What is permanent?

Since working with horses the last ten years, I have seen people, horses and farms disappear. A place in Hamilton that many hold dear to their hearts is now a ghost farm. It is vacated with its future uncertain. The last few horses were moved off the property last week. The staff, the goats, the chickens, the rabbits are all gone. They have been separated and dispersed.

I went to visit after the move. It was strange. I could see the horses in their paddocks, but they were not there. The silence in the barn was deafening. Even the sawdust in the stalls looked lonely. I found a few items left behind: an empty pizza box, some horse blankets, a few grooming tools and a child’s rocking horse on the lawn.

It had the look of a horse farm but only by appearance. It made me feel like being at Chernobyl after everyone was evacuated. The people and the animals did not want to leave.

This is not new for me. I have had to say  goodbye to other horses and horse farms. It is the only consistency in my life: saying goodbye. You might say that I have gotten good at saying goodbye to horses and farms. It is still very difficult. It has not gotten any easier. And I grateful that is not any easier. That is a good sign I am still alive.

They are no longer with me in the physical world. But I am connected with all of them. I carry inside me each interaction with the people, animals and farms. Although I can no longer touch, see, or hear them, I know they are there. They continue to sustain me through the stormy days. 

Conflict precedes clarity. I read this recently. It made me question what is permanent? In a thousand years, all the barns that I have visited will be gone. All the horses I have worked with will be forgotten. And the people will be marked by eroding gravestones that are illegible or in the form of ashes spread in faraway lands.

All that remains are the moments. The first time riding a horse. Driving down the road to the barn escaping the chaotic world. Watching a herd of horses at full gallop in the pasture. The birthday parties with all the kids riding ponies. The students who never dreamed it was possible to ride a horse. The many wheelbarrows of manure dumped into a trailer. The pieces of straw stuck in your clothes from throwing bales of hay. The endless sunsets.

Only these moments of pure joy will remain. They are carried within me and all who have these experiences. 

As I stand taking possibly my last look at this historic farm in Hamilton, Massachusetts, it occurred  to me that this is the reason we are here: to carry the permanent. We are the stewards of joy, vessels sharing it with others. Everything else will disappear.