If Jesus sent us an angel, he came in the form of a horse. And his name was Dream Warrior.

Today, we sent him home. His job here is done. The seeds of his work have been planted. We thank you for bringing him into our lives. We are forever changed.

Dream Warrior…

What an epic name for a horse, wouldn’t you say? A champion of dreams. Native American in origin and imbued with meaning and opportunity to truly guard and transform those who come in contact with him.

He protected so many riders. So many dreams. He encouraged and even embodied those dreams. Now his body rests in the cold, hard Montana ground. But I can’t help but feel his spirit in our hearts, still protecting our hopes.

He died on a sunny, soft winter afternoon. The day after Christmas. Snow-covered peaks in the distance, wet ground at our feet. He'd chosen a single three-hour break in a storm that lasted weeks, lending, albeit probably imagined, to the kind of power he had over the elements. A true angel. A true protector. A true warrior.

He came to us as a rescue horse. Not precisely, but sincerely trading up from his current circumstances and potential life trajectory. He didn’t know much about riding or the skills that humans wanted. And ironically, he wasn’t the student in the end.

Throughout our endeavors, he became the teacher. Teaching us to dare to dream. Teaching us to be kinder and softer. Teaching us to listen.

Technically, he was Rachel’s (my wife’s) horse. But spiritually, he was no one’s horse. And in the end, we called him “OUR” horse. His enthusiasm and genuine kindness ruled far above any horse we’ve had. His willingness to learn and play and forgive our mistakes, and play once again, was also beyond any horse we’ve known. If horses were angels, he was proof.

We are sad today, grieving for our loss. But if grief were a vessel on the sea, this one would be filled with memories and gratitude. Our hearts swell with pride at the things we did together.

I don’t wish this sadness on anyone, but I genuinely don’t want to ever forget. And if sadness helps us remember, then for now, help us hold those memories high and carry them for a long time to a new place of wisdom and character.

Thank you, dear soldier, dear warrior of dreams.

Don, Rachel, and Shona


Notes:
Losing a horse is hard. Losing a “heart horse” is harder still. Some horses touch you and change you. It makes you want to appreciate ALL things in life, having and losing a horse like him.

The end is a real place. The decisions to prolong and extend life are beyond inspirational when we see others do it. It’s something we did for him. And yet, someday, it comes regardless.

When it comes, here’s what I advise. Don’t shy away from the moment. Hold him or her as they go. Be there to the dying breath.

After, maybe let someone take care of the body. But don’t deny yourself time to connect with their spirit. The final moments are no less beautiful than any other moment you’ve ever shared. You won’t regret that last hour. You will cherish every breath they take. Every memory you make.

I went the extra mile and buried him myself. I don’t recommend that part. It’s hard to see and unsee a lifeless body moved without consent. But I would do it again. For me, it’s a kind of closure. In fact, I think of all the horses I have sold or handed off and miss them dearly. And there is an odd sensation as I imagine not being there for them, for their last breath.

Life is precious and made more precious because it ends. If there’s a lesson here, it’s not just learning to let go, and learning to flood your memories with gratitude and happy times in spite of the pain. It’s also learning to lean in to what you have, right in front of you. And to dream and protect those dreams.

Put your screens away dream a new dream, and pause often to look into the eyes of someone you love. Share a moment. Hold that moment a bit longer, and then… smile, cry, or breathe, struck with awe at the beautiful life in front of you. The life that will, one day, end.

​Don Jessop