Why would watching a terrific horseman working a horse make me cry?
He kept talking about "try" and how easy it is to ruin "try" in horses. We don't mean to do it, but most of us who handle horses actually destroy try without ever being aware of it.
I realized it's no different in people. When you work at something and you get a lot of criticism or are constantly made wrong, there's a point when you give up and stop trying. You might go within and shrivel up into inaction and numbness, or you may lash out and fight back in frustration and anger. It's the opposite sides of the same coin, just different ways of showing that boundaries have been violated, and "try" has been destroyed.
The two horses I watched Tom work today had the same problem to begin with (running over their owners, lack of respect, etc.) but went about their reactions to the demands of people in opposite ways. One ignored people and ran over them like they weren't even there, while the other became dangerously aggressive and would kick out or blow up with huge scary energy. But Tom explained that both were simply confused and didn't know how to find that comfortable, safe, relaxed, quiet place when working with a human. They'd never been taught that the release of their uncomfortable internal energy was possible if they would simply choose that option when he offered it to them.
The first one took the offer right away. She was happy and cooperative as soon as she realized Tom was serious. She figured out quick that he was not going to allow her to ignore him. She turned her attention on him, gave him his space, moved her feet at his request, and offered to answer his questions. If she gave an incorrect answer Tom didn't make a big deal out of it, he just asked again. When she got it right, he stopped asking and left her alone. Her eyes would soften and she would lick and chew to express her contentment.
The second horse didn't even realize a question was being offered for the first 45 minutes. He just wanted to escape, and did what he'd always done in the past that had scared his owner in to putting him away. He cow-kicked at Tom and reared up as though to strike. It was very scary, but Tom simply ignored the bad behavior and kept asking. Tom escalated his responses to match the energy level offered by the horse. Sometimes this looked really "big" and aggressive, but it was done without abuse or emotion. Tom matched his "rudeness level" with the horse's "rudeness level", and stopped the moment the horse stopped. Eventually, when acting out didn't work, the horse stopped arguing. Tom gave him a release by dropping the "float" in the leadrope until it touched the ground while he turned his own body slightly away. All pressure on the horse stopped. The gelding waited, then dropped his head and began to lick and chew. The world stood still. Peace. Success. Tom chuckled in his distinctive, low voice and whispered, "good for you...."
Tom stood still by the tranquil horse and explained that this was where learning happened. This "nothing" place was a reward for the horse, but the hardest place for people to be. We get antsy and want to do something. But the still quietness of nothing outwardly happening is the place where the horse realized he was not only okay, but that he could actually feel GOOD for a change. It was the gift, the winning lottery ticket, nirvana, heaven. This moment of quiet nothing is the location of the horse's bottom line, the basis of all good horsemanship. Tom connected to the horse's MIND in this quiet moment of waiting in the silent void-that's-not-void, and is where he began the solid foundation of what was now the opportunity to become a true partnership.
While driving the long, quiet road home, tears began streaming down my face. I stopped at a light and dug around in the glove box for an old Subway napkin to catch the wet smears forming in the full day's worth of arena dust that was still on my glasses.
I was confused by the weeping and delved into my own mind to figure out what was going on. I wasn't particularly sad or frightened, so why the tears? I quickly realized they felt more like a release of old, pent-up tension than a new upset. I pulled over, covered my eyes with the damp napkin, and let them come.
I pondered the tableau of Tom and the gelding standing near each other in quiet harmony. It was so remarkably calm after 45 minutes of active confusion. I thought about my own life and how I deal with things. I pondered old jobs, bosses, friends, clubs, relationships, etc I've had and realized I'm no different than the horse. When I'm confused or cornered, I either withdraw in shame or hurt, or I lash out with rage. Both are symptoms of the same problem. I've been painfully aware that with age and a few too many uncomfortable life experiences, I've lost my confidence. I've lost my "try." I don't trust anymore. I want to hide away from the dangers of the world. I have no "safe place" to stand where I feel okay. I'm not even sure of the questions anymore.
Watching Tom work those two horses made me cry for them and for me.
I wonder if I can find a way to heal my own "try" if I learn how to help horses find theirs again? We're really no different, are we? Hummmmm
-Kris
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