Derina Pyles
Horse Sense
I noticed something was off the moment I opened the barn door. Traveler usually greeted me with a low nicker and a hopeful look toward the feed room. That morning, he barely lifted his head. His hay sat untouched, and instead of standing at the gate like usual, he faced the far corner of his stall as if the wall had something important to say.
That is never a good sign.
I leaned against the door and watched him for a moment. Horses have a way of carrying their feelings quietly. Traveler was especially good at that. Too good.
“All right,” I said finally. “You can either tell me what is wrong, or I can start making guesses. And you are not going to like my guesses.”
His ears flicked back toward me.
“That sounded serious,” he said.
“It is,” I replied. “You skipped breakfast. That tells me something is bothering you.”
Traveler sighed in the dramatic way only a horse can manage. “I am tired of being patient.”
I stepped inside and rested my hand on his shoulder. “Patient about what?”
“Everything,” he said. “Waiting for the weather to change. Waiting for the farrier. Waiting for the next ride. Waiting for answers that never seem to come.”
I smiled despite myself. Traveler had always been thoughtful, even philosophical. He was the kind of horse who noticed patterns and pondered them.
“Waiting is part of life,” I said. “Even for horses.”
“Yes,” he replied. “But that does not make it easy.”
We stood quietly for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of the barn waking up. Somewhere down the aisle, another horse snorted impatiently.
“Do you remember when you first brought me here?” Traveler asked.
“I do,” I said. “You had just finished a long trailer ride and wanted nothing to do with anyone.”
“You told me I would find my rhythm,” he said. “That things would settle in time.”
“And they did,” I replied.
Traveler shifted his weight and looked at me. “I think I forgot that part. About time.”
I reached up and scratched the spot behind his ear that always made him relax. “It is easy to forget when you are in the middle of the waiting. We want progress to feel fast and clear. Sometimes it is quiet and slow instead.”
“I do not like quiet progress,” he said. “It feels like nothing is happening.”
“That does not mean nothing is happening,” I said. “Roots grow underground before you ever see leaves.”
He considered that.
“Are you saying I am growing roots?” he asked.
“I am,” I said. “And so am I.”
Traveler lowered his head and nudged my shoulder. “That makes me feel better,” he admitted. “I was worried I was being left behind.”
“No one is leaving you behind,” I said. “Some seasons are about movement. Others are about preparation. Both matter.”
He finally turned back toward his hay and took a slow bite.
“I suppose I can eat now,” he said. “Waiting is easier when you are not hungry.”
I laughed. “That is true for all of us.”
As I stepped out of the stall, I glanced back and saw Traveler chewing contentedly, his eyes soft again. Nothing about the barn had changed. The schedule was the same. The day was still unfolding slowly. But something important had shifted.Sometimes the work is not about fixing what is wrong. Sometimes it is about remembering what is true. Growth is not always loud. Progress is not always visible. And waiting, when placed in the right hands, can be just as meaningful as movement.
Traveler raised his head one last time before I left.
“Thank you,” he said. “I think I can be patient a little longer.”
“I know you can,” I replied.
