Living in Conversation with the Unseen: What the Herd Taught Me About Presence, Grief, and Soul Language

The morning began like any other: a cup of coffee, a quiet moment, and the sense that I should sit in meditation. But before I could settle in, a message came through so clearly it startled me:

Go to the ranch.

I didn’t know why. I resisted at first. But the nudge didn’t fade, and eventually I listened. I’ve learned over time that intuition rarely uses a soft voice when something important is waiting.

And that morning, something was.

When I arrived, the air was cold but bearable, the mountains quiet in that particular way they become when winter is close. I brushed Grace, feeling her warmth beneath my hands, and as I stepped into the tack room, I saw a raven feather on the floor — black, glossy, unmistakable.

No ravens had been inside.
I had swept the tack room earlier.
And yet, there it was.

Ravens have been woven through my life with my mare, Skye. They were with her in her final days — circling, calling, keeping vigil. The morning she died, a raven cried loudly until her last breath and then fell completely silent. Later, when she was buried and I went to the place where her body rested, the ravens began to sing again.

Finding that feather felt like a doorway opening.

So I took the feather and a stool into the paddock and sat with the herd. I didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t try to do anything. I simply allowed myself to be seen. And that’s when Monty the mule — who doesn’t like to be touched and rarely comes close — approached me, circled, and stood quietly beside me.

Then he began pawing the ground.
And offered me the softest one-nostril nicker — a signature Skye sound.

For a moment, it felt as though Skye’s eye was looking back at me through Monty’s.

Was it imagination?
Grief?
Memory?

Or was it something else?

Here’s what I’ve come to understand:

This is what can arise when we stay present. Horses mirror our emotional truth. They carry information through gesture, proximity, breath. And sometimes, a member of the herd will step forward to express what another soul can no longer speak in a body.

Skye mothered my soul in her own way.
She held parts of me no one else knew how to hold.
She witnessed me when there was no one else to witness.
She taught me sovereignty, softness, boundaries, and truth.

And sometimes, when the heart is about to open — or break open a little further — animals, especially those who have crossed, draw us back to the place where the veil is thinnest.
Back to the land that knows us.
Back to the herd that can hold the weight.

That morning in the paddock, the herd held me.

Monty carrying Skye’s gestures.
Cheeks the donkey showing me her left hoof repeatedly — the one that began Skye’s rehab journey.
Ravens leaving feathers in impossible places.

To some, these moments may seem mystical.
To others, unbelievable.

But here is the truth as I have lived it:

When we attune deeply to horses and the natural world, communication becomes subtle, symbolic, intuitive, and relational. This is not unusual for those who walk closely with animals. It is simply a language many of us have forgotten how to hear.

I am listening.
I am living in conversation with the unseen.

And I am learning not to suppress these experiences, but to listen more carefully — and to share what I notice.

This is the heart of my work.

To sit with what arises without forcing meaning.
To notice the quiet ways horses communicate beneath behaviour.
To honour presence, gesture, and relationship as valid forms of knowing.

Not everyone will understand this.
Not everyone needs to.

But for those who have ever felt the brush of the unseen…
for those who have watched a horse mirror something tender and unspoken…
for those who have felt guided, held, or answered by nature —

You already know.

We are not alone.
We are being spoken to all the time.

And when we slow down, soften, and allow ourselves to be held —
the conversation becomes crystal clear.