The Circle that Held

The vibrancy of some moments grows with time, and time itself reveals the depth of richness held within the heart of a mystery.

I didn’t know that on a June morning, watching horses from my kitchen window, I was standing on the edge of one.

Most summers, June is when we put a select group of mares with a stallion so that the following May, there will be a new group of foals. This herd had been together for about a week and had settled with little trouble.

Except for this morning.

Sipping my coffee, I watched an odd scene unfold before me.

One mare rested beside a sandstone-coloured rock, while the others encircled her like sentries, standing guard against any disruption.

The disruption they were shielding her from was Diamond, our herd sire.

Experienced and gentle with his mares, Diamond often got along with his herd. But this morning, something had shifted. Every time he attempted to enter the circle, the mares pinned back their ears as if to say—

Don’t even try.

Diamond read their energy and retreated, only to try again from another place.

Every attempt was thwarted.

The mares held their ground.

I looked back at the rock and saw a flash of movement.

Just a flicker.

Like the swish of a tail.

The rock was not a rock at all.

It was a newborn foal.

One of our mares had given birth in the night, and the others had formed a protective circle around mother and baby. The new mother rested inside that haven, fully trusting the mares to keep her and her foal safe.

And they did not fail her.

I went out to check on them. Both mare and foal were doing well. In time, we introduced Diamond to his son—a golden colt we named Duke.

As Duke grew, he became fast friends with his father and eventually followed in his footsteps, becoming the sire of many horses on our ranch.

Years passed. Duke’s sons and daughters became a significant part of our herd.

These horses carry a gentle quality of heart.

A kind attentiveness.

A willingness to draw near.

It is not uncommon to walk out into the pasture and have a few fall quietly into step beside me.

But one day, I experienced the full depth of what they carry.

It was a particularly hard season. Much around me was unraveling, and I was helpless to stop it. The shifts and changes felt less like transitions and more like ruptures—fractures moving through the landscape of the ranch and through my own story. Life would not look the same on the other side, and I could not yet see what that place held.

The pain I carried that day was deeper than words. So I went out to the horse pasture, leaned against a fence post, and let myself cry.

The tears came freely.

Then I felt a nudge at my elbow.

I looked up.

The horses—many of them direct descendants of Duke—had formed two quiet semicircles around me. They stood still, heads lowered toward the ground, holding space for my overwhelm without asking anything of me.

For a long while, I stayed inside that circle and simply received.

When I finally stood and moved away from the fence, the horses formed one large circle around me. Slowly, they walked with me—a moving fortress—as I returned to my story.

My reality.

But in that interlude, I felt protected.

Sheltered.

Not alone.

That day, I understood something of what Duke and his mother must have known the morning he was born.

The fierce, quiet strength that had encircled him at his birth had been carried forward into his offspring—horses unafraid to hold space for one who needed room to be messy.

To not have it together.

To grieve.

On a hard afternoon in a back pasture, that strength was offered to me.

I often think about what I need to provide for our horses so they can live well.

Safe pasture.

Good feed.

Training.

Care.

Love.

But that day, they gave me a gift I hadn’t known I needed.

A gift of presence.

They didn’t solve my problem. They couldn’t fix what was broken. They offered no solutions and asked no questions.

They simply encircled me.

Reading the language of my tears, they gave me the haven of their presence.

A quiet strength more resilient than words.

I often think of that day.

It still resides deep within me, in a place beyond full expression.

But I know I left that field different than when I entered it.

Stronger, somehow.

Not because anything had changed, but because I had been surrounded by a quiet strength that held space for me in my mess and my pain.

And somehow, that was enough.

In the end, their strength helped me believe I could take—

one more step.

And that was all I needed.

She Came Back

“Grandma used to say that when a mare disappears into the forest, that’s a good thing. The next time you see her, she’ll have a new foal at her side.”

The words barely registered as I picked at my nails and scanned the horse pasture.

It was spring. We had a group of mares ready to foal, but one was missing.

She seemed to have vanished.

My mind raced through every scenario. Trouble foaling. A hole in the fence. A fall. A bear.

Finally, the words spoken broke into the roiling chaos of my thoughts.

“What? Her missing is a good thing?” I asked, each word frosted with skepticism.

“Yes,” my husband said. “A good thing. The mares know what they are doing. She doesn’t need your eyes on her to safely foal.”

Yeah, right!

And yet, the quiet confidence of Grandma’s words resonated. She and her husband pioneered this ranch and carved a life here through hard experience. What they knew, they had earned.

Her words reframed the story I told myself.

The mares did know what they were doing. Each one was an experienced mother who had raised multiple foals.

But still, I worried.

Every morning, I went out to the field to check the mares. To count them. Not because they needed me to, but because I needed to see them. To reassure myself.

That they were okay.

I searched for the missing mare for three days. I walked the meadows, searched the forest, and scanned the sky for crows, because gathering crows sometimes meant something had died.

But the land was quiet, and the peace of the woodlands clashed with my agitated anxiety.

Every morning that I furtively looked for the mare, I also saw birds feeding their young and bees moving from blossom to blossom. They knew, intuitively, what to do. The life of the forest happened whether I was watching or not.

I kept looking, but the land held its peace, and slowly I began to hold mine. I wondered if my worry, disguised as care, had cost me the wonder of what might unfold.

Maybe mystery isn’t a problem to solve, but a marvel to embrace.

When I woke on the fourth morning and looked outside, there she was.

In the open.

In the sun.

With a new foal.

My heart surged, and I hurried outside. I walked up to her with cookies, ran my hands over both mother and baby, and checked them carefully.

She was calm.

The foal was curious.

They were both healthy and wholly unbothered.

A few hours later, they slipped back into the trees.

For another week, I only glimpsed them at a distance — in a far meadow, at the edge of the timber — moving easily, content, on their own terms. Bonding in the way mares and foals do when no one is watching.

When they finally came back to the herd, the young colt — the colour of burnished fire — walked out and joined the others, as if the forest had been where he was supposed to begin.

Grandma knew something I keep relearning. The mare knew the way. She did not need my watching over her to bring new life into the world.

What I cannot see is not always in danger.

Sometimes the unknown is not an invitation to worry.

Sometimes it is an invitation to wonder.

To trust.

To loosen my grip on what was never mine to control.

The Friend that Stayed

Out on a walk to check the animals, I noticed two horses in the distance.

Standing together. Standing still.

As I approached them, neither came towards me. Nor did they run away. They stood close together, their sides touching.

I drew near and called out to them. One horse neighed and turned its head towards me.

But the other didn’t move.

Concern filled my heart.

Something was off.

These two yearling horses—a filly and a gelding—were naturally curious and super friendly, the ones that would come to greet me when I entered their space.

I kept talking as I drew near. Then I saw the trouble. The filly’s eyes were swollen and weeping from infection. I called her by name, and she perked up—but she seemed to look through me rather than at me.

I wiggled my fingers in front of her eyes. She didn’t respond. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch.

She was blind.

“Oh, Ember,” I whispered as my heart broke. I reached out and touched her, assuring her I was here. Then, I reached out my other hand to Trace, her friend from birth—the one she had romped around the ranch since they were babies.

Now, he was the friend standing beside her.

Not leaving her side.

He couldn’t heal her eyes. He couldn’t offer a solution to the trouble. But he understood she was in distress.

He remained so that Ember would not be alone.

When her world turned dark and moving on her own became dangerous, he stayed close enough for her to lean on.

I hurried home and returned with two halters and lead ropes, although I don’t think I would have needed to halter Trace. He refused to leave Ember.

Together, we walked slowly toward the yard. Trace remained on one side, letting Ember bump gently into him when she wasn’t sure of the direction. I walked on the other side, rubbing her neck to let her know I was there, leading her with the rope so she would have something to follow.

When we reached the yard, I put Ember and Trace in a small paddock where they could remain together, eat grass, and be safe. Once settled, I treated Ember’s eye infection, hoping she would improve.

Days passed.

Slowly, the infection cleared. Ember continued to move carefully around the fence, relying on Trace to help guide her.

Then, one beautiful morning, Ember turned to me and walked to me on her own.

Her eyesight was returning.

A few days later, I watched Ember and Trace run around their fence, playing as if nothing had ever happened.

Today, Ember’s eyes are healthy. Her face bears the scars of her infection, but those scars are marks of survival. Of her courage not to give up.

And her friendship with Trace remains strong.

When I think of Ember and Trace, I am reminded that when things seem hopeless and dark, it is the steady presence of a friend that becomes a spark of hope.

A presence that says:

You are not alone.

Sometimes, a friend is all we need—to help us survive, to help us find our next step, to help us hold on while we wait in the unknown.