As I trailed my hand along the railing of the pen, I felt the cool touch of steel and the warmth of the morning sun on my face. A breeze rolled through, soothing my brain.
The round pen was situated in an open expanse of green. Two quarter horses, one taller than the other, plucked lush grass. Their tails swished and noses snorted.
The last time I stood this close to a horse I was 11 years old. My childhood friend Janet had introduced me to her horse Midnight. I remember the horse snorting its disapproval of me as it stomped the ground. I fled, terrified.
I waited many decades until now for another chance to meet a horse. While I would like to say this happened in the idyllic rural countryside, it took place on the recreation yard of Madison Correctional Institution, 30 minutes west of Columbus, Ohio. I was there with 35 men from my prison, preparing to participate in equine therapy offered by a local nonprofit. Therapeutic riding programs help people grow confidence, trust, empathy and emotional intelligence and build social and problem-solving skills.
I recognized most of the other men with me in the recreational yard. I work as a dog handler in our prison program that cares for staff-owned dogs. I spend most of my days outside on the long dog run in front of the mental health care unit. I’ve observed the men coming and going from the unit for months. I knew that these men were suffering traumas of all kinds.
With a slight wave of his hand, Tim Funk, executive director and co-founder of Stockhands Horses for Healing, set the majestic beasts in motion. Their hooves clap, clap, clapped around the pen.
“These animals are specially trained,” Funk said. “They provide therapy to those suffering from traumas and addictions.”
I know what it’s like to suffer from trauma. I know how prison exacerbates and intensifies trauma, especially the trauma of helplessly watching your life slip away behind bars. It is enough to rob someone of their sanity. Working with the dogs has aided me in coping with trauma.
The warden, a soft-spoken woman with a country drawl, mingled. She was completely at ease. She snapped photos of the guys posing with the animals.
“Horses can literally hear your heartbeat from 4 feet away,” Funk said. “They are in tune to everything around them.”
My heart felt like a wild animal in its cage. One of the horses stopped plucking at the grass and eyed me. In my mind, I heard Midnight’s deep snort and heavy hooves stomp at the ground. I felt my palms moisten as my childhood nervousness reared up. I willed it back down, taking three deep breaths. The horse returned to the grass.
I tuned back in to hear Funk say, “And you will be able to ride these horses today.”
I could not believe it. I scanned the others’ faces to confirm what I had heard.
“I need a volunteer,” Funk said, scanning the crowd. His gaze settled on my friend Dot.
“You, sir! Please come into the pen.”
I smirked at the sight of Dot’s diminutive form, with tattooed face and sleeved-out arms, there in the middle of the pen. He seemed so out of place — a gang-banging, inner-city cowboy!
The man instructed us on how to use the reins to set the horses into motion, change their direction and stop them. He then set the horses off.
“Now stop the horses,” he said to Dot.
Hooves thumped inside the pen, kicking up thick wads of grass in their wake. Dot struggled to halt the enormous creatures. At one point, he stepped out in front of them. I feared what might happen, but somehow Dot managed to stop the horses.
“Now stand there,” the man said. “Talk to them.”
One of the horses stepped forward. The beast came within inches of Dot. Silence fell upon the crowd.
Dot’s hand reached out and I gasped. The animal could have killed him, trampled his fragile frame into the earth, reared up on its hind legs with hooves flailing upon his skull. But it didn’t. Dot’s hand found the snout, and petted the animal with long strokes.
Soon, it was my turn. I was so excited to touch and ride a horse.
The gate clanked shut behind me, the heavy iron pin dropping into the narrow metal slot. I made my way to the center of the pen, alone. I was nervous. Adrenaline surged through my veins. My mind screamed at me to stop, to hurry back to safety outside the pen.
As I moved closer, I noticed the musk of the horse. It was strongest right beside it. The voice in my head became silent. Childhood memories came rushing back and then went away; the terror I once harbored of horses now felt almost imperceptible.
This horse had a name: Soldier.
I hoisted the heavy leather saddle from the ground, offered it to Soldier to sniff, then carefully positioned it atop the saddle cloth on his back. I buckled the wide leather belt beneath his belly, tightened leather cords to one side and mounted the beast.
The leather reins nestled in my hands, and the sturdy saddle cradled my form with ease. Soon we were in motion. We moved around the perimeter of the pen.
Soldier’s ambling gait shifted me about. I felt tranquil. I ran my fingers along the coarse fibers of Soldier’s magnificent dark mane. Clouds like tufts of cotton drifted overhead. Summer’s fingers brushed across my neck and face.
I found myself back in a place and time I once knew, feeling childlike wonder at my surroundings. I noticed blue-green dragonflies darting among the milkweeds and heard the sweet song of a mockingbird.
Afterward, I stood to the right of Soldier, with my hand upon his back, for a group photo. The majestic animal healed me. He felt warm and comforting. From this encounter, I drew confidence and strength. I no longer feared.