Today, we had the farrier come to shoe our horses, which meant we had to get out to the barn before dark. And as we were leaving a meeting early, I mentioned to a colleague that we had to go meet the blacksmith. (I learned long ago that most people don't know the word 'farrier', but 'blacksmith' is at least vaguely familiar.) And he mentioned that he didn't think he'd ever known a blacksmith.

Which seems so weird to me---I've known and appreciated them all my life. 'No hoof, no horse,' is a tautology among horsepeople. The farrier is the connection between your horse and the ground. He's the one who sees the level plane of your horse's foot under the dead sole, and trims the sole down with a knife to preserve the angles of the bones within.

Just a few days ago another colleague was telling me that he'd never get on a horse because they were just too terrifying. He's never even petted one. Ever. Not once has he laid his hand on the springy neck, felt the silk of a well-groomed coat, or felt the strange obedience of a creature 10 times heavier than you moving away from your feather-light touch on her shoulder.

Which seems so weird. Less than 100 years ago, we all got around on horseback. Just as we did for 14,000 years (at least!) before that. 14,000 years of symbiosis. They carried us across the steppes, and into new lands. They plowed our fields, pulled our carriages, cut the hay and the wheat, and rode on ships, SHIPS!, to the New World. In return, we gave them shelter, hay, grain, water and medical care. It's a fair deal, apparently, because they've stuck with us this long. They clearly didn't have to---zebras never did...

'Equine' is a language I carry in my body. I walk differently at the barn. I think differently. I move my arms and my shoulders differently. I even change my tone of voice. I even think I see differently. I speak 'horse' there, in the same way that I speak 'physics' at work.