Back in the Saddle -- so to speak ...

Yes,I know it's been quite a while since I last posted anything, but trust me, it's not because there hasn't been anything going on. Of the positive events that have transpired, you should know I've released a new book (see sidebar). It took some time to complete. And yes, yes, yes, there's lots more horse stuff in that one -- and I know for a fact that's what a bunch of you Thea Campbell fans want!

But, back to the blog ....

My friend Kate Wyland nudged me into action by asking me to contribute to her wonderful blog "Conversations with Horses and Others". And, of course, when a friend asks what can you say but "when do you want it?"

So, without further ado, please, click on the link below to Kate's place and read "The Art of Breathing for Two" -- it's about how sport transcends the technical and become an expression of the heart. And say "hi" while you're there!

Kate Wyland's

Conversations with Horses and Others

You're right. This is not a horse. It's a tiny, cute, kitten that will keep screaming until you click on the above link to Kate's blog!

It's Just Routine, Ma'am

I have a tendency to jump right into the middle of things with little preparation. My knee-jerk preference is to charge ahead and if I get stuck, stop and read the directions – if I can find them. I would do this when I ride, too, if it wasn’t so glaringly plain this is not a knee-jerk preference for the horses. They simply don’t operate that way, and they will not be persuaded otherwise. Therefore, if I want Eddie (for example) to do well, I have to make sure I spend time, each and every ride, devoted to obsessing over getting organized. I must allow him the time to go through the steps needed to warm up. He has not varied from this requirement in the entire eighteen-plus-years I’ve known him.

Yes, he’s a little one-way about the whole thing.

Eddie, doing his job without me interfering
... yay, for me!

He doesn’t like it if I try to do his job, or expect him to do mine. We have a very distinct division of labor in our relationship and if I forget what it is, he will remind me. He doesn’t do this in a mean way. He simply gives me what I’m “really” asking for, and the usual result is me feeling like an idiot.  

Here’s a relatively benign example: it’s not up to me to hold his posture together, despite the fact that I know what it should be. That’s his job, and he can’t do it if I skip steps getting there and try to put him in place before it’s time. He will lean on my hands and remind me how much more he weighs than what I’m capable of lifting. Sure, I can remind him if he quits doing his job, and I can show him how I want him to conduct himself, but I can’t do it for him. Simply stated: He will let me. Times ten.

Horses are creatures of habit and routine. They need the sameness of a familiar warm-up in order to be assured they are doing the right job, in order not to be over-faced with demands from the rider. Routine is knowledge and security. Routine keeps the stress at bay.

Come to think of it, we humans need routine, too. As much as I hate to admit it. A big job becomes manageable if I break it down into a progression of steps I’m familiar with. Even well-known tasks can be overwhelming, like writing a book. If I remember to take it a logical and progressive piece at a time I can conquer what had previously appeared daunting.

I should remember this, since my horse insists.

When You're In A Hole, Stop Digging

Success equals mental preparation -- that's what Henrik pointed out at the instructors' seminar I attended. I can't argue with that. All things being equal, I can achieve my future goal for my horse only if I am sufficiently mentally prepared for each day's lesson and have a route planned to my vision of the future.

It sounds simple enough. Know where I'm going, pull out the road map, and learn the route.

Simple. Right. Ha, ha.

How many times have I ridden my horse thinking I was doing all the right things only to realize progress toward my goal had not only stalled out, but was deteriorating by the minute?

It's kind of like driving down a road, full of confidence my destination is minutes away, and then, after a while (a really long while), wondering why the scenery hasn't changed. Come to find out, I've been stuck in the mud, spinning my wheels. How did I not notice? It sure explains all those people standing around, exchanging glances and whispering among themselves. I could tell them I meant to get buried up to my axels, but we'd all know better.

Sigh.

It's about that time I start to realize, yet again, part of mental preparation is becoming familiar with what should be happening all along the way -- not just at the end when I've reached my goal. The route includes my ability to recognize the boggy places when encountered or, better yet, beforehand so they can be avoided.

Having someone point those mucky spots out is invaluable. But that can't happen every time I ride. Part of this learning process is to recognize, more quickly, when I get stuck. With luck -- okay, with sufficient mental preparation and luck -- I'll remember the tools to help extract me from the bog. Then, at some time in the future when I've experienced my quota of muck, I'll be able to avoid digging myself in. I'll have learned to see it coming and plotted the route around. Better yet, I'll have found the road without the potholes.

Until then, I'll have to be vigilant: Keep my goal in mind without seeking out the problems. I'd really hate to find out I've been planning a route from one problem to the next instead of my goal.

The Plan: Have A Plan

Late last month I had the opportunity to ride in a dressage clinic with Henrik Johansen. I love riding in clinics with him. He's a wonderful teacher. I always leave excited about riding and knowing where I need to improve. 

This time was no different. I rode my friend Fable because Eddie, although back to work again, is not far enough along in his rehab to endure the demands of a weekend clinic. I've ridden Fable in the past couple of clinics and it works well, since I bring the lessons I learn home to Eddie. I did this time too, of course.

As I was riding one of the exercises Henrik had coached me through at the clinic, I started thinking about something else he'd said. "Ride with a plan. Don't ride by reacting to the horse."

Was I doing that?

Well … sort of. I had a plan, but I was very intent on figuring out if Eddie was actually doing it. 

I changed my thinking. I took a deep breath, squared up my posture and let go of all that "gotta do it" tension.

"I am doing the exercise correctly myself," I said, not entirely believing it. "And when I do it right, it feels exactly like this." (insert active imagination here). 

Then the most amazing thing happened: Eddie improved in one step.

Go figure. Although I should have known. After all, it's not news to me -- I "talk" this stuff all the time.

Guess I don’t always "walk" it.

And that got me to thinking -- is that what I do in my daily life? Do I fret every minute to be sure everything is "just so," checking to see if all my ducks are lined up properly? Do I have a plan I focus on, or am I reacting to each moment, watching for things to go wrong?

Maybe I should just march forward and let all my ducks line up behind me while I lead the way. After all, not all of us can follow. Somebody has to get out in front. It's my life. It might as well be me.

You Can't Make Me

I've had "Fable," a dark bay Holsteiner gelding, in training for a number years. I adore him. He's a handsome fellow with more than a couple of interesting quirks.

Fable -  busy thinking

Let me be very clear that the very first time I met him he oozed attitude. It was a while ago, so I'd be lying if I said I saw something more noble under that sullen and disrespectful demeanor. However, I know myself well enough to say that I must have. I like a challenge, but I'm no fool. I want at least a flicker of hope that I'll succeed before I start a project. Otherwise, why bother? And frankly, with a horse, why put yourself at such physical risk?

Since that first meeting, Fable has taught me well.

He has taught me that cooperation requires respect from both parties.

His "you can't make me" attitude has shown me that "yes, I can" must not only be accompanied by firmness, but also a willingness to change an approach when no progress is noted, coupled with a dogged determination to focus on the clarity of the goal.

He has taught me not to let a moment of disagreement dissolve into a fight where the focus becomes the fight.

No one wins in that situation.

So, what has been the outcome? Has he abandoned his attitude, donned the mantle of submission? Transformed into a shining example of cooperation?

Well … not exactly.

He's lost the sullenness, but he's retained his opinionated personality. Sure, his first reaction is still to argue when he doesn't understand a request, but the arguments are brief (far less explosive) and simply a way of communicating that he is unclear. He knows I'm listening to him -- no need to wage a war.

And here's the really cool thing: Once he understands, he not only does what he's asked, but improves with each repetition. I call that, "generosity." I'd never have known he possessed that quality of spirit when we first met.

Recovering from Reality

On October 16, 2010 a Dream took a direct hit.

I didn't realize it for a couple of days -- thought it was just another inconvenience in the normal course of events. But it turned out that in wrenching the shoe off his foot, Eddie fractured his coffin bone.

The coffin bone is the "hoof-shaped" bone inside the horse's hoof. Sometimes fractures are minor, and heal with little problem. Eddie's fracture cuts diagonally across the bone and has several secondary branches. It's not a pretty sight. I saw the x-rays, listened to what the vet had to say, and struggled to hold my emotions together.

As Eddie stood quietly cooperating with the endless positioning for x-rays, seeming to know he had to be very still, I watched the dream of building on the art we two had worked years to accomplish blink out. In one unfortunate moment the world shifted in a way I'd never prepared for. There was no going back, no do-overs. What I thought I held so surely in my hands was gone.

Over the days that followed, while I waited for a cast to be put on Eddie's hoof, words from people I barely knew, as well as people I knew well started penetrating that dreadful sense of loss. A small bit of hope began to grow. When Eddie's vet came out to put to put the cast on several days later reality met with a plan, and from that plan some strength and confidence grew. Somewhere around the first of March we will be better able to predict the success of his recovery and the very real possibility of his return to the work we both love.

In the meantime, while he convalesces, I will have other horses to ride and the opportunity to work on improving myself. Eddie's and my journey together may not be over. But should he not recover enough to dance again with me, then at least I will still have my friend and the bond we've developed. I will always cherish what he has so generously given me.

"I am strong when I am on your shoulders. You raise me up to more than I can be."

                                                                                              --Brendan Graham, Rolf Lovland

The Essence of Passion

"Forward" isn't just a direction. As a concept, it has a very specific meaning in dressage. When Eddie is properly forward he lowers his croup and his hind legs power him toward our line of travel with rhythmic strides, lifting his shoulders and freeing his front legs to express an elegant gesture. At the same time he is balanced exactly right so the smallest shift of my weight will cause him to do something else—something that came to life in my mind first. Movement is easy, cadenced and relaxed. He blows big long breaths and holds the bit lightly in his mouth.

It is in those moments I feel we can do anything—turn the smallest circle, sweep sideways, change gaits, and all because I thought of it. If you could see Eddie's expression you'd see how soft his eyes are and the way his ears flop sideways, occasionally flicking back as he acknowledges as aid from me. Being correctly forward causes him to be intensely focused, relaxed, and satisfied.

From the very first time a foal wears a halter and learns to lead, he is learning the concept of "forward." Each stage of training adds a layer of understanding for both the horse and rider. Not only does the concept grow with each achievement, but it also grows with the failures. Both horse and rider learn what "forward" is, as well as what it is not. Although it is possible to define the exact mechanics of achieving "forward", each horse has his own distinct feel when he is there, and his own best route to it. Riding more than one horse deepens our understanding of the concept of "forward" through each animal's unique nuances. But even my familiar Eddie is slightly different from day to day. For me, each ride is like opening little presents, and that joy of discovery keeps me coming back for more.

I think much the same can be said for anything one is passionate about—small distinctions and sparks of understanding are the tempting promises whispered in our ear.

The Call To Adventure

Often when I school Eddie (see white horse in the picture) I'll take a little break and ride out of the arena. We'll hike up and down the gentle slopes around the barn where he lives, or if the dressage-deer are around (they're the ones who stroll through the arena daily) we'll stop and watch them for a little while. Admittedly, I find them more interesting than Eddie. He doesn't care if they go into the woodshed or look like they're planning on walking through the barn. He does, however, think it's noteworthy if they stand on their hind legs to eat leaves off the trees. I'm not sure why. Nevertheless, if we take time out for a little adventure we can return to work with a little better attitude and a renewed effort. Concentration seems to come more readily and the little issues that were plaguing us recede into the background.

This morning my long-time student and friend was talking about having some fun and going to a schooling show. Not the dressage shows we normally go to, but a regular horse show where a group of horses are shown in the arena at the same time at the walk, trot and canter. Neither one of us have done that type of show for ages. Since Eddie and Spirrit, my friend's horse, are good buddies we figured they'd have a good time together. It's something different, something to turn the same old stuff into an adventure.

Evidently the call to adventure was in the air today. When I got home my husband and I swiped our kids' inline skates and drove over to a local walking/biking trail. To appreciate this you should know that neither one of us have skated for (mutter, mutter) years. My recurring thought was along the lines of how much it was going to hurt to break a bone, and how much it would slow my typing down to have a cast on my arm. I'm happy to report that while we both very probably looked ridiculous, and will be very sore tomorrow, we avoided injury. Best of all it gave us a chance to laugh together and enjoy the scenery.

The horse show is in October. I'll let you know how much of an adventure it turns out to be. With any luck we'll laugh, but won't look too ridiculous.

The Rule of Three

New experiences rarely go smoothly the first time we try them. Sometimes the thing we are attempting doesn’t even happen. We know this, usually, going into the effort. First bike ride, first attempt at cooking, first driving lesson. Even a first kiss. So back we go to give it another shot, and after a while we get pretty good at it.

This isn’t an unfamiliar pattern when we’re learning to ride, either. We get that. The old saying is that it takes two lifetimes to master the art of dressage. We know we can get pretty good in one, though, and a lot of us do. Many of us spend a great deal of time training horses to the discipline we’ve chosen, and there’s a familiar progression of events that go along with a horse’s athletic development.

Unfortunately, there are always problems.

Never mind. There’s time tested ways of dealing with problems, resistances, issues—whatever you want to call them, and people who will teach them to you.

But sometimes the solution to the problem doesn’t seem to work, and we kick harder, push harder, do whatever we think needs attending to more…and we still have the same progress-stopping issue. Often, having tried the chosen solution once, we discard it. Or, we persist in addressing a dilemma with a solution that doesn’t work at all. Either way it’s frustrating for us, as well as our horse.

Over the years I’ve noticed a pattern. If I give the course of action I’ve chosen three separate tries without changing anything about my aids I will know if my horse has understood, and if the solution I’ve chosen needs adjustment or abandonment.

It’s the Rule of Three. It’s very simple. Regardless of my horse’s response the first time the aids are applied, on the second attempt there should be a glimmer of change. On the third try there should be marked improvement—enough to let me know I have been understood and my four-legged friend is grasping the idea and making the effort. If, on the third try, there is no significant improvement, then I must reevaluate what I’m doing and ask myself what specifically isn’t being understood.

If a horse is calm, he will do as he’s asked provided he understands the request and is physically able to do it. When he is allowed to try, without being hammered at, he will often surprise you with his generosity.

It’s our job, as rider and teacher to give him the chance to demonstrate what he understands, abandon a tactic when it is useless, and discover what he needs from us to do what we ask. The Rule of Three is a guide to measure understanding and success, as well as put a limit on frustration.

Hey, Mom and Dad, Look at Me!

Every three or four months I ride my horse Eddie in a dressage clinic. I love it. We get cleaned up, dressed up, and chase improvement like it was a year-end award. Henrik Johansen, the clinician and the man whose picture is in the dictionary next to the word "patient," does his magic and viola! Eddie and I have refined our skills, and added to our knowledge. It's a great confidence boost to be challenged and at the same time make positive strides toward my goals. Except this time....

It was a breezeless, 90+ degree, July day. At 4 o'clock I was wringing wet and the lesson had just started. Ten minutes into our session Eddie was radiating heat like my husband's barbecue grill turned up to burn-the-gunk-off level. Even worse, instead of showing Henrik how much we'd improved, I showed him how really awful we could be. Eddie lugged on my hands and was dead to my aids. In essence, we were barely speaking.

I was not looking forward to the second day of the clinic. But lucky me, Henrik rode Eddie first. Good, I thought, he can fix my horse. Instead, he showed me how easy my horse was to ride. Hmm.... Okay. I needed to work harder. I could do that, even in the heat.

Apparently not.

I pondered this on the way home, which is to say I thought up all kinds of excuses why Eddie worked so well for Henrik and so poorly for me. Hey, I tried really really hard, and I toughed out the near-heat-stroke conditions. I deserved something for all my sweat, didn't I? Did Eddie just like Henrik better than me?

(Yes, I was feeling pretty darned sorry for myself) Then I looked at all the pictures my friend took. Eddie looked fairly decent when I was on him, but surely I looked better than that. Why did I look like a boneless bag of lumpy Jell-O? Appalled doesn't even begin to cover my reaction.

Further reflection had me wondering why the things Eddie and I did at home worked well, but fell apart at the clinic. I neatly ignored how well Eddie worked with Henrik and blamed the heat. Had to be the heat. We'd come far in the last four months, and I'd wanted to demonstrate it. I whined to my friend the picture-taker, fellow clinic-rider, and heat-sufferer. She shook her head.

"You were trying too hard to be perfect," she said.

Easy for her to say. Her rides were amazing. But she was right. I should have realized. And I should have listened to Eddie. He was doing exactly what I was telling him to do--all the disjointed, unbalanced stuff I was doing. I'd lost touch with him because I wanted to prove how good I was. I rode him differently than I did at home and lost the focused communication I usually shared with him. Then when things went badly, I just made them worse. I didn't stop to think, I just reacted.

Next time I'll pay closer attention to all the skills I skipped past while trying to prove how close to perfect I was, and less attention to trying to impress. I guess I learned something after all. I hope.

If It Wasn't For My Horse, I Wouldn't Have Understood Hegel

(Or, The Walk Can Fix The Canter)

One of the things I noticed early on in my riding career was that if I had problems getting the canter I magically knew it before hand at the walk. Using that ah-ha, I started paying more attention to my horse's walk asking myself, "if I want to canter right now, could I do it?" Through trail, error, and success I developed a feel for a walk that was sufficiently balanced for the horse to produce an obedient transition into canter. Problem solved...so I thought.

Then I started paying attention to the canter--mostly after seeing other people doing lovely canters on their horses and beating me at horse shows. With a better picture in my mind of what I was trying to achieve, I set to work to improve my horse's canter. This wasn't easy. Rocketing around the arena is not as conducive to thinking and analyzing as is the more sedate pace of the walk. Repeated efforts brought little improvement. Besides, it's freaking scary.

To preserve my life, I decided to shorten the duration of each foray into canter. Better--but not great. I shortened the duration further, with some slight improvement. Then I noticed the transition itself. If my horse tossed his head up for the transition, the canter and subsequent downward transition to walk was mediocre at best. Instead, if he raised his shoulders in the transition the canter was soft and lovely and the downward transition effortless. The solution was to have my horse raise his shoulders in the transition...but how could I make it consistent? I tried to keep his head down, hoping the shoulder would rise. Are you surprised things got worse? I didn't think so.

One day I happened to be reading a reference to a German philosopher by the name of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770-1831). Besides being touted as the last man on earth to know everything (I seriously doubt that particular boast), and quoted as saying something like, the lesson of history is that man learns nothing from history (what a card), he (reportedly) said something I found useful. Paraphrased, for my use, it goes something like: You can't achieve a goal by doing the goal. I ruminated on this for a bit. Could it be I was trying to fix my horse's canter with the wrong approach? Next time I saddled up, I brought along my powers of observation. Within my fumbling around I noticed my horse's balance, straightness, and acknowledgement of each of my aids. When I addressed each of these items at the walk, and saw that my horse understood what I expected, the canter transformed.

Wow.

Hegel was right. You CAN fix the canter by improving the walk.

Pay Attention

The arena where I ride has a magnificent view of Mt. Pilchuck. On days like today, when the sky is misty and a few clouds flirt with the summit, it looks enchanted. The forest between me and the mountain appears uninterrupted, inviting. It appeals to the romantic adventurer in my soul, despite the fact that to make a hike through the woods to the summit I know I'd have to hack through the underbrush, ford streams and rivers, and climb impossibly steep, rocky inclines. Dreaming about it is definitely better.

Closer by is Rocky, Eddie's friend, who enjoys being a horse and

has an active imagination. Apropos of nothing, he will scamper around, buck magnificently then look around to see who noticed. Eddie doesn't care. He sees him do that stuff every day for hours and hours. Besides, he's--not so secretly--more impressed with himself. I enjoy watching, though. Rocky is good for a laugh or two. He's such a happy horse.

And then there's the feather that's been lying in the arena for the past few days.

I think it came from a hawk, and I keep meaning to pick it up. Not sure why--it's just cool.

And, oh yes, riding. Which is why I'm sitting on Eddie's back. He'd probably rather

be eating treats over the fence, but we have a clinic to prepare for.

If I don't make an effort and come to the party, I'll not only fail to make progress, I'll regress. I know full well if one doesn't pay attention when one rides all sorts of little things creep in to sabotage one's efforts--a little "crooked" becomes a bigger "crooked," a little "on the forehand" becomes a sincere balance issue with the horse leaning on one's hands. Even when one is concentrating, small issues will slip under the radar until they grow into large, ugly problems.

It's no good beating myself up over it. Since I ride without constant supervision I have to expect it. No, that doesn't mean I get to stop trying. If I stopped trying, stopped paying attention, I'd miss the sheer bliss of those moments when it all comes together, the joy that rockets my attitude into the stratosphere, and makes every cell in my body understand why I ride dressage.

And I'd probably appreciate that view of Mt. Pilchuck, Rocky's antics, and random feathers a little less. What a shame that would be.

Small Expectations, Secret Handshakes, and Magic

Tell me it doesn't frost you to have your instructor, or clinician, or anyone else get on your "Old Pokey" and viola! He transforms into a heart-achingly stunning dressage horse. Tell me you don't long for that level of skill, talent, or whatever magic they possess. Tell me you won't lay awake nights fantasizing about it.

Why is it that without the expert seeming to do anything at all the very thing you thought impossible happens?

Experience.

And training.

Well, duh. We all know in order to understand the nuances of horse body language, one needs training and experience. The horse has to understand what an aid means and the rider has to be able to be consistent in the application of that aid, as well as the ability to interpret the horse's response.

And, of course, know the secret handshake.

So does the expert know more aids than you? Is that the "secret handshake"? Probably not. What they know is what to expect when a small aid is applied. A really small aid. The kind of small aid that comes from thinking and breathing, from knowing the subtleties of "feel," from knowing the importance of knowing the expected answer to a small request. And that is hard. Really hard. That kind of awareness can only be born through diligent trying, enduring the frustration of failing, and trying again--staying ever-alert for each small flash of ah-ha.

If we try not to make it all happen at once, the horse can become the teacher. He will show us his understanding, and then we can proceed according to that specific understanding, without losing sight of what we want. To lead, to teach, we must look forward and back and inside--simultaneously.

Yeah, it seems ponderous, and there are times when it seems like it would be so much faster to force the issue. But learning to communicate is difficult, and happens in small steps when the parties involved listen to each other. Even if you're the one who has to start listening first. Even if you're the one who has to stay faithful to the small expectations.

That's the secret handshake. And at some point someone will tell you you're magic, and you'll smile and tell them not to give up. The magic takes a while to learn.

You'll go where you're looking.

The first time I butted heads with this lesson was when I was a teenager and trail riding with a friend. Part of the trail ran alongside a road, and on the shoulder was a discarded pop can. I didn't want my horse to step on it, so I kept my eye on the thing, trying with all my might to move my horse away from it. Sure enough, we kicked the can. The incident dismayed me enough to stick with me these many years. At the time I couldn't understand what happened. I was a good rider, I used the right aids to move my horse to the side, yet the very thing I was hoping to avoid happened. What went wrong?

It was a little while before I really understood what is essentially a maxim for all riders. Hunter and jumper riders know well the saying, "throw your heart over the fence and the horse will follow." When I was jumping I kept that in mind, since I knew if I looked at the ground in front of the fence I would end up laying on it.

It's a physical thing. We've been balancing on our two feet for a number of years by now, and don't give it much conscious thought. We look in the direction we intend to go and shift our balance accordingly. When we ride, that shift affects the horse's balance far more dramatically due to our center of gravity being higher than the horse's.

Funny that an action as innocuous as looking at something can set your course with such certainty. And you know what? I've learned more magical things about direction of gaze, too. I've learned that if something is scary, you're far better off if you concentrate your vision on where you're intending on going than the terrifying object. I've learned if you stop looking, you lose track of what's happening to your horse, and that starts a snowball of frustration rolling down hill.

I've learned to apply this little technique to the aspects of my life that are separate from what I try to accomplish in the saddle. It goes hand in hand with having a goal--kind of like a support technique. You just have to be careful to look where you want to go, because you'll surely go where you look.