A TEMPORARY HOME

Social networking is a modern wonder. Who knew flesh and blood friends would become outdated? With virtual pals through Facebook, chat rooms, and forums of every sort one can have thousands of “friends” worldwide with no more then a password and an identity. Before you get too excited about the possibilities remember that the concept of “identity” is fluid and infinitely creative in cyber space. Here's a song that gives you a clue. But anyway.

I think forums are a great source of networking and information. And every sort of forum exists. Elvis lover? Marble collector? There’s a forum for that where you can while away the hours discussing The King’s famous hips and the ideal width for white bell bottoms with your “friend” in Norway. Or how about comparing an awesome Tiger Eye with a pal in Chile? Totally amazing. And freakish. But that's another blog posting.

After purchasing Eli I joined a forum for stallion owners. This is meant to be a place where stud owners from all over the world share training tips and stories from a life managing the masculine wonder that is a breeding stallion. This forum has been incredibly helpful, not to mention interesting, and has deepened my knowledge of horse handling. I knew one day it would be time to breed Eli and find out what sort of horse he is jumped up on testosterone. The forum gave me much food for thought prior to breeding and now that I am in the midst of this brand new experience the forum has been there, albeit virtually, as encouraging friends.

Horses have no concept of future change. I reflected on this bit of information shared once via the forum when I went to see Eli this last week, a day or two after breeding his first mare. Because I am a novice stallion handler, and not set up safely to breed him at home, I took Eli to a nearby facility where an experienced acquaintance agreed to help me in this new adventure. All went well until the second day of live cover when Eli got kicked pretty good. Hormonally charged 1,000 pound animals can inflict a lot of damage to each other and some risk is involved, no matter how well you think you know the horses and try to be safe. When I saw my boy the day after the mare had been taken home (hopefully pregnant) he was in his stall a swollen hematoma hanging between his front legs.

I looked at my horse through the bars of his stall and felt…horrible. The injury looked worse than it was but I felt responsible. Don’t get me wrong, Eli didn’t complain about the new job. He performed it quite well minus an embarrassing bit of falling off the mare, but we won’t discuss that publicly (I promised him). Still, this was hardly his idea. I’d loaded him up, driven him to a brand new barn, and facilitated a breeding that got him injured (and also hopelessly “in love”). Now he wilted in a dark stall, pining for his mare, well cared for but alone. In a few short days he’d ventured a lifetime away from the peaceful place that is my house—no visible neighbors, no stall, no mares and their drama, just a bachelor herd of two geldings and an enormous cedar tree under which he naps each day after breakfast. I thought of his horsey lack of concept. He thought I’d left him no doubt; perhaps sold to a new owner. He didn’t know he’d be back with me, and his friends, and his peaceful home in two short weeks. We’d go back to trail rides and, I hope, a lifetime of friendship. I love this horse. I have plans for his life. With me.

Eli looked back at me, a deep well of unique equine emotion visible behind his calm exterior. That may sound dramatic but if you ever meet him you'll know what I mean. I've never seen such eyes on a horse. I entered and began to brush him. He had dried sweat everywhere from pacing and calling and worrying about his mare and, it seemed, the new insecurity that comes with a radical change of scenery. He does not understand. He knows no concept of a future change. I brushed him and brushed him. And also sang the song stuck in my head: Better Then A Hallelujah, by Amy Grant. Soon Eli’s head is hanging by my knee as I brush and stroke his big crested neck (sore, no doubt, from over-arching and showing off). I tell him not to worry. He’s still with me, Baby, and nothings going to change that. I tell him Cowboy misses him and he will be coming home soon. Eli gives me several of his sweet horse hugs, his neck bent around my shoulder. It was all I could do not to go home, jump in the truck, and take my horse home.

Human beings have a concept of future change, but we aren’t all that much more aware then a horse I think. I have such limited vision, such a focus on trivia that frustrates, disappoints and exhausts me. Life is hard. My body is wearing out and dying a bit more each day. My time on earth is short but it demands my focus and attention. I think God longs to reach through the haze between earth and eternity and reassure me that there is a future coming, a much better future. I can rest in knowing the time here is short and inconsequential next to eternity. He will jump on His great white horse someday (That's a tip for you non-horsy types: Brush up on your riding skills) and take me home where I belong. Like Carrie Underwood says in her beautiful new song, This is our temporary home.

PS. Make sure you have a tissue for that last song.

ALONG FOR THE RIDE

Life is full of expectations. Ever considered how much we operate on what is expected? For instance, I expect to wake up in the morning (always good), be greeted by a husband that still loves me, visit healthy (!) horses awaiting breakfast, ride afore mentioned horses with the expectation they will respond to the training I have invested in them (I’m learning to let this one slide), etc. etc. I race through my small space in life pregnant with expectations; happily, and often ignorantly, placing them on those around me with whom I share relationships. There are expectations on my friends, my children, my pastor. I even have expectations on those I do not know such as fellow Costco shoppers (namely that they will politely allow me to park, not run me over, or flip me the finger…yes, I’ve realized the folly in this particular expectation and have let it go). Expectations frequently slap me upside the head, frustrate me, and poison my relationships with the humans and horses that share my life.

I had low to no expectations of Chance when I got on him recently for the first time in over six months. I hoped he wouldn’t fall on me or do anything weird or foolish, but this horse is straight out of the film 50 First Dates so one can never be sure. What I had done to prepare was lunge him for a month or so to get him back into shape. He was holding his lope pretty well and seemed happy, in his horsy way, to be worked with again.

Lately I’ve realized that year by year I know less and less. Soon I may forget my own name. A life with God and horses is full of mysteries I cannot explain. Last fall I put Chance away convinced, after his fall, that he was damaged permanently in some unknown way—physically, mentally or, most likely, a combination of the two. His Cerebellar Atrophy blood test came back negative, he did not die from EPM or convulse in to seizures. He continues to greet me each morning with a husky nicker. After praying over him in November with my daughter, the only change worth noting were heels that sprouted like seeds from the bottoms of his feet (Uh, Lord, I said healed, not heels). Oh well. God sometimes gives me things I don’t think I need but later discover are vitally important. Though still klutzy, Chance has beautiful feet now. Feet made for walking, says I. And so I jumped on bareback one day, no bridle, and moved him around. He seemed okay, outside of obsessively grinding his teeth in what hints at discomfort. On subsequent rides he vacillated between trying very hard (he has a lovely lope departure and the best stop of our three boys) and emotional outbursts for apparently no reason. Still, I enjoyed myself. I realized later that one reason I could enjoy a klutzy, funky little pinto so much was because I had no expectations of him. He didn’t need to please me or fulfill grand horsemanship goals. I was just along for the ride.

Last month, as my few faithful readers may have noted, blog posting was pathetic. This is in part because I published my first work of fiction, Rodeo Dreams, and was tied up in the excitement of that. Talk about the potential for expectations! Does it suck? Will it hit the NY Times Bestseller list (Okay, I did mention that to God…if He feels so inclined)? Should I sell my soul to promote the thing? After getting jumped up on expectations I was thankfully able to relax again into an attitude of being along for the ride. Why? My expectations rest in God and He’s pointed out specifically what I can expect: He will never leave me or forsake me—He is with me to the end of the age; His care is such that He numbers the hairs on my head and has thoughts for me as the sand of the sea (wow); His gifts are perfect; He takes great delight in me; He directs my steps; He plans to prosper me…it goes on and on. I don’t need to lean on my expectations in this life--or burden everyone else with them-- when I can trust in God’s promises. I can simply enjoy the ride—whether it’s on a funky pinto or the “ride” of publishing for the first time. Good things are in store, that’s all I know for sure (except in the Costco parking lot—oy!)

PS. Check out Jess Simmons, an artist you can expect will produce beautiful portraits of your pets, including the one posted today of Eli and Cowboy. It is called, “Friends,” and makes me happy every time I look at it. Thanks Jess!

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.