Papillon's Zen

She stood beside me patient and still.

Her deep, dark eyes watching us, as we began the task at hand. Brushing her slowly, unmasking mud from her hair, we were rewarded as an emerging deep black color turned rich and sleek under our motions. Her coat slowly recovered from the camouflaged week of unattended, wet corral dirt.

Overhead the rain occasionally played symphony on metal, while around us barn swallows darted in and out of nooks and crannys. The horse, a big black mare named Papillon, which means "Butterfly" in some foreign tongue, remained tranquil. It was as if the giant beside us was lulled into a premature slumber, keeping time to the rhythmic gumming and chewing of the other horses. These various definitions and manifestations of all creatures great and small remained otherwise occupied.

Only time witnessed our progress.

Papillon's mane was a matted mess. I began pulling the hair gently, one strand at a time, slowly working my way into the eye of the tangle. Each movement mirrored the last, and the pace was slow and difficult to discern. Yet the horse seemed hypnotized by these actions, her head falling lower and lower.

Howard brushed her forelock, then exchanged the brush for a curry comb and took after the harder mud fields found yet undisturbed on her haunches. Eventually he reclaimed the softer brush and returned to gently caress the mare's face. Within seconds she seemed asleep.

Only the noise from the barn disrupted this moment. Deep breaths, and the occasional warm huffs of moist air from the mares flared nostrils replenished my senses. Papillon understood the luxury of the hour, sighing herself into a no-fault contract with contented relief. Basking in an unexpected hush provided by a shared, rainy Sunday.

Occasionally I'd stop and stare into her eyes, getting lost in their endless depth. Nothing stood at attention in that barn. Nothing.

Collectively, we embraced "at ease".

If zen is found in a moment, I'd figure-eighted my way into a relief that circled and canceled all my cares. With each cycle of motion, I found myself far from the literal crossties holding the mare stationary, I captive by her side. Taken aback by her stillness, I lunged forward into the possiblities of renewal.

Time, if suspended in such moments, replied an answer to all things leaping forward. In pause, we rushed out of daylight savings time, and back into real time.

And whatever the zen of real time is, I could sure use a few more helpings of that renewal.