A Wild Chiropractor

High in the Sierra Nevada mountains, I built a fence in rocky terrain. Pounding posts into the earth took all my strength, breaking granite and forcing agriculture’s will upon the land. Dust and sweat coated my aching body. The force of the work set one of my ribs loose, split from its position in my body like a stone shifting in rich soil. It floated in my thoracic fascia, loyal to no vertebrae. There was anarchy in my anatomy. Every breath rattled the rib, tainting my life with pain.

A year later, I wasn’t in California anymore. I was exploring a remote Caribbean island, teeming with wild horses. Despite the change of scenery, my pain persisted with every breath I took. The pain from my floating rib was a constant companion, a dull ache I carried on my travels like baggage.

One day on a sunny beach, a young male horse approached me. Thirst, more than hunger, drove the colt mad. He lived on an idyllic island, surrounded by water. But finding a drop to drink was tricky, especially while competing with thousands of other wild horses. Luckily for him, I had a bag of juicy apples.

My friend, a magician from the mainland, had never been around horses before. I took it upon myself to educate him and share my passion of equine body language. I pointed out cues in the horse’s tail, jaw, and ears that displayed his moon. I described the field of his vision and where we would feel most comfortable with us standing. The horse's body was a language all its own, and I was fluent in it.

Eventually, I handed the bag of apples to my friend and showed him how to feed the horse without getting bit. As the colt approached him, I was left standing by his flank, cornered between the horse and a sea grape tree. I had nowhere to go, except behind the horse, which of course was a bad idea.

“Now I’m right on the edge of his field of vision. He’s not comfortable with my standing here,” I explained, still eager to teach in this critical moment.

“How can you tell?” My friend asked as the colt gobbled apples from his hand.

“Look his ears are pinned back. He’s really not happy with where I am standing,” I said.

And I was right. Fast as lightning, the colt spun on a dime and kicked in my direction. Time seemed to slow down. I exhaled and stepped back, but he was fast. His hoof hit my chest with a thwack.

I was stunned by the kick. This random wild horse hit my floating rib, but he was more like a chiropractor than a menace.

I took a breath. And I felt no more pain. My rib was set. I breathed with ease for the first time in a year, since I built that fence. I fell into a fit of laughter, relieved that the horse hadn’t hit my skull, that my pain was finally gone. The impact of the hoof on my chest was liberating.

Horses have a way of knowing. They’re empathic, strong, and protective. They are herd animals, capable of reading each other’s minds. Once again a horse had showed me that horses were more than just animals, they were healers and teachers, with a wisdom and understanding beyond our human comprehension. They possess a unique ability to sense and heal, and in this moment, a wild horse on a remote Caribbean island had unknowingly set my rib back into place, and in turn, set my life back on track.