BULBS AND HEELS

Much to the dismay of my Canadian neighbors (hard at work hosting the 2010 winter Olympics), we had the warmest January on record. February isn’t shaping up to help the situation and worried officials have been forced to haul in snow. Sort of like getting take out and arranging it on your table as if you cooked it yourself. Nothing worse then getting one shot to impress the world and having Mother Nature laugh in your face. At least she laughs in flowers. I know my lilacs are already forming buds and the beds of bulbs sport a good inch of optimistic growth. This may sound insensitive, but I’m doing an El Nino happy dance.

The wonder of a growing bulb just never gets old. There it is, a dead wizened ball of crispy roots in autumn and a few months later, presto, it morphs into a beautiful daffodil, a crocus, a tulip. Bulbs remind me not to get too hung up on exterior appearances and what I take in from my five senses. New life could be lurking deep inside an unattractive shell, just waiting for the right circumstances to express itself.

As followers of this blog know my horse, Chance, is a perpetual problem child—in attitude, in health, in natural abilities. After his mysterious fall in the pasture last August I let him go dormant. I waited, I watched for something to happen—another seizure, a worsening of his ability to move, whatever—so I would know how to proceed. We bought Haley a new horse to continue her journey into barrel racing and grieved the loss of Chance as a riding horse. Outside of a genetic test for a specific neurological disorder, I did nothing. Further testing might lead nowhere but a busted bank account and Chance seemed comfortable and happy. I prayed for him to recover (I mean, why not?) yet planned for a future as a pasture ornament. My unhappy husband scratched his head and calculated how much eastern alfalfa/grass hay he was consuming—“He’s a small horse and doesn’t eat much,” she replied (helpfully).

Because we weren’t doing much with Chance, I didn’t pick up his feet for a good two to three months. I know, that’s bad. Just being honest. After making an early January appt. for the farrier to come and trim The Boys, I decided to mess with his feet a bit and make sure his manners there were intact. As I cleaned out his front feet I saw something amazing: Chance had grown heels. For any non horsey readers, a good hoof shape has an angle to it. The animal should have a heel at the back as if wearing a good one inch loafer that supports the foot. The horse lacking an angle and wearing ballet slippers is not a good thing. Though a terrible “dancer,” Chance wore ballet slippers. The farrier called his feet “stubby.” I called them pancake feet. A side effect from a lifetime of no hoof care. We’d been faithfully trimming them back for two years but his feet still flared mostly flat and he walked very nearly on the bulbs of his heels.

But, lo and behold, as I cleaned around the frog I saw a new triangular shape at the back of the hoof where none had been before—he had heels! They had sprouted from his feet like green leaves from a dried up bulb.

What does it all mean? I can’t really say yet. But those heels give me hope and hope is a beautiful thing. After all, springtime is not intimidated by winter and healing is an inside job.

EDGE OF THE SWORD

I used to equate dressage with the snobby clique I knew in high school. All perfect bodies and name-brand clothes. The snobby clique had nothing to share with me that I wanted to know. Or at least that’s what I told myself while begging my mother to buy me a pair of Guess jeans. Not to mention another body.

Certainly I believed dressage had a purpose, but it wasn’t hard to make snarky comments while watching those riders sit their perfectly turned out warmbloods, mouths set firmly in a grimace, white breeches velcroed to a black dressage saddle. They seemed too clean, too serious, too exclusive. I was a western girl. We know how to get dirty and don’t need any snotty cliques to tell us how to do it, thank you very much.

Dressage, of course, is really for everyone. It simply means “training” and you don’t need white breeches, a warmblood, or an attitude to do it. A few years ago I met a western trainer who emphasized the importance of its fundamentals and I became intrigued—secretly at first. I began reading books like Centered Riding and experimenting with techniques. Then I got Eli. A naturally good moving horse he seemed made for the sport. Well over my head with a green stallion, I quickly found a dressage trainer to coach us. I never imagined I would enjoy these lessons as much as I have.

Now, I am Ghetto Dressage (maybe I’ll come out with my own DVDs). Picture a circa ‘80s two horse trailer pulling up to a manicured indoor arena. Outside Lusitanos, Friesians, and various warmbloods lounge in paddocks. They are blanketed and beautiful. From the back of my trailer a scruffy Arabian stallion appears. He has no bridle path, mud on his hocks, and a winter beard under his chin. I put a western headstall over his rope halter, throw a synthetic Aussie saddle on his back and off we go. Fortunately, Eli has natural talent and my instructor is the kind of person who doesn’t care what saddle you have or if you are wearing jeans. I don’t think she was in the snobby clique in high school.

Each lesson there is something new to attempt and I am amazed at the subtlety and finesse that is good dressage. It’s hard work and I am confronted each time with my own limitations and bad riding habits. Let’s just say, We have a long way to go, Baby.

Last lesson, while riding a figure, my instructor told me something that has since captured my imagination in a powerful way. She was helping me understand the concept of being straight and balanced, bending on a curve yet never over bent.

“Imagine you are riding the edge of a sword.”

The edge of a sword? A picture of perfect balance, Zen-like in its beauty and harmony. I am taking instruction from Yoda.

One bulge to the right or left, one stumble, one over correction and I am off that sword and taking my poor horse with me. Right. I can hardly keep my diagonals straight and proper timing on a half-halt.

When I think of life, I also see it teetering on a very fine line—the line between choices big and small that place a person on one path or another; the ideas we cling to that shape us; even the razor thin line between life and death on any given day, in any country of the world. The edge of a sword. If I thought about it too much it might drive me mad.

Striving for balance is a good thing but I spend most of life, I think, falling off the sword. The most I can hope for is spiritual balance—asked (begged) for daily—and relying on God’s promises to hold me when I tumble off the figure.

As for the dressage, I’m keeping the image of that sword firmly in mind. And I’m visualizing lots of time with Yoda.

TEACHABLE IN 2010

Happy New Year.

Don’t worry if you can’t come up with a good resolution or two on your own. The grocery store checkout is a reliable source of ideas (albeit a bit redundant), screaming in bold type on every magazine cover: Lose Ten in 2010; Ten Tips for Healthier Eating in '10. I'd personally enjoy more unique headlines: Top Ten Skinny People We Love to Hate; Ten Reasons Fat is Good for You; Make Peace With Your Cellulite in 2010. I’ll let you know if any editors like my ideas.

Last year I was full of worthy resolutions that were (mostly) abandoned by mid spring. This year I wasn’t going to bother until my husband and I had a great talk last week while exercising together (I must admit I am not immune to those screaming headlines). We discussed the tendency to get set in our ways and avoid taking direction, to resist being teachable. As often happens, I thought of life with horses—specifically the training experiences—and how it offers insight into this area.

I’m constantly fascinated with the difference between intelligence and trainability in horses. Highly trainable horses are always intelligent but intelligent horses are not always very trainable. Clinician Richard Shrake has pondered what attributes separate the normal, bomb-around, backyard animal from, say, the (aptly named) Smart Little Lenas or Khemosabis of the horse world. These animals had something extra and almost mysterious. They were special, and not simply because of breeding or outstanding appearance—though they usually had that, too. Uncommonly excellent horses have an uncanny ability to live up to potential. Shrake has developed an easy test that measures not just intelligence in horses but, more importantly, their trainability.

The highly intelligent, resistant horse is, in my opinion, the most frustrating horse to train. I have patience for the dim-witted members of the species; the ones who aren’t particular athletic and just can’t help it. But the intelligent ones can drive you to drink, lose your religion, and pull your hair out. If you thought you had any talent as a horse trainer the extra smart, resistant horse will convince you otherwise. They could be so much more, you think to yourself, as the horse persists in offering his own ideas in place of yours. While super intelligent horses always capture my imagination, with poor trainability it is much harder to get the animal to live up to potential. It has taken ownership of many horses to observe and appreciate trainability and how it trumps intelligence, every time.

I am no doubt spoiled forever since riding Eli. Of course one can scream,“Barn Blind,” (and be correct) but it will be hard to be satisfied with a “normal” horses after having one so highly trainable as well as intelligent. I have had pretty horses and smart horses and enjoyed them all, but never one that is such an overall pleasure to work with. Eli doesn’t need a reason to do what I ask he simply needs to know how and , overwhelmingly, his attitude is, “Whatever you require of me.”

Eli surprised me with the degree of his willingness to please during his first photo shoot last October (see this month’s Northwest HorseSource for some of those pics). To get him to puff up, stallion style, we put him in with our newest member of the herd—Cowboy—for the first time. I was sure he would be all pomp and circumstance, but retrieved my whip to get him to move out in the pasture if I needed to. Instead of puffing up, and focusing on Cowboy, Eli’s focus was on me—What do you want me to do? He didn’t run off, tail flagging, when I swung the whip his direction, but turned and walked toward me, his eyes gentle and curious (see above photo). Though I hadn’t worked him in the round pen for many months the appearance of the whip and my body language triggered a response. He had learned comfort comes from being with the trainer and doesn’t need to try out his own ideas, repeatedly, to be reminded of that lesson.

This year, instead of focusing on my outer appearance (though I have sworn off dip for awhile, and the Bailey’s on ice, and fudge, and…), I want to focus on an inner quality in 2010. I want to be teachable: willing to learn, to change, to grow into my God-given potential.

Here’s to a teachable 2010.

JOIN UP

An inscription at the Kentucky Horse Park reads, “History was written on the back of a horse.” The horse, like no other creature, seems created for the pleasure and service of mankind. Though they are no longer necessary to settle and contain this great country, horses continue to capture mans imagination with their beauty, grace, athleticism, and subtle yet powerful ability to express themselves.

For all their natural gifts and capacity for service, however, a relationship with human beings is something that has never occurred to the natural horse. A feral horse, browsing in green pastures, doesn’t one day suddenly say to itself, “Wow, that bi-ped over there is amazing. I think I’d like to know him, become friends. Maybe he’d like to put a big piece of dead cow on my back and run me around.” Left to his own devices, a horse feels no need, whatsoever, for a relationship with humanity. But the capacity is there. It must simply be awakened.

Human culture and communication have little in common with equids. For starters, we are natural predators, they are prey. Our complicated mental abilities far surpass that of a horse that naturally operates on instinct. Horses are simple. Their communication, based almost exclusively on movement and body language (unnatural to human beings) is simple. But magic happens when a person makes a conscious effort to learn horse language and communicate in ways that are meaningful to them. I was thinking of this yesterday after working Eli at liberty.

As I’ve previously posted, getting out can be tough this time of year. With the cold, holiday crazies, and general instinct to cocoon by the fire, schlepping to the arena and actually working Eli isn’t happening much. But I made it yesterday. After roughly thirty or forty minutes of working him I was pretty much done, even though he’d barely broken a sweat. I took the saddle off and turned him loose to have a good roll while I trudged back and forth to my trailer with loads of tack (breaking a pretty good sweat myself). Eli watched me, had a good roll, and then ogled a pretty mare being led down the barn aisle just outside. When he decided to talk to her I thought it a good opportunity to test his response to me, test his mental ability to “join up” with me at liberty and amidst distractions. And there is never a shortage of distractions for a stallion.

Monty Roberts is a popular trainer who coined the phrase “join up.” It refers to what happens when a trainer successfully communicates with a horse at liberty and it mentally forms a partnership, willing following after the trainer and entering into a relationship. This moment is always moving for me, whether I watch it on TV or experience it with my own horses. Roberts makes it look easy but it takes quite a bit of effort for me to get to the horse’s level, to become like a horse so a connection can be made.

When I kissed to Eli he came right over, big eyes curious. It’s been just over a year since I unloaded this horse and put him in my pasture. Our relationship over the last twelve months has developed into a pretty good partnership. Not totally there yet, but close. He’s come a long way from the stallion that felt pressure simply from me standing next to his shoulder; the horse that flinched and moved off if I ran my hand down his side. From the beginning the look in his eye told me he had incredible potential as a partner, but he is definitely one that would not, on his own, choose to relate to human beings. I had to reach out to him first. Eli has moved from barely tolerating my touch, to lowering his head and hanging it by my side when I scratch his favorite spot. Sometimes he circles his neck around my shoulder without touching me, a gentle and dignified show of affection.

At first Eli followed me willingly around the arena, trotting when I ran yet not rushing ahead of me. When I stopped, he stopped. I decided to see if I could lunge him around me at liberty. This took some doing, some reaching deep into my still (sadly) shallow reserves of equine foreign language skills. Eventually I could send him off with a signal and call him back immediately by moving his hip away. We made part of a circle this way a few times and as he relaxed he started to understand my suggestions. A couple more times of this and I should be able to lunge him with no rope attached.

So I’m finishing this post at ten o’clock, December 24, 2009. Besides waiting for kids to go to sleep so I can “assist” Santa, I’m also thinking about Christ. He’s familiar with the concept I use to build a relationship with Eli. He employed this same sort of method two thousand years ago to reach out and communicate in a way that was meaningful to humanity. All this in hopes of achieving join up. Emmanuel—“God with us.”

Merry Christmas.

DECEMBER

It’s been cold. Into the teens at night. The light begins to fade at 3p.m. and the middle pasture retains a sparkling veneer of frost all day. Day break is an exaggerated event, a slow struggle of bleak, blue illumination that feebly turns to sunlight by noon. But how sweet is that eventual sun. It turns the countryside into a brief but sparkling celebration of the season.

I love to watch the horses on clear frosty days. They have no problem responding to the stillness of December. They know nothing of the ridiculous, frantic activities of the human population. The incessant materialism, the stress. Horses understand the wisdom of standing in southern exposure after a good breakfast, closing ones eyes, and doing absolutely nothing. It is enough to absorb the goodness of light and let it seep into their very souls. No wonder horses are stable creatures (pun intended).

I’m having a much harder time navigating the season. My mind is busy and high strung (and not just from the five pounds of cookie dough I’ve so far consumed). I believe writers are called to observe. This is not usually a problem for me—I can quite happily watch paint dry. But lately, as evidenced from my lack of blog posting, I can barely string two thoughts together. Feeling dragged along the commercialized Christmas highway, I am restless and grinchy.

As I watched my horses relax and observe this week—for hours on end—I thought of all the unnecessary stress this season places on people. The unhappiness. It struck me as mind bogglingly sad that this is the case during a season meant to celebrate the Light of the world.

A few nights ago I lit two candles, laid on the couch in the dark, and listened to music. Firelight from the wood stove flickered patterns on the wall as the strains of a favorite carol by Manheim Steamroller filtered through the air—Veni, Veni (Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel). This was followed by another, aptly named, favorite: Still, Still, Still. My mind quieted, my soul sighed, and for a few minutes at least I practiced being equine by absorbing the goodness of the knowledge of Light and inviting it to penetrate deep into my soul.

Maybe it’s not too late for a stable December.

THE WAGES OF RAIN

Today's Forecast: Drizzle turning to showers. Heavy rainfall expected tomorrow.

These are the days where even disciplined equestrians falter, fall short, give in, succumb utterly to...a glass of wine and a good book by the fire instead of riding. Those who live in the Pacific Northwest exist under grace these days--have you looked outside? I need a wet suit just to go to the barn.

Here's what riding looks like (when I actually accomplish it): Muster up motivation by the fire, toasting my backside extra long knowing it will be freezing in a few short minutes; capture a filthy beast and work up a sweat scraping mud off two inches of wet matted winter hair; put horse in trailer and drive slowly to the arena, squinting through the raindrops pelting the windshield; tack up a frisky distracted horse and attempt to relax atop an icy saddle (by this point I am already exhausted and ready to return to the toasting backside step); wrangle an under worked thousand pound beast jacked up on alfalfa and oats--rodeo should be a winter sport--for thirty minutes or less before giving up and returning home; clean out trailer and feed beast more rocket fuel for next "ride"; brush soggy turd off of damp wool sweater before entering the house and collapsing in front of fire. Glamorous the winter equestrian is not.

In lieu of doing much riding, I'm catching up on a vital winter activity--movie watching. Besides reading, the television is one of the few things I'm enthusiastic about during weather such as we've been having. Recently I watched, The Soloist.

The premise of this film intrigued me and is "based on a true story." I'm a sucker for anything based on real life, even though I know Hollywood holds a permanent Oscar in "artistic license." Here's the storyline: Robert Downey Jr. plays a journalist in a personal and professional slump. The guy can't seem to find a good story anywhere much less "write" anything inspiring in his own life. Jamie Fox is a schizophrenic homeless man who plays a two-stringed violin while babysitting a shopping cart full of trash. When Downey encounters him by chance on the street one day, Fox babbles something about going to Julliard. Julliard? No way. Dirty, crazy homeless guys don't possess the talent necessary for Julliard. Still, Downey is desperate for a story and has time on his hands. He calls the school, gives the homeless guys name and, surprise, surprise finds that he did in fact attend Julliard for a time. What transpires from there is a journey of friendship between societies trash and a "normal" guy who initially simply wants a good story and professional notoriety.

To be honest, this film didn't capture me right off the bat. Downey (infamous eternally in my mind for his role in the '80s film, Less Than Zero) and Fox are both good actors but the story didn't touch me until midway through. Right about the point where Downey receives an award for his columns recounting his adventures with Fox and Fox begins to utterly resist any attempts to rehab him. In one scene, Downey begs the director of an LA homeless shelter to give Fox a diagnosis (with corresponding medication) while outside hoards of homeless people shoot up, fight with each other, babble incoherently, and guard filthy trinkets. The camera pans repeatedly to signage on the shelter that reads: The wages of sin is death. When Downey cannot get a diagnosis and Fox resists medication, he tries music lessons, a concert he hopes will be "transformative"(it fails) and even puts Fox in an apartment so he'll at least be off the street. All those things are inspiring material for his newspaper column. Fox is not impressed. When he discovers Downey has tampered with his family affairs he throws him to the ground and says, "If I ever see you again I will cut you open and gut you like a fish."

At that point the film grabbed me by the heart. It begged the question, Where is God's grace for the graceless? For the ones for which there is no diagnosis, no inspiring "after," for the many who live among us broken, despairing, and resistant to all attempts of rehabilitation. It's uncomfortable to consider the ones who can't navigate normal society and never will. The ones who can't produce and simply take up space. Those of us who are productive, who are able to hide our brokenness, put programs and medication and rehab before our fellow sinners and shriek as Downey does when they are resistant--"I am a professional person; I have a job!" This apparently validates our space on the planet.

A few things stuck out for me in this film. First, the wages of sin is death. Brokenness exists in every creature in God's creation. Some hide it better than others but no amount of humanist rationalizing can take it away. Only One can do that.

What also exists in every creature is the fingerprint of God. It's more obvious in some then others but we simply have to look for it. In the film, Downey sees it for the first time when he takes Fox to a concert and watches him live the music in peace and utter bliss. He later says, "There's something higher out there and I don't even know what its called."

Lastly, love and friendship is the one thing that is transformative. Downey at first resists friendship with a homeless person and laments, after being physically threatened, "I thought I was going to help someone who had lost their way; now I can't see a belief in anything worthwhile." Instead of fixing he is encouraged to, "show up, just be his (Fox's) friend. You can't fix LA."

What does this have to do with horses? Though I do not put animals on the same scale as human beings, I own a broken horse and think often about the state of God's creation. Sin mars the world but His fingerprint is there if you take the time to look for it. And friendship, with a person, with an animal, can be transformative. I know, I've seen it with my own eyes.

I conclude with Robert Downey that there is something higher out there. It is called Grace.

DRESSAGE AND VERITAS

I wanted my stallion, Eli, the moment I laid eyes on him. Aloof and introverted, he nevertheless had the kindest eyes I'd ever seen on a horse. He is sensitive, intelligent, and possesses a quiet mind and air of dignity. "Still waters run deep."

Though quiet and calm on the ground, swing a leg over this flashy horse and he's all about forward going. He's built to move. In reference to Tristan from Legends of the Fall, I call Eli Brad Pitt--strong, tawny, and full of restless masculine energy. He is a good example of why "horse power" describes a fast car. I'm still learning to ride and manage the enormous stride and energy of this horse, not to mention the challenge of converting his sometimes distracting hormones into useful activity. With my shortcomings in mind, I decided to take some dressage lessons.

"Dressage" comes from a French word that simply means "to train." Rather than bombing around the front yard, oblivious to gravity and the laws of physics (as I did as a child and teenager), a student of dressage breaks down the fundamentals of riding and movement, eventually mastering the subtle influence and language of a good equestrian. A horse well trained in dressage becomes the true athlete he is meant to be. One of my favorite horse trainers is funny Texan, Craig Cameron. While watching him guide a group of students one time he exclaimed in mock frustration, "They call it riding, people, not sitting!" Dressage is all about riding.

While the lessons have been stimulating and enlightening, I find myself challenged: challenged in basic fundamentals, to get rid of bad habits, to stop sitting and get engaged, to correct subtle misconceptions and misunderstanding. On perhaps our third lesson, my instructor made an observation as I guided Eli in a left hand circle. She said something like this:

"Do you feel your butt sort of fall away to the right?"

Um, yeah, and thanks for noticing. Note to self: The new riding tights don't look as good as you thought.

She went on to explain that Eli's right hip is weak and he frequently drops it rather than stride under. This makes my right hip feel as if it is falling. He is strong and balanced with the left hip. This is a fundamental of movement I'd noticed subconsciously but until she pointed it out, didn't connect it to anything. With lots of practice Eli will get better and stronger. As will my...well, never mind.

This dressage journey comes to mind when reflecting on last weekend and my attendance at an apologetics conference in San Diego called, The Case for Christianity. Rather than bomb around, oblivious to the evidence for my faith, it challenged me to study and consider the fundamentals.

"Veritas" is, of course, the Latin word for truth. The longer I live and journey in my faith, the less I'm interested in the traditions and habits of religion. Truth is the only thing worth seeking. May I never be the person described by Winston Churchill: "Most people when encountering truth stumble over it, dust themselves off, and continue unchanged."

One of my favorite movies is The Insider (forget Brad Pitt, I'm more of an Al Pacino girl when it comes to leading men). In the movie (based on a true story), Russel Crowe plays an insider, a scientist, who works for big tobacco. He risks his job, his family, even his life to tell the truth about the dangers of nicotine. Pacino is the truth loving journalist (yes there are some) who loses his job because of uncompromising loyalty to Crowe and the story. I saw the movie twice in the theatre and a couple times on video. I love the ending: Pacino tells his high profile boss what he can do with his lukewarm ethics and censorship then, music pounding, sweeps out of the door in a trench coat (as only he can do) and walks away. Away from compromise, away from lies. The film illustrates dramatically the struggle to expose and live truth. There is a cost.

Of course truth in religion is debated without end in this world. Many are willing to kill for what they think is true. This begs a question: If truth is relative, if it does not exist, if it doesn't even matter, why do people get so upset about it? In America we are a people of apathy and feigned "tolerance;" quick to be offended, to resist examining what might be true. At least one thing can be said about about Islamic extremists, they passionately live their beliefs.

Five years ago, as a novice writer, I learned this word, "verisimilitude." The appearance of truth. Some things that appear true are not and visa versa. In a world of religions that swirl and collide nothing seems more important than discerning truth. If God did create a universe that exists because of highly specific absolutes, does it make sense that he is confusing, vague, easily assembled into whatever form we feel comfortable with? Nobody would be so foolish as to jump out of a plane and say, "Gravity is not my truth." We accept absolutes in science--cosmology, biology, physics--but resist the notion that any absolutes exist spiritually. Why? As comfy cozy as moral relativism appears, nobody wants to go where this belief actually leads--Do What Thou Wilt/Anything Goes.

By definition a belief is something you hold to be true. Hopefully it is something sought not as an exercise in "rightness," but with an honest, transparent heart, willing to be changed if need be. God promises that, "You shall know the truth and truth shall set you free." Not, "You shall accept many truths, and amidst that pudding of confusion, find hope and freedom." God cannot be both personal and impersonal; eternity cannot all at once be dead in the ground, taken up into glory, and endlessly reincarnated.

"When you seek Me with all your heart I will be found by you, says the Lord." This is the only journey I want to take.

They call it riding, people, not sitting.