold, and I can see the breath coming out of a horse’s nose as it stands quietly watching me.
It’s stunningly beautiful.
But even that description comes a moment later, doesn’t it?
Before the mind decides something is beautiful, there’s simply a horse standing in a field. Its still eyes looking toward me. My eyes looking toward it. The cold air. The breath coming from its nose.
And something about the intimacy of that moment takes my own breath away.
The horse isn’t looking at me as a mother, a wife, a dietitian, or someone with a busy week ahead. It doesn’t know anything about my history, my accomplishments, my worries, or the many identities I’ve collected over the years.
It’s simply looking at a body moving down the road.
And for a moment, there seems to be something similar happening here.
Just a horse and a human, looking at each other.
Before the mind makes something of it.
