Presence is the First Step Toward Love: What Chris Lombard and His Horses Keep Teaching Me

Every September at the Common Ground Fair, I make my way to the horse ring to watch Chris Lombard work. He’s a Maine horseman and author, and his “demo” isn’t a performance. It’s him stepping into a ring with one horse and a microphone to figure out, in real time, how to connect.

He starts by thanking everyone. Then he says the line that hooks me every time: he doesn’t know what will happen next. No routine. No trick list. Just a conversation with the horse in front of him, using breath, body, and attention instead of force.

This year it was Tally in the ring with him. Seven owners in seven years. Almost blind in one eye. Hip and knee problems. Dozens of scars. She was headed for slaughter before a rescue brought her north. When Chris met her, she was wrapped up in cycles of fear. And with good reason.

His approach to build love and connection? He slowed everything down. He learned to meet her where she was. He gave her presence.

What I am always in awe of is how he talks with his horses without words. He’s not trying to control their bodies. He’s inviting their minds. He’s asking for their attention. When they start to drift, he adjusts his own energy first. He waits. He softens his breath. He uses his presence to draw them in.

This is what love looks like when fear would tell him to grab the halter and pull. Not surprising, but Chris rarely uses a halter.

At one point Tally kept wanting to move. Eat. Walk. Do anything but stand. Chris asked for something small. Could she stand still for one breath. Could she hold his gaze for two seconds. When she did, he melted a little. He let her come close and rest near his shoulder.

I was watching two different species connect through pure energy. Not through force or technique, but through something deeper. A meeting of beings who could feel each other across all their differences.

He still tells stories about Rocky too, his partner for twenty-one years. I have seen Chris and Rocky together. It was beautiful. They had a trust between them that let Chris ride blindfolded, even sitting backwards. That’s not 99% trust; that’s a full 100%. As Chris said, that last 1% is more important than the other 99.

When Rocky died, the grief came hard. So did the love. Chris said it was one of the most beautiful days of his life. I’m still learning how to let those two sit together.

But what Chris brings me back to is presence. Presence was the doorway with Tally. Presence held the trust with Rocky. And presence, if I’m honest, is where I struggle.

I like to move. Walk. Do. Shift to the next task. It looks productive. It also helps me not feel certain things. When Chris asked Tally to stand, I felt a mirror on my own restlessness. I want to move when the quiet gets loud. I want to do something when I feel uncertain. Underneath that is usually fear. I can’t always name it, but I am starting to be able to feel it.

There’s a moment Chris sometimes shows that lands with me. He’ll demonstrate how a lot of traditional training “works” with a horse’s body while the mind is somewhere else. The body goes through the motions. The attention isn’t there.

We do this with each other all the time. We sit in the same room without bringing our minds. We listen just enough to load our reply. We steer toward outcomes without ever understanding. I do it. Especially when I’m rushed or trying to prove I’m helpful.

So, I’m practicing small things. One breath before I walk into a room. One pause before I answer. A check-in when I feel my pace speeding up. If I can’t be present with myself, it’s hard to be present with others. If I won’t sit with my own anxious energy, I’ll push others to move so I don’t have to feel it.

Watching Chris and Tally, I’m reminded that presence is a quiet kind of courage. It doesn’t force. It asks. Will you meet me here. Will you carry me. And if the answer is not yet, presence stays close enough to keep listening and build trust.

I have come to realize that this is what Chris, Tally, and Rocky have been teaching me over the years. That love doesn’t start with grand gestures or perfect understanding. It starts with presence. With the willingness to stay, to breathe, to meet whatever is here without rushing to fix or flee.

This has me sitting with some questions:

• Where in my life am I asking for someone’s body but not their mind?

• And where might I be withholding my own presence because the stillness feels too loud?

What questions does this bring up for you?