The impossible longing to be ever more deeply connected. To see glimpses of the creatures that live wild and free and be reminded of the one who created them all.
Tell me you wonder if the belly of a catfish got to be so soft from years of mud caresses and smoothing waters, as though if you’d slip in there on a warm summer night you too would start to shed your armor and develop soft spots of openings to your soul.
Tell me you imagine—the moment you join your horse in the pasture, toss your feet up in the air and run as fast as you can, sweet air pumping into your lungs and flaring your nostrils with the same sense of reckless abandon you felt during your first passionate kiss.
Or that if you could lie down with the cattle you’d learn a rhythm. A herd harmony composed of the endless cycle of grazing and chewing, swatting and smelling.
Perhaps if you could read your horse’s thoughts as you were carried across the dirt, the dirt that coats his legs with dust and mud you’d pause long enough to pay homage to the folks who worked the dirt and gave you life before returning to it and entrusting you to carry on the legacy.
Tell me you’d pause when it rains and smile at the reminder that even something dry and brittle can quickly be turned into a healing balm.
Or that if you could pull a sentence off each strand of a horse’s mane and weave it together into the story of their lives, listening to the peculiar moments of poise, of patience, and of passion that makes up those fibers, you’d settle in like a child with a bedtime story.
Tell me you’d look for the prayer God breathed into these moments in the world, into the animals and people he places in our path.
That you’d listen to the way your heart leaps at the expanse of wide open spaces, animal tracks, and clear, starry nights.
That you’d spend every day trying to get a little closer, a little more connected to the mystery all around us and kick off your boots at the end of the day with a smile and a statement that yes, you felt it too.
