I have an old horse called Caring who loves to run free. But when I
first began to ride him and allowed him to run free without restraint, he ran
too fast and too far, and I fell from him, often, injuring my self badly
when I hit the ground. I still bare the scars from those falls today. Since, I have
spent my whole life reigning him back and restraining him. When my
short rides were done, I would drag him into a dark shed and tie him down
till he could hardly move. I would starve him of his food, love and
companionship, and he would become weak.
However if I allowed the door to the shed to stand open a crack and the
sunlight shone upon him, he would regain his strength after a while.
And if my back was turned he would push open the door and away he would run,
free and unfettered, without my control. And when he did that, he would
return full of wounds and covered in mud and grime. Often after these escapes
when I had locked him up again I would beat him mercilessly, punishing him
for all those times I fell.
One day I stood by the shed looking at the empty fields and rage
gripped me. I believed I would never ride him bareback, my fingers twined in his
course mane, thighs gripping his sides as his muscles bunched and flexed,
letting him make me fly with him, free and without restraint. Trusting him not
to let me fall.
My overpowering dark emotions caused me to wrench open the door and
without pause I began to beat my horse. I hit him with my fists of rage,
knocked him to the floor and stabbed him with my grief, cutting him till his blood -
which was the colour of hope - drained from him and his brave heart stopped
beating. Then I dug a great pit in the dark, wet earth, and buried him. I left him
dead beneath the ground. Clouded by pain and a hardening inside,
I walked from the shed leaving the door wide open, swearing I would never ride again.
I sat again looking at the empty fields. Without my awareness, the sun
shone through the door I had left wide open behind me and fell on the turned
earth of the horses grave. Slowly that cold earth warmed, and eventually it
warmed the body of my dead horse. My horse so loved the sun, that even though
he was dead, his heart fluttered at itís warmth. Some time passed. And he
drew a breath, the earth was not as tightly packed as I thought it was, nor
was the pit as deep, and slowly he pulled him self free.
On weak and shaking legs he stood and climbed out of the pit, shaking
earth and worms from his frame as he trembled. But the sun gave him strength
I never knew he had, and he stepped from the shed. I became aware of his
resurrection then, and gazed at him in awe as he took those tottering
steps, stumbled, and then began to run again. Slow at first, but gaining
speed, his hooves hungrily devouring the land. Free again.
After that I would sometimes let him out and allow him to stretch his
legs. Sometimes I would like watching him run, with his mane and tail blowing
free in the wind, his coat gleaming in the sun. He was glorious to behold.
But should anyone see him, and stop to watch him running free, and
approach with hopes of touching him. I quickly grab his reigns, ride him hard
back to the shed and lock the door up tight. And there in the darkness he waits
for the sun to touch him once more.
To my surprise & disbelief, I've found that the kind of warmth & light the sun emits,
is not limited to the skies, nor the sun itself.