One of my teachers wrote a newsletter article recently about taking time in nature as an antidote to the feelings of concern many of us have about our world today. It reminded me of the blessing I have sitting with Odin on a regular basis.
When I sit with Odin in his field, the pond ever present in the distance, the world softens…
The air often carries a gentle breeze that brushes across my skin, whispering secrets through the trees…
Leaves rustle like quiet conversation and ants trace their patient paths through the grass…
The sun finds the water and scatters diamonds across its surface, a quiet reminder that light always returns, even after darkness.
In these moments, time loosens its grip. I can let my chest rise and fall without hurry, noticing how my edges are able to blur into the world around me—the pond, the wind, the crawling ants, the horse who breathes steady beside me. This time of year spiders dangle gracefully, suspended between earth and sky often with the sun illuminating their intricate webs reminding me of my connection to heaven and earth.
Odin himself teaches me as much as the stillness does. Strong and healthy, though never touched by a vet, he carries himself with an effortless confidence, unshaken by the need to conform. He knows his place in the world and moves through it with quiet assurance. Questioning others’ motives, slow to give trust to others, he’d rather be alone than with someone dishonest or hurtful. Watching him, I am reminded that I, too, can stand in my own truth—steady, whole, and unshaken by outside expectations. His way of being helps me find mine. I remember what it means to belong—not just to myself, but to everything in my own unique way. My heart unclenches. Thoughts that once tangled in my mind begin to settle, and in their settling, clarity comes. Life, in all its complexity, reveals itself as simple once again: breath, presence, connection.
These pauses with him are gifts, quiet openings where I can see what truly matters. Gratitude wells up—not only for Odin’s special companionship, but for the chance to stop, to notice, to be part of the vast conversation happening in every rustle of a leaf and every glimmer of light.
It is here, in stillness, that I feel most alive.
Odin 