Sebastian does not have a particular topic that he would like to share with me. He may not even want to do personal work, but has has a great desire to understand the magic of horse coaching, and he chooses Kiseki, the wise, big, and docile godmother mare.

When there is no thematic thread, simple activities with one or more horses are proposed to the client. These exercises can serve as diagnostic or inspiration. Sebastian receives a rope and the task of bringing the mare to the center of the pasture to start. He is not afraid, neither of the horse nor of the task and approaches her with determination. The mare moves away from him, just a little. Sebastian picks up some grass and offers it to her, but Kiseki turns and walks further away.

When Sebastian chases her, Kiseki heads off to the opposite side of the field with a loose, light trot. Sebastian turns to me laughing and exclaims: “That mare doesn’t like me!” You could take this phrase as the thematic thread, but I don’t have time to react because Sebastian doesn’t give up easily. Slowly and more cautiously he approaches again, hiding the rope behind his back. The mare is grazing, but she watches him very cautiously, her ear fixed on the man. Sebastian knows he can’t surprise her and he doesn’t try. He calmly approaches the mare, caresses her on the back, on the belly, on the neck, and with a well-coordinated movement tries to pass the rope around her neck.

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Kiseki, with a superior reaction time, leaves at the same moment, like a rocket, with her tail made a flag of rebellion. Sebastian lets out a disappointed breath and picks up the rope. He doesn’t ask anything, nor does he turn to me, so I decide not to interrupt. With the rope in his hands, he leaves again, following Kiseki to the other side of the pasture where he grazes with the herd. This is where the session started a few minutes ago. It’s like going back to the beginning.

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This time, Sebastian approaches and then stands, without comments, watching her from a distance of a few meters. I don’t know what he’s thinking. He stays there for a long time, static, without moving. The horses are grazing without paying attention to him, apparently, nothing is happening at all.

In these moments it is difficult to wait. It is the fear of wasted time, it is the habit of wanting to teach, the wrong desire to obtain a leading role in the process of another. It is also impatience. In total, about seven minutes have passed. An eternity. Sometimes I find myself wanting the horse to come closer. As if that were a special detail, something to tell. Sometimes it does happen, and I wonder if it happened because of my desire or spontaneously. The truth is that it is better not to think at all. It is also difficult not to disturb, as movement or noise can change the focus of the process and distract the horse or person. During these sessions, the universe stops. The noises around us seem to recede or decrease in volume.

Right now the man with his rope and the mare are the center of my universe and require my full attention and concentration. I don’t have to do anything and I can’t do anything else either.

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Suddenly, and without external stimulus, Sebastián goes back to the mare, and in a graceful movement, Kiseki raises her head, lets him put on the halter, and, with a gracefully loose rope, follows him without hesitation to the center of the field. The tension in the air dissolves. I feel peace.

Kiseki is standing next to Sebastian, her head lowered, her eyes soft, and she is licking her muzzle. Smiling, I look at Sebastián and ask him how it went. With his voice almost breaking he tells me: “That cost me a lot.” The man plays with the horse’s mane, gently sliding his fingers through her hair. His eyes are wet. “Thank you,” he says in a low voice.

He says it to the mare and then he hugs me. I can feel the authenticity of this gesture. I don’t know this man and I don’t know anything about his life, but I know that Sebastian ten minutes ago was someone else. And now what? Nothing spectacular happened, right? It took him ten minutes to catch the wayward mare, says the disconnected person who felt none of the essentials.

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And yes, I know, I take little information home with me, I have no idea what Sebastian thought or what happened inside him. It seems to me that this man managed to connect with the harmony of the universe. Perhaps he achieved it through tenderness, or perhaps through humility. Perhaps he learned something about empathy or about managing his fear of failure. I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Sometimes words just dilute the grandeur of the moment.