"Expensive lawn ornaments."
"Money pits."
”Photogenic megafauna." (This one made me chuckle when I heard it for the first time the other day.)
“I like to watch them. They fill me with joy.”
The histories of humans and horses are so intertwined as to be nearly inseparable. Maybe that’s part of why I continue to feel connected to them at a seemingly genetic level, even though I don’t “do” a whole lot with mine right now… and hay is at a premium.
By “do,” I mean ride, show, train, work, drive—of course, though, I’m out there with them every day feeding and haying and watering and grooming and shoveling shit. And since my home office window overlooks their pastures, I watch them all day, every day.
But still, there’s this nagging guilt that I’m not “doing” enough with them to justify their upkeep and expense.
Like so many other people-of-the-female persuasion, I was obsessed with horses from a young age. I took lessons, rode bareback at summer camp, and went on trail rides through the southwest with my family on vacation. I never took much to the “show” thing, though—the fancy bows and mane washes, the judging, the ‘tudes, or the hot and uncomfortable clothes. Once I even fainted and fell off during a lesson, in the middle of the Tennessee summer, from being overheated.
Instead, I was deeply affected by the relationship between Alec and The Black Stallion. Not so much the triumphant winning of the race at the end. But the beach scenes, where they initially get to know each other, are seared into my brain. The idea that you could play with a horse—that you could communicate with them and develop an understanding that was more than just human dominance—well, let’s just say that editing this video clip was enough for a good ugly cry.
I thoroughly blame that movie for the subsequent hours I’d spend sitting in the woods quietly, arm outstretched, trying to entice wild deer to eat from my hand. I even succeeded once or twice.
Ignore the German overdub (or giggle). This is the only version of this scene from City Slickers I could find online!
And then came the movie that would be responsible for one of my longest-standing bucket list items. The movie that I’m sure the marketers—promoting their funny lookin’, mid life crisis male main character—never thought would appeal to a 12-year-old girl.
I blame that movie for the amount of time I’ve spent thinking that whatever I was doing in my life at the time must pale in comparison to being on a cattle drive. Also—SHEESH—that’s enough ugly crying for today.
Skip a decade or two, several cities later, and you’d find me working for a packaging company outside Chicago. I’d have downloaded some scenic, mountainous photo to have as my desktop wallpaper. I’d have twittering bird and babbling brook sounds coming from my computer speakers. I’d be scrolling through real estate listings for Maine—daydreaming about our move that wouldn’t come for a few years.
But, I asked myself, what can I do right now to satisfy just a little bit of that yearning? I didn’t want to wait forever to get on a horse again. And so, I leaned into a little something we lifelong-hobby-gobblers like to call “the research phase.” It wasn’t long before my reading lead me to the concept of natural horsemanship and my soon-to-be mentor, Jodi, at Diamond Acres.
It turns out that there is no perfect time to pursue a dream. But if you start with just the smallest sliver of that dream, you may soon find yourself hurtling towards it. And so it also wasn’t very long before I went from once-a-week lessons, to shareboarding, to being the eventual owner of Noah the Morgan horse. We even got the chance to work on a little cattle wranglin’ ourselves!
It took a lot of dedication to make the 1.5 hour trek out to see my horse back then. And although I learned a ton about natural horsemanship, there was also a lot of frustration.
I’d pin my entire week’s worth of stress on that one afternoon with my horse, expecting him to respond perfectly even though I carried all my anxiety straight through to the saddle. And how did he respond? By going fast, of course. Really fast. Some weeks we’d make progress, others I’d spend the entire time trying to force him to slow down.
What I truly came to realize only in retrospect—despite Jodi’s understanding of this obvious situation—was that he was channeling exactly what I was feeling at the time: Run. Run away. Far, far away. The humans, creatures, plants, and even objects that surround us reflect what we have a hard time seeing in ourselves.
But even once we did eventually run to Maine (sending Noah with us on a cattle truck through Canada), it still took me a few more years to learn my next lesson. When we eventually bought our farmhouse here and moved Noah to a barn just 5 minutes down the road, suddenly I could see him whenever I wanted! But of course, then, life happens. I still only got there once a week(ish), and I still didn’t understand why our communication wasn’t progressing fast enough.
I even signed Noah up for a “bootcamp” where my next friend and mentor, Wendy, rode and worked him several times a week in an effort to curb his ‘tude and help me enjoy riding more. And while she and he made progress together, he and I…did not. It wasn’t until I started riding 2-3 times per week that we finally, really started understanding each other.
It was then I realized that so many things in life are not about the hacks. The tips, tricks, and gimmicks. Or even the really smart theory you get from books and videos and advice.
It’s about time in the saddle. And I don’t just mean the Malcom-Gladwell-10,000-hours kind of time. Or even the less-focused “no agenda time” that Joe Camp talks about. I mean just straight-up being around.
Think about why you know your best friend so well. Sure, you may have experienced some groundbreaking moments and life changes together. But the reason you can recognize the way she walks from a block away, before she’s close enough to see her face? Why you can tell the difference between her fake chuckle and her let-loose guffaw? It’s because of all the time you spent just being around each other. Maybe not even looking at each other. Maybe completely distracted. In the background, your brain was using all that time to catalog her micro-expressions and smells and sounds.
So, that’s what I’ve been “doing” with my horses over the last few years. We haven’t had a formal training program. And yet, because we see each other every day (in good times and bad!), we communicate without thinking about it. I can ask Noah “Will you please move your big butt out of the shelter so I can scoop this shit?” And he does. Who knows if it’s my words, my hands, or my tone… but he gets it.
Similarly, the position of his ears, stiff muscle around his withers, and pointed head movement (over there, hooman!) lets me know that there’s a bald eagle perched across the street, eyeing my chickens. I know that if he calls to me through the dark, as I’m out on night chores, I need to grab my shotgun and check for coyotes.
And this little lady? I can tell from one look at her eyes if she’s not quite right—last time, it was because she had a mild case of laminitis.
I could write a book about all my horses have taught me. I’ve even written about some of the other things I’ve learned, here. But the last one I’ll mention for now is something that has proven to be a consistently balancing force in my life.
Through the natural horsemanship practice of producing the desired outcome with the lightest hand possible, I’ve learned not to lean on a sense of authority or using my “loud voice” except when necessary.
I’ve come to believe that the right amount for so many things is “just enough.” Take just enough pain medication to help my body keep a headache at bay. When the roosters are fighting, provide just enough of a watchful eye… but mostly let them sort it out. Give my kids just enough inspiration for them to launch into a creative drawing frenzy.
Have a light hand. Underestimate the amount of input you need to add to a situation, right up until the line where, if needed, you can help tip the scale… and then stop. Humans (myself included) can be so very self-important. We think we have to save, fix, organize, and be in charge of everything—including ourselves. There’s a whole big kinda weight I lift off myself when I remember that I can just be an observer.
That absolutely does not mean I can’t have strong opinions, let-loose guffaws, or obsessive rabbit holing on creative projects. Fly your freak flag!
But when there’s a problem or pain and my first instinct is to jump in and save the day, I try to remember to ask: What is actually needed here? Do I need to pommel this signal out of existence, or is it conveying vital information? Will this situation resolve on its own? Is this truly something that needs correcting? And if input by my hands is necessary, how can I do it as quietly as possible? How can I move with my horse in a diagonal dressage step that, to the casual observer, looks like we both made that decision together?
So, you know… maybe I’ll finish that round pen this year, or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll get that mounting block, dust off my saddle, distract the pony with a clump of hay, tack up the old man, and heave my green ass back up there. When I do, I have no doubt that the relationship we’ve fostered by just hanging about together will make it easier to communicate.
My left butt cheek that twitches when I’m a little stressed out, though? Yeah… he’s still gonna feel that. We’ll have to learn some things all over again. But at this moment, as I’m watching him sun himself out in the pasture, I’m just happy he’s around.
