The Night Nevanda Groomed Me

Tonight,
beneath the wide dark sky
on one hundred acres of breathing land,
a young mare chose me.

Nevanda,
first-born daughter of Nova,
white shadow in the paddock,
watcher from afar,
reader of footsteps,
reader of intention.

For weeks I had felt her notice me—
the bus door opening,
my body moving through the evening,
her eyes lifting from the herd
as if something in her already knew
I was coming.

And yes,
I often came with carrots.
Small orange offerings
held across the fence
to eager mouths and hungry hearts.

Nova, flighty on her feet,
snapping up the carrot like a crocodile,
fast and direct without softness,
wanting without boundary.

Nevanda too was eager,
young and unmeasured,
sometimes taking more of my hand
than I was brave enough to give.
I remembered teeth.
I remembered the sudden fear
of being bitten by accident.

And tonight was different.

I brought Rosie to the fence
and fed the girls until the carrots were gone.
Then I stayed.

No more food.
No more doing.
Only the dark,
the fence,
Rosie beside me,
the mares before me,
and the quiet space between us.

Nevanda came close.

At first I thought
she was searching for carrots,
running her soft mouth
up and down my body,
looking for what my hands
no longer held.

But then I understood.

She was not asking for food.
She was offering herself.

So I softened.
I trusted.
I stood still
and let her know me.

And there,
in the deepening night,
Nevanda groomed me.

Not with words,
not with demand,
but with the ancient language
horses have never forgotten.

After a while she paused,
and I began to groom her.

Something in her lit up.

She stood so still,
so willing,
so present,
receiving my hands
as if they were a song
she had been waiting to hear.

We exchanged ourselves
back and forth—
her tending me,
me tending her,
two beings remembering
how simple love can be.

Nova had gone.
The paddock had swallowed her
into darkness.

But Nevanda stayed.

Then suddenly,
from deep within her,
a wave of yawning broke loose,
old breath leaving,
soft release rising
from somewhere far below thought.

Rosie answered too—
yawning, licking, chewing,
as if the night itself
had loosened around us.

And there we were,
an odd little triangle
at the edge of a paddock,
wrapped in darkness,
wrapped in silence,
wrapped in something
too quiet to name.

No lesson.
No rope.
No saddle.
No plan.

Only presence.

Only trust.

Only the soft miracle
of being chosen by a horse
when there was nothing left to give
but myself.

And something within me smiled,
deep and sure:

Here,
my journey with horses
has begun … yet again.

Not from the outside,
not through force,
not through fear,
but from the still place
where love waits
and trust arrives
in its own time.

Tonight Nevanda groomed me.

And I am grateful.