New Experiences, Old Lessons

Early Sunday morning Eddie and I went with a friend and her horse (also a friend) to a schooling show in our area. This was a new experience for Eddie. He's been to many dressage shows and clinics, but never to a regular horse show where he was required to work in an arena with other horses all doing the same thing in the same direction at the same time.

Horse shows are a bit different from dressage shows. In a dressage show you have an assigned time to ride. You perform a test, solo, in front of a judge who never blinks and gives a score from 0-10 for each segment (called "movements") of the test. There can be upwards of 30 movements in an advanced level test. An error may cost you a few points and affect your over all score, but you may end up scoring well, anyway. High score wins.

Anyway, after warming up, schmoozing with the other folks there, doing some sightseeing, and a whole lot of waiting around (you're never quite sure exactly what time your class will be called in at a horse show). We entered the arena for our first class, and Eddie tossed his concentration aside at the in-gate. Apparently one of us thought it was play time.

After some intense negotiations at the walk and trot in each direction (where I sporadically convinced Eddie that I wasn't going to give up my efforts to direct his energy) the judge called us all in. She divided the class in half for the canter work—good thing, since there were 16 horses in the arena.

We were in the second group. Eddie watched the first group with interest, occasionally neighing his approval (or egging them on—I'm not sure which).

Then it was our turn. Eight of us rode out to the rail at the walk and Eddie may as well have shot me a look over his shoulder and said, "Don't worry, I've been paying attention. I know exactly what to do."

Yeah. Right. I wasn't born yesterday.

Rule #1: Never abandon leadership to the horse. They have fewer skills in that area than the average teenager.

The first part of the canter went fairly well. However, it was the call to "hand gallop" (a faster version of the canter) where things got interesting. Eddie chose to accent that transition (which I hadn't yet asked for) with his own particular flair. He launched upwards, added a couple of twists, and hit the ground with the intention of executing a full-out gallop. The judge stopped the class and—much to the relief of the other terrorized competitors around us—I stopped Eddie within a couple of strides.

…Must have been something to see—a huge, white, ball of fur flying through the air….

Had we been in contention for a ribbon in the class, that one impromptu, free-form interpretation of the transition into hand-gallop blew away any possibilities of an award.

Happily, Eddie is smart enough to figure out that his ad-lib was not the required routine for a horse show class. The second class proceeded in a more conservative manner, and we came away with second place. Good boy, Eddie.

So, what did I learn? Wow, many things—but primarily reinforcing my conviction to keep my shoulders over my hips. You just never know when something unexpected may happen that will challenge your balance.

Talking Horses

When my kids were toddlers they would go to the barn with me in the morning to feed the horses. My son (who is going to hate me for telling this story), although insisting on going, didn't like all the whinnying that greeted us despite my reassurances that it was happy noise. He'd cling to my leg and wail, "Mommy, horsies talk, horsies talk!"

Horses are chatty things. Bless their hearts, they don't seem to be without something to say--ever. Most of their language is body language, of course, but hey, most of ours is, too. Ninety-three percent of what we communicate is non-verbal (so I've heard). That should make it a slam-dunk to communicate with a horse, right?

Not exactly.

We don't speak the same body language, so we have to reach a compromise. That's what training is all about--teaching a language that is native to neither the horse or rider. When we ride we make use of our hands, legs, seat and voice--the natural aids--to mean specific things. Each of our aids has two functions; either work in harmony with the horse or step out of harmony. When we function in harmony with the horse we're like the "yes-man." When we use our aids out of harmony it's because something needs to be changed either by restraining or driving--our only two choices.

It seems so simple. Yet for an animal who can react when a fly lights on him, every breath the rider takes is capable of carrying meaning. That's why riding is hard. We can be communicating without even realizing it. And the horse will be commenting on what he thinks we're saying.

When they can't figure out what we want, they'll guess--some of them anyway. Others will tune us out, since it's obvious to them we have nothing important to say. Still others will overreact, bluster against us and argue.

Sounds like daily living with a completely human cast of characters, doesn't it? People and horses will tell us what they understand of the current situation by demonstrating it through their actions. Any way you cut it, it takes practice to communicate effectively.

Oh, and it doesn't bother my son anymore when horses whinny for their food. He can relate to their eagerness for a meal (and I'm going to hear about that comment, too!).

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.

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.

Go loses much of its appeal when you can't stop

It's true. But one of the reasons I ride is the sheer joy of being able to cover ground in the swift and athletic manner that is only possible from the back of a horse. Nothing compares to the euphoria of flying along a beach at a dead gallop, the surge of powerful muscles rocketing you forward, the sheer elation in soaring over a five foot oxer, the athleticism of the dance-like sweep of the canter half-pass, until...your life flashes before your eyes as you realize you have no say-so over speed and direction. It's terror on a primitive scale when you know your survival is in sincere jeopardy.

It occurred to me, upon reflection from the safety of my office chair, that the horse isn't particularly happy in those moments, either. He's lost harmony with his closest herd member--me, the rider--and one thing a horse wants is to get along with the herd. It's that survival thing again. The reasons for this unhappy situation can be myriad. That's not the point. The point is, we've gone from a place where we're all having fun, to a point where none of us are. We're each solely concerned with--that's right--our own survival.

It's a lot like life. There is joy and freedom when Go and Stop are both options, and when none of the participants are in survival mode. When we keep an eye out for each other, and stay sensitive to loss of balance, Go is bliss.