The Seat Lesson

The Riding Seat Lesson - by Kris Garrett

I tossed and turned, the ache in my hip's stretched-out sockets keeping me from sleep. My little dog grunted as I pushed her away from my side, allowing me to turn over without accidentally squashing her flat. I felt her snuggle tight into my warm back with a sigh. Finally the mega dose of Ibuprofen kicked in and my eyes fluttered closed.

In my repetitive dream I kept seeing the dark-haired midget actor from Fantasy Island running up to me in his little white tux, pointing at my backside shouting "Da Seat! Da Seat!" I had this strange impulse to kick him.

The scene faded and suddenly I found myself in Rhett Butler's arms. He had me bent over backwards and was staring lovingly into my eyes as he growled in a low, sultry voice, "Frankly my dear, you don't have a seat..." My dream-self immediately fainted dead away....

Bright lights flashed and suddenly I was staring down the long barrel of a rather large gun! Dirty Harry sneered through slitted eyes as he muttered, "Do ya feel lucky, punk? Go ahead.. make your seat..." The gun when off, but my dream went black before the slow-motion bullet made it to my forehead.

My dream-self was freefalling through dark clouds until I landed with a thump on a bright road. A long, yellow brick road, to be exact. A smiling scarecrow with hay falling out of his ears danced up to me. He opened his stitched cloth mouth and sang in a lilting voice, "if you only had a seeeeeeeat...." I screamed.

A small Toto-like dog instantly appeared from under the scarecrow's hat, jumped on my stomach and started snapping at my face. "Seat! Seat!" he barked.

My eyes fluttered open and I found my little Schnauzer on the bed next to me, her front feet on my arm, frantically licking my chin. I pulled her close and hugged her to my chest and sighed. "There's no place like home..." I muttered into her soft, fluffy ears.

The nap didn't do it. I was still sore and tired. But I was smiling too.

You see, I had my first seat lesson yesterday. For an hour we walked in circles in the snow and mud of my largely unused round pen. My horse had been put on a lunge line and my stirrups taken away, as I began the task of relearning how to ride a horse. Sure, I've ridden off and on for 41 years now, but there are things that you forget that you don't realize that you've forgotten. It's the subtle things, like how to balance yourself at all speeds and gaits, how to maintain your center, how to recognize when your core is correct as opposed to balancing off the stirrups and/or the reins to keep yourself from falling off.

These things were once as natural to me as breathing. But now that I'm half a century old, they are no longer automatic. My body has learned all kinds of bad habits, and my sense of balance has been slowly fading away, right along with my confidence as a horsewoman.

I once was a natural rider. My first horse was a wild mustang named Lonesome who was found wandering the western slopes of the Rockies. He was two years old when I bought him. I paid $35 for him and an old bridle. Neither myself nor my parents knew anything about horses, including that you are supposed to train them before you rode them. I was nine years old and in a big hurry, so I just got on and rode. Lonesome didn't know he was supposed to buck me off so he didn't. We were both as green as a shallow pond in the middle of summer, and didn't know that we didn't know what we didn't know. I didn't have a saddle either, but my ancient, cracked hackamore that was held together with baling wire was all I needed. I didn't even know what a bit was.

I rarely bothered with shoes on myself or my horse. He had tough mustang feet and I wasn't going to be touching the ground with mine, so why bother? My usual attire was shorts and a tank-top. That's it. For years we explored the world together, galloping as fast as we could up and down the Highline Canal road through Greenwood Village and Littleton, just south of Denver. We swam together in the canal when it was full, and enjoyed running in the deep sand when it was empty. We had two speeds... gallop at full tilt, and stop.

I never thought about balance or collection or if I would fall from my horse. It just didn't occur to me to think about it. And yes, I fell off on occasion but it was rare and I was never seriously hurt. My worst injuries were from bug bites and sunburn.

When I joined Pony Club I was required to wear a helmet and use a saddle. I didn't have or want to use either one, but I did want to join the jumping debutante crowd, so I caved. When in Rome... I bought an inexpensive English saddle and bridle from the Sears Catalogue on my Mom's credit card. Yes... I had permission. I remember feeling so grown up as I filled out the boxes on the order form and mailed it in.

As promised, my saddle and bridle arrived in the mail in a big brown box. I was very excited. I got a neighbor to come over and show me how to put them on. I still have and still use both items, 38 years later. They just don't make 'em like they used to...

At first I had a very hard time keeping my stirrups. Before that I had stayed on my horse by virtue of superb balance and strong grip from my inner thighs. What I discovered was, if I lost my balance I would still grip with my thighs which pulled my feet up and out of the stirrups. I got very frustrated with this and would not use the saddle when I practiced jumping at home. I was much more comfortable bareback. It took me years to learn to keep some weight on the stirrups to keep them on my feet. I remember absolutely hating those little steel traps.

Learning contact with the reins was similarly difficult. I had never taken up contact and had never used a bit. Hackamore's worked on a completely different premise. Fortunately my poor horse was very generous with his attitude and accepted all the new tack as easily as he had accepted a totally green, horse crazy nine-year-old. Not bad for a "wild" mustang.

So, why is this history important?

I have discovered that using a saddle with stirrups and riding with contact for the past 30 or so years has slowly and almost imperceptibly taken away the thing that made me so unstoppable as a kid... my ability to be completely in balance with my horse. It doesn't matter how many lessons I take, even with the best of the best in the lessons business, I will never improve (or regain) my riding abilities until I fix my unbalanced seat.

Eric Ziegler is a teacher. It is who and what he is. Eric = Teacher = FACT He is a history teacher by trade, but that teaching ability permeates everything he does. He has a wonderful sense of humor, and a way of adding a touch of historical fact and scientific logic to his instructions. The smile on his face is genuine when he is praising the attempts his students make, even if the results are not yet quite up to par. He is never demeaning or impatient, which is a trait that many of us older women with esteem challenges value beyond anything else.

But, he took away my stirrups!!! That makes him an ogre! Then, he took away my reins!!! That made him a troll! I felt a bead of sweat break out on my lip at the thought of having NO control over my mount. What was going to happen to me? As fond as I am of Eric, or "Zieg" as his friends know him, I was not sure I trusted anyone enough to leave me sitting helpless on my horse. I was thinking how glad I was that I had renewed my insurance policy, as I resigned myself to my fate.

I'll confess, the part of me who remembered that I was once part centaur was certain this type of lesson was beneath my level of horsemanship. After all, I've been riding for more than twice as long as Eric. Heck, I've got boots older than he is! What could he possibly teach an old hand like me?

And so, once again, I am humbled.

Zieg had the great fortune of starting out riding with a Classical Master. His first hours on a horse were carefully choreographed so he never learned the wrong way to do things. His hands are as soft as a conductor's baton guiding a gentle lullaby. His seat is as steady and balanced as a high-wire circus performer on a unicycle.

Zieg's mentor's methods are older than most countries, and are founded in solid equestrian theory handed down from teacher to student throughout the centuries. These methods do NOT include how to get a bigger extended trot or how to push and pull a horse through a series of maneuvers that might result in a scrap of blue satin hanging from your browband. These methods were discovered and developed by the true centaurs of historical mankind... the ancient soldiers who's very lives depended on their ability to ride their horses well.

And so, we began. Eric put a cavasson over my bridle and attached a leadrope to my mare's nose. For my mental security more than practical use, he left my knotted reins on her neck within my grasp, even though I knew he was not going to willingly let me use them. I'll admit, it did make me feel better knowing they were there. He had me flip the stirrup leathers over my horses withers and drop my legs down straight. "You can hold on to the pommel of the saddle if you need to," he assured me. I was horrified to realize that the "tire" around my middle was not going to let my short arms reach that far. I grabbed a piece of stirrup leather instead.

So there I was, a middle aged woman who has had horses for over forty years, being led around like a six year old in a leadline class. "Why am I doing this?" I wondered. Three steps into our lesson, and I knew why.

"Nothing about riding a horse is natural," Zieg began. "Our bodies naturally want to do the exact opposite of what we must do to have a good, solid seat." He asked Lumina to walk with him in a circle . Around and around we walked the muddy round pen as they got to know each other and developed their communication. I was to just sit quietly in the saddle and feel how my body was moving. "The movements in your hips should go with the movement of the horse, like a hula dancer," he shared. The image that popped in my mind of my plump, aging body undulating in a grass hula skirt made me cringe.

Lumina is a very calm quiet horse. I value those traits immeasurably. But every time she stopped, I was pitched forward and I frantically grabbed for the reins as though she was about to bolt. I couldn't understand it! I had not realized that this was happening in my body all the time when I had stirrups to stop my forward pitch. "You must keep your weight behind your hips," Zieg repeated. "Lean back! Lean back!", he shouted over and over as he let me find my balance through the starts and stops. We were just walking and stopping, and I could barely stay on!

My body has changed. A lot. The roll round my middle would be a terrific model for a cartoon tire commercial. That's about the only use I can think of for it. I feel the roll when I ride. It changes my balance and my center of gravity. It bounces separately from the rest of my body if I bounce too hard on the horse. I am humiliated by it. I am ashamed of it. When I'm told I need to "love" my body, I scoff. I hate it. I know it is not healthy to send negative thoughts to the flesh that encases my spirit, but I just can't find it in myself to love this pudgy mess that my physical vessel has become. In fact, just thinking about it bugs me so much that I had better go get the decadent, soothing comfort of a Grande triple vanilla latte.

So, I can wait until I can get on The Biggest Loser show and have the fat beat off of me in Fatties-R-Us boot camp, or I can deal with the hand I've been dealt, and ride anyway. But if I'm going to ride anyway, I owe it to myself and my dear, tolerant horse to ride with balance and softness.

So, there I was, my fingers in a white death grip on the leathers of my stirrups as they laid over my horse's withers, praying I would not fall off into the snow and mud that was rapidly being mashed into just cold mud. Zieg asked me to perform all kinds of movements that my old body thought were insane. I did them anyway. My clumsy attempts at horseback gymnastics were rewarded with positive encouragement and a gentle push for just a little bit more from my very patient and aware teacher. He knew I was afraid and uncomfortable, and also knew that my goal to keep riding into my gray-haired years was absolutely dependant on the securing of my balanced riding seat.

My teacher told me that my new name was, "Lift Your Toe and Bend Your Knee", as he helped me retrain my leg muscles to lay quietly on the horse's sides and not brace in the non-existent stirrups. At first Lumina would jig forward when I gripped with an unfamiliar leg pressure as I bent my knee and laid my leg on her barrel. But, as Zieg demonstrated by having me consciously grip and hug Lumina's broad sides as tightly as I could with both my legs, it was not the pressure of my legs that drove her forward, but rather the on and off changes in that pressure that alerted her to change her gait. If I could just find my center, find my balance, find my SEAT, I would have quiet, relaxed legs independent of my seat, and regain what I had lost over the years; the clear communication with my horse, and most importantly, my confidence in my ability to ride.

So to Eric Zeigler, I bestow my greatest honor. that of "First Class Teacher, Extraordinaire...." I am humbled and absolutely thrilled at this experience, and plan to spend many more hours on the lunge line. I'm going to do all I can to resurrect that internal centaur of my youth. I know she is still in there, somewhere.

I may be getting old, but by golly, I'm not going down without a fight.

-Kris

The Blob

My day - from Kris

Saturdays are always busy. My job is in demand most often when folks are not at their own jobs.

Today was no exception. I had floor duty at my real estate office for half a day, first thing in the morning, and an appointment in the afternoon. John had promised to transport home a thoroughbred mare we'd just finished breeding to Teme, and then he had hypnosis clients for the rest of the day. Alex was in limbo, not sure which one of us he was going to be forced to accompany, but made it clear if it was up to him he would just stay home and play video games all day.

We were up early. John got the horses fed and drove off with the truck to get the tank filled with gas and the tires filled with air. Alex helped by feeding Teme and his mini-mare, Ripley. I was in charge of breakfast, which these days consists of "green slime" and protein powder. (Don't ask...)

While the boys were busy outside, I picked out my most professional clothes, polished my shoes, ironed my blouse, and then jumped in the shower. The blow-dryer whined as I carefully styled my hair, fluffing it just-so, adding just the right touch of hairspray so it would hold the delicate lift over my bangs. I noticed I needed a hair cut, but with a flip of the brush and a spritz of spray, I got it to look just right. A little touch of makeup and I was ready to go.

I trotted down the stairs and as I passed the open window in the kitchen, I heard a commotion outside. John was not happy. For such a gentle, quiet guy, he has a real knack for turning the air blue. It doesn't happen often, but when he lets loose it can be pretty impressive. I suppose it comes from a long career in the Army, and then another long career as a cop. Four letter words are part of the common vernacular in both of those professions. I have no idea why.

Anyway, I didn't have to spend much time analyzing to figure out what was going on. John's schedule was even tighter than mine, and a balky horse was not on the agenda. She was NOT going to get into the trailer, and in true thoroughbred fashion, she was galloping tight circles around a very frustrated and angry man.

I grinned. This was my specialty. I've yet to find a horse I could not eventually coax into a trailer. Some take longer than others, but a lifetime of practice and a dozen or so clinics had earned me some confidence in this area.

I was needed. My heart swelled two sizes.

I was dressed for success, not for loading an upset horse. To save my nice clothes, I simply donned my horsehair-covered barn jacket and buttoned it tight. I was pulling on my leather gloves as I marched out to the trailer.

"Take a deep breath, John..." I admonished, trying not to sound as condescending as I felt. "She's obviously frightened. Here, give her to me." John hung his head and gave me a sheepish grin.

"I think she scared me a little," he admitted.

It takes a secure man to admit such a thing. Both of us are pretty level headed people, but both of us tend to demonstrate anger when we are actually afraid. It is a very valuable thing to be aware of. I suspect it is something all cops learn to do...after all, you NEVER show fear on the job. It's just not done. Not to your co-workers and certainly not to the citizenry. Frankly, you don't even show it to yourself. You can't afford to. One of the advantages of marrying someone who has also been on the job is that you understand little things like that.

I took deep breath and let it out in a loud blow. In horse language, that means, "hey..it's okay. You can relax now." She heard me loud and clear. True to her predicable species, she stopped jigging, dropped her head and let me scratch her neck.

We stood there a couple seconds simply breathing together. When I thought she was ready, I asked her to take a step toward the trailer. She complied. Then I turned her and lead her a few steps away, both of our backs to the trailer door. In horse language I just said, "hey... just move toward our goal a little bit, and I will reward you with a release of stress about the whole idea." She immediately relaxed and put her attention on the new spring grass. I continued to blow with my breath, forcing the air out as loud as I could, watching as her upset visibly dissolved. At this point I was feeling quite smug.

Alex was holding the trailer door steady, watching. He looked at John and said, "She really likes grain. How about we get some grain and lead her in with it?"

As the adult, all-knowing parents, we smiled tolerantly at our only offspring and both said, almost simultaneously, "No Alex. That won't work." We'd both witnesses people try for hours to get horses in trailers using the carrot or apple on a stick idea. While it might get them closer, I'd not met a horse yet who's stomach could override their fear of that dark, confined space.

I took my time and inched the mare closer to the trailer. Every willing movement forward was rewarded with a step or two away, as a release. It was taking forever, but we had calm, cooperative progress.

Time was running out. I was getting nervous about being late. I hate being late. I mean, I really hate it. Comes from being publicly humiliated by my high school drama teacher when I was late for a rehearsal. From that day forward, at least up until motherhood changed everything, I was chronically early everywhere I went.

I was not going to be early today.

The mare was happy to munch the new grass, and was pretty calm by this time. I knew we would succeed, but I had no idea how long it was going to take. Alex looked a bit bored and tired of the whole thing. He looked at John and said, "Dad, would you hold the door?"

John took door duty, and Alex marched off toward the barn. The mare, startled at the movement, lifted her dark, lovely head. I quickly stepped forward to pet her neck, cooing reassurance to her.

At that moment, she turned her head and met mine with her fuzzy mouth. Her big horse lips gently brushed my forehead. As she pulled away, a huge blob of green horse spit stayed with me, oozing down my face and my freshly blown and styled doo. Globs of saliva quickly smeared my glasses from the inside. I was completely blinded by freshly masticated grass and mouth slime.

"ACK!" I shouted, startling the mare. One huge thoroughbred leap sideways, and we were both a dozen feet from the trailer. My hands stung through my leather gloves, but I didn't let go.

Alex came back with a bucket full of grain. I was too distracted to pay much attention as I tried desperately to clear my glasses of the frightening sticky-green slug that was trying to eat my eyeballs. Alex climbed into the front of the trailer and began to shake the bucket.

This poor, frightened mare, who, seconds earlier was too scared to get within five feet of the trailer door, marched up to the ramp like she'd done it every day of her life, put a foot on the wood planks, hesitated for about a millisecond, then stepped right in and walked all the way to Alex's outstretched offering. Her head immediately disappeared into the bucket.

John quietly closed the door behind us. I petted her for a bit, but her attention was happily elsewhere. Alex gave me that look... the one that teenagers give their parents when they first suspect that their parents may actually be idiots. I certainly felt the part.

I eased out of the trailer, John still standing guard at the door. I slipped out and he locked it closed behind me. I turned to him to talk about what Alex had just done. He looked at my face, and suddenly started turning red. He was trying SO hard not to laugh! But seeing a huge blob of green horse slime slowly oozing down your wife's forehead is apparently pretty funny. It was not so funny from where I was standing. Good for him that he was more than an arm's length away.

I was late to the office. Four minutes late to be exact. But it takes a little time to wash lime colored toxic goo from a hairdo. My hair was flat and wet as I drove 80 miles an hour down E470. A rolled down window took care of the wet, but I went from dressed for success, to dressed as a mess.

We won't talk about what I found on my freshly polished shoes when I sat down at my office desk.

I sure am glad my boss has a sense of humor....

-Kris

www.GrandPrixAndalusians.com

Goats, Flies, and Baby Horses

Flies love fresh milk. They don't care if it is spilt on a straw bale or in a meticulously washed bucket. They simply love fresh, sweet milk. Come to think of it, they like old, sour milk too. Our local flies invited all their friends and neighbors to share in the feast. Every fly within a three mile radius is dining at our house this morning.

I hate flies. I mean I really hate them. I keep wondering what impact it would have on the ecosystem if God would only grant me my one wish and make all the flies on the planet disappear. I'm talking genocide here. I should be ashamed at the thought, but I'm not.

Foals like goat milk. Neblina (Spanish for Mist or Fog as she was born in the rain), my two-week old orphan filly, likes her milk fresh and warm. She will stand next to me and my son, watching us with huge brown eyes glowing with anticipation as we milk Annie the big Nubian goat. She is very polite, and will patiently wait for us to pour it directly into her pail. She will suck it down as fast as we can squeeze it out of the goat. She will drink the powdered Foal-Lac milk too, but not with nearly as much gusto as the goat milk. Oh.. and she knows if it has been previously frozen. The frozen stuff we bought from the goat rancher is not nearly as tasty, she says. She'll drink it, but hesitantly. No, she likes it fresh and warm from the goat. She has class...

Dogs like goat milk too. Our miniature pincher lapped up a spilt puddle of milk (yes, I now know where the phrase "no use crying over spilt milk" came from) and now she, too, waits by the milking stand. You can see it on her face, hoping Annie will kick at the pail and provide her with a fresh liquid breakfast. Annie is happy to oblige, the brat! You'll hear me turning the air blue when that happens. And yes, I've even cried about it, though there is no use in doing so. At least, that's what they say. Makes me feel a little better though....

Goats like people. At least Annie the goat does. She misses her herd, and I guess I'm the closest thing to a buddy she has at the moment. She seems to love me. A lot. She cries "MAAAMAAA" really loud when I leave her. I'm sure our neighbors are just thrilled at the noise. But her cries break my heart. Makes me think of my filly's mama every time, like Annie is verbally channeling Neblina's lonely feelings... I get that heart twinge every time I think of my lost golden girl, but I'm not crying so much anymore. I hope Argo is watching me from the ethers and is approving of how Annie and I are handling her mom duties. I miss her. A lot.

Milk goats want to be milked. It must be uncomfortable when that udder gets full. We have to do it, rain or shine. There is no putting it off. Having to milk something without fail twice a day pulls the family together. Picture a young boy child, a milk goat, a little buckskin filly, and a small dog, all watching and waiting for the liquid gold as it slowly fills the pail from those amazingly large, squishy squirt guns. The milk is warm, frothy and white, full of butter fat and live enzymes. Nothing at all like the cow milk from the store. And yes, I've tasted it. I've been putting it in my coffee. I run it through a filter in a funnel and store it in an old orange Gatorade bottle. I've got a supply in my 'fridge. After a couple of days I stopped worrying about whether a fly had bathed in it first or not.

I like milk, even if it's goat milk. For five days now I've been tempted to go to the store and buy a box of surgery kid's cereal. It's been a long time since I've had the pleasure of a good bowl of sweet cereal. Cereal is no good when you can't put milk on it. I've got several boxes of stale year-old cereal taking up space in the pantry. Can't bear to throw them away, for some strange reason. We stopped drinking milk last year after finding out how bad commercial cow milk is for your body (full of hormones and pasteurized to the point it is absolutely dead....). But I can drink fresh goat milk without guilt, so maybe I can eat some cereal now. This milk is alive, and Annie is certainly not getting any outside hormones. I'd better hurry... I'm not going to do this milking thing forever.

My hands don't like milking. They are sore, both the skin and the squeezie muscles. I have to wash them over and over. They are dry, chapped, and icky looking. But, I gotta keep the milk as clean as possible, and my hands are part of that process. I would imagine Anne's teats are sore too. I feel like I'm too rough with her, but she doesn't seem to mind. Unless that is why she is kicking the pail over any chance she gets.

Milking is hard work. But the hardest part is the responsibility. I must get up early to milk the darned goat before anything else. Then do it again in the evening when I go out to feed the horses. Annie gives nearly a gallon a day, one squirt at a time. I am getting faster at it.. but it is still a lot of work. Once the baby is on adult food, it is going to seem really easy to take care of the horses. Maybe that is the gift in this. That, and a live, healthy baby filly.

I keep reminding myself that people have done this for centuries. No wonder they use to die in their late forties...

I need a nap. But I'd better go milk the goat first.

-Kris

Horses and Searching for God

Horses and Searching for God
By Kris Garrett

I’m on a roll this week. I’m going from PAP smears to God. What’s next? Politics? Oh my!

Today is Easter. Many of my Facebook Friends are posting, “He is Risen!” Wouldn't it be more correct to say, “He Rose!” or “He has Risen!”? I don't get it. I was not brought up in a classic “Christian” environment, so I don't totally understand the nuances of the wording.

Both my Mom and Dad had grandfathers who were Christian ministers. One Lutheran and one Methodist. These were hard-core, fire and brimstone kind of guys. They pounded their respective pulpits and made God into a very scary entity who must be obeyed without question, or else. I believe this is why neither of my independent-minded parents had a passion for religion. They got scared out of faith very young, and did not want to put their own children through that kind of trauma.

My mom got interested in Metaphysics back before it was cool. It was labeled “occult” back then and was very hush hush. You simply didn’t tell people you meditated or read books that were “channeled” by “entities.” You didn’t want to be labeled, one of (GASP) thoooose...

My Dad is a scientist who doesn’t believe in anything he can’t see, touch, or hear. He was too busy working in the darkest side of the human world to be bothered with invisible Spirit beings.

But me? Well, since I can remember, I have felt this need, this empty place, that I suspect a deep belief in God might fill. I took every religion class offered in high school. I’ve visited every denomination of church I could find in the big city of Denver (which is a lot of churches, by the way). I have a whole bookcase full of books on philosophy, spirituality, and the world’s religions. I even took a few classes at a well known “cult” church, to see what all the fuss was about. (Be afraid! Be VERY afraid!) I’ve been searching most of my life, but I’ve not yet found my mustard seed of faith.

I’m envious of people who have real faith in God and/or Jesus. I see the strength it gives them. Two of my favorite horse trainers have that kind of faith in their lives. They are secure in their Christianity. Observing the confidence they have in these invisible Beings makes me wish my parents had exposed me to religion back before I became so darn analytical. Maybe if I had been exposed young enough, I would now have true Faith in my heart.

But I would be lying or pretending if I said I fully believed the story of Jesus as written in the Bible. I WANT to believe, but I can’t pretend that I actually do. It all feels like human on human manipulation, and a big fib told as a means for male dominated, ego based control.

So, what does this have to do with horse training?

Last week I got rattled when a huge unexpected bill showed up in the hands of our roofing contractor. Panic set in. As often happens to me when confronted with money issues, I was immediately dizzy and sick to my stomach.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I tossed and turned, wishing once again that I believed in a god or spiritual entity who would handle this situation for me. I felt so alone and confused. I alternated between anger that we were being conned, and horror that I may have made a mistake and missed some fine print.

Through the jumble of thoughts, a vision of Tom popped in my mind. I visualized him holding a lead rope with a calm, quiet, relaxed horse on the other end. In my mind I heard him say, “the horse is looking for a safe place to be. That’s all he really wants. He’s okay when he’s in a place where he believes he can relax, knowing confidently that his leader is taking care of things.”

I pulled up the covers and snuggled my sleepy little dog a bit tighter to my chest. I thought about how it must feel to have true faith in God or Jesus Christ. Perhaps that “safe place’ the horses are looking for is the same kind of thing people yearn for. Perhaps that’s why religion was invented to begin with. People who really believe, people who find a place of safety in their religion or Faith, must not worry the way I do. Horses find this assuring mental space by giving their worries to their trusted leader, be it horse or human. Once again, I realized that we are no different. Horses and humans have the same need.

I closed my eyes and mentally apologized to God for not being sure I believed in Him. I decided I would pretend for a moment that I actually did. Knowing full well that I was acting, I pretended that God cared. I pretended that God would handle this situation. I pretended I was safe.

Remembering Tom’s words, I created a safe “place” in my mind. I visualized a giant purple flower that was so big I could stand in the center. The petals represented God’s safety and protection. I imagined the flower pedals lifting and closing up around me in a soft, loving embrace. I stood still in the middle of the flower and envisioned a cocoon of warmth and love surrounding my body. I pulled the covers in a bit tighter. I pretended that this was my safe, God protected place. Nothing could harm me. Nothing could get in. Soon, I was sound asleep.

The next day, John and I went to Village Inn for lunch. We ran into our old friend Wally. Wally was visiting with a sad looking young man, I suspect was a counseling client. We hugged, I said hi to his companion, and left him to his work.

Wally and I went to the police academy together back in the 80’s. He 's the only former cop friend I've kept in regular contact with. He’s a very unique and social fellow who knows just about everyone in town. It’s impossible not to like him.

One of Wally’s purposes in life is to help fellow alcoholics. He’s been an AA sponsor for decades, and has a long history of success. He's proud of his sobriety and loves helping others. He’s so good at supporting people in emotional pain that about a third of his clients have no connection to substance addiction at all. They just need kind, effective help.

About half way through our lunch, Wally said farewell to his companion and sat down at our table. We caught up on old times and new. We talked about my brother’s challenges with alcohol, and I lamented the anguish this problem causes my entire family. Wally looked at me and said, “I finally figured it out. People don’t have an alcohol problem, we have a Spiritual problem.”

I felt my eyes go wide. For the first time, I got it. I realized my brother has the same problem I do. My brother and I both have a Spiritual problem. He doesn’t have “Faith” any more than I do. He has no safe place to be. He has no Greater Power to whom he can hand over his struggles. He has no Leader he can trust. Like me, he feels all alone. It doesn’t matter that we’re around people -good, loving people- all the time, we’re STILL ALONE. Anxiety has ruled his life, just as it always has my own. The only difference is, my brother anesthetizes himself and fills that horrible, frightening void with beer. I do it with food.

I sat there staring at Wally, not sure how to ask for more information. How do you solve a “Spiritual” problem? Moving my feet, going on a church search, reading more books, and paying a gaggle of “gurus” for insight, has broadened my mind but has not solved the real problem.

So I end this blog, still asking that question. Is there a Greater Power, and does He care about me? How can I convince myself to believe in a loving, personal “God”? I’ve spent hours talking about this with my dear friend (and trainer) Melanie. I listened with rapt attention as she describes her personal relationship with Jesus Christ and her unshakable Faith in the Holy Spirit, hoping a little will rub off on me. She’s always patient with my questions and never judges my inability to simply Believe.

I don’t know how to fix this problem. I can’t intellectualize it away. I can’t expect my mind to be changed by other people’s experiences and convictions. I need God to put me on the end of His lead rope and move my feet. I need to know He’s got my back. I need to be so confident in His ability to keep me safe that I can drop my guard and take a breath. I need to know I am protected. I desperately want to believe, without any hesitation or doubt, that He is REAL.

Perhaps, someday…

-Kris

Horse Training and PAP Smears

Horse Training and PAP Smears
By Kris Garrett

If you’re a guy, you might as well move on to someone else’s blog. You’re not going to “get” this.

If you’re a woman of a certain age, you’ll get it. Read on. And yes, I really did title this one, “PAP Smears.”

What the heck does horse training and a pelvic exam have in common? More that you might think. Perhaps I found a connection because my mind is still cooking what I’ve learned from Tom this week. Whatever the reason, his horse training concepts are coating everything in my life like cold winter ice on the branches of a pine tree.

There are few things more unpleasant than submitting oneself to a PAP smear. I personally have a phobia of the procedure. So much so that I’ve not had one since my son was born, and he’s a couple of months away from being able to legally buy whiskey.

I wasn’t sure where my phobia came from until today. I’m not feeling well, and I finally submitted my name to a doctor’s scheduling book. On the way to the doc’s office, an unwanted memory cracked through the wall of my resolve and left me shaking and nearly in tears. I wasn’t kidding when I begged John to turn the car around and take me home.

It was thirty years ago. I was young and brave and determined to save the world. It would be many years before for my rosy-colored glasses were to be cracked beyond recognition. I was going to make a difference. I wanted to be important. I was going to do something that mattered.

I was good at taking employment tests, and was offered jobs by three police departments at the same time. Aurora P.D. was first on my list, so I showed up at Aurora Presbyterian Hospital for my pre-hiring physical, very fit, excited, and ready to go. Thirty years ago women cops were as rare as buckskin Andalusians so it was not surprising that people stared. Back then, even other officers stared. The waiting room stank with testosterone from the fourteen male recruits as they gaped at the one female recruit walking to my place in line. I turned my attention inward and ignored them.

The Doc must have been former military. He marched in all serious and ramrod straight like a drill sergeant. He shouted out names and broke us into groups like we had just arrived for boot camp. One group was to get chest x-rays. One group was to get blood drawn. One group was to get a treadmill ECG test. Once done, we would then switch. He walked down the line of nervous young cop wanna-bes, handing out medical orders printed on yellow paper.

Then he came to me. “Hummm..” he hummed, brow pinched. “I guess you should have a breast exam and a PAP. You want me to do it, or do you want a female nurse?”

“Ah…uh a nurse, I suppose,” I stammered. I was not prepared for this. Treadmill, sure. Blood, sure. But spread-eagling to a total stranger had not been on my mental agenda for the day. But I was young, determined, and mentally tough, so I buried my angst and squinted my eyes to a single narrow slit. I could do this. I’d just suck it up and deal with it. I’d prove to them that I was as tough as any guy. I’d be a “man” about it.

I was pulled from the line and led to an exam room just off the waiting room. The foot stirrups poking out of the front of the table made it look like a medieval torture rack. My breath stuck in my throat. I pushed my anxiety a little deeper into my body.

”Take your clothes off and I’ll send in a nurse,” the Doc demanded as he stuffed my file in the plastic holder on the door. I found a too-small gown on a shelf and slipped it on over my nakedness. I could feel sweat running down my bare sides, even though I was shivering cold.

A woman walked in, introduced herself, and told me to lie back and put my feet in the stirrups. With a gulp of air, I promptly did as ordered. She quietly poked and prodded while I stared at the ceiling counting the little holes in the tiles. I was trying hard not to hold my breath. Suddenly, without a knock or warning, the exam room door popped open. I didn’t mean to squeal when I saw the Doctor standing in the doorway, my knees framing his surprised face. Behind him was one of the groups of young police recruits, several with virginal eyes popping out of their heads. “Oops. Sorry,” the Doc muttered as he quickly closed the door.

I went numb. I was so horrified, I refused to even think about what had just happened. I stuffed the humiliation deep inside my mind where I didn’t have to feel it. I clasped a chastity belt of steel over my reeling psyche. In a few minutes I’d have to stand in that line again, face those men eye to eye, and I could not afford to show that I’d been damaged. I had to stay anesthetized to my shame. I stopped caring if I held my breath or not.

I don’t recall the rest of the day. Not one minute of it. I know I passed all the tests, but when it came time to pick a job, I did not pick Aurora. I picked less money, less prestige, and a lousy retirement plan, but I picked a place where my face and my private parts were unknown.

Thirty years later, I still can’t bear the thought of being hung in a doctor’s exam table stirrups. Even going through childbirth and all the unavoidable exams and drama that entails did not acclimate me to that most vulnerable of positions. I’d rather be dragged through the desert cactus from a dangling saddle stirrup attached to an angry wild mustang. Cervical cancer is less frightening to me than a PAP test. For two decades I’ve simply refused to submit.

So what does this have to do with horse training?

With my dear hubby holding my hand, I made it to the Doc today. I was x-rayed and ECGed and poked and prodded. When the young, dewy skinned nurse asked how long it had been since my last PAP, I blushed. “Oh, about twenty years or so.”

“Well, we should make you an appointment for that,” she said through a smile as she checked off something on the chart. “Our nurse who does that will be here next Monday.”

“I thought that was part of today’s exam,” I stammered, feeling a sense of both panic and relief. I had been dreading that part of the exam for weeks, and now I just might be off the hook. But, that meant another wait, and another week of dread.

“Oh,” she replied. “I guess I can do it. I have time today,”

Panic returned. I steeled myself. “Okay, let’s get this over with.” I knew if I left without getting the test, it was not likely that I’d be seeing her pretty smiling face again. Ever. One doctor’s visit a decade was my limit.

What I didn’t’ realize until we began was that she was as nervous as I was. She was shy and hesitant with her verbal requests and her physical movements. She fumbled with the instruments. She asked me over and over if I was okay, as though she was not sure that she was okay. She moved excruciatingly slow, like a predator sneaking up on its prey.

When we finally got to the point where I was counting holes in the ceiling tiles, I realized that this must be how horses feel when the person who’s supposed to be in charge is nervous and unsure. I had accepted that the nurse was in charge, I gave her power over my body, she had me in a completely defenseless position, and SHE was the one who was afraid. It was sheer torture.

Her angst was amazingly contagious. I wanted to get up and leave. I wanted to kick her in the head with my naked foot and take back my personal space. I held my breath and counted holes, losing count over and over. Her hesitation and insecurity really scared me. Did she actually know what she was doing? What if she did something wrong? Did she have any clue what was going on down there? I found myself wishing that she was stronger, would move faster, and yearned for her to demonstrate some confident decisiveness. Only then could I trust her to take care of me.

As I lay back in that most vulnerable of positions, I gave up counting holes in the ceiling and closed my eyes tight. I floated away to another place and time, far from pokes and prods and cold metal instruments. I thought about my horse Feldspar and how nervous he got if I took him away from home. I remembered that I was always nervous too, away from the safety and familiarity of our private arena. Perhaps if I had been stronger, more decisive in my actions, more assertive in my commands, he’d have felt like I knew what I was doing, Perhaps if I’d had some self-confidence, it would have rubbed off on him.

I was a street cop for ten years. I was afraid, plenty. I won’t deny it. But I learned real quick not to show it. I got really good at stuffing how I felt. I had no idea how much damage that was doing behind the strong brick emotional wall of my mind, but that’s another story for another time. My job was to be the safe harbor in the storm, the rock, the one the public could count on to make it all okay. When I was in uniform I was the very symbol of safety, security, and protection. And people in trouble clung to me like a lifeboat in a hurricane.

It became more than just pretending to be brave. After a few years and some pretty intense successes, I WAS brave. My confidence grew with each triumph over evil. My self-assurance rose with each victory over the bad guys. Even being shot at (he missed) and then catching the guy myself as he tried to run, made me feel strong and absolutely invincible. For a while, I felt like I was WONDER WOMAN! I could do anything!

Could I find a way to be that again, only this time for my horse? Could I resurrect the cop-me to be present for my four-legged friend, or had age and too many disappointments and failures killed off that brave young woman?

Surely that part of me is still alive somewhere deep in my psyche. Surely I can mentally put on my make-believe gun and my pretend bullet-proof vest and take charge when my horse feels threatened, be it real or imagined.

In the mean time, my once every two decades PAP test is done. My heart indicates I’m going to remain on this side of the grass, at least for a while longer. Now I just need to work on making that grass a bit greener so I really WANT to stay on this side of the roots. I believe that will require the presence of horses.

-Kris

"I See," Said the Blind Man

“I See,” Said the Blind Man….
By Kris Garrett

One of my many part-time jobs is helping Olympic Dressage Coach, Jane Savoie, with the “Expert Interviews” for her Dressage Mentor membership site. www.DressageMentor.com My work as host of The Wow Factor Radio’s “Hoof Beat” show led to this job of interviewing interesting horse people from all over the world. It’s great fun.

Yesterday I interviewed a dressage rider in West Virginia with a very interesting challenge. She’s totally blind. Has been since birth. That doesn’t stop her from riding. She shared that horses figure out pretty quick that she can’t see. Trail horses don’t have too much trouble being responsible for where they’re going and adapt to her challenge fairly easily. But dressage horses, used to being guided every step of the way, are a different story. How does one ride a detailed test pattern in an arena when you can’t see where you are, let alone where you want to be?

The answer is “Living Letters.” A person stands at each letter and calls out the letter, one movement prior to the rider heading that way. Yes, there's even someone in the middle of the arena, standing at the invisible X. It’s not easy, being a letter. You have to understand the test so you know when to call out your letter, and have to keep your voice and location consistent.

"Often people, especially non-horse people, back up when the horse gets close to them. Since I’m locating the letter by sound, it makes me change direction,” Marcia Springston shared while we chatted on the phone. People also unconsciously lower their voices when she gets close. That makes her think she’s father away from them than she really is.

Marcia told me that she started out with a young Arabian. She adored the horse, but he was very spooky and bucked her off on a regular basis. I thought about what I’ve learned from Tom, and found that I wasn’t surprised. A sensitive Arabian who understood he was responsible for seeing for both himself and his rider, was bound to be hyper-vigilant and flighty. He’d naturally take over the leadership role in their "herd" of two. If there was a tiger in the forest about to leap out and eat them, it was his job to spot it and get them both out of harm’s way. That attention to what was happening outside of the ride was bound to show up as spooking. I had to agree when Marcia commented that she’d probably have been better off with a quieter breed of horse.

Marcia practices on her own by putting a radio at each end of her arena. She can tell where she is by the level and direction of the sound. She catches her horse by leaving a thin leather (so it will break if caught on something) halter on all the time. It has multiple jangling metal rings that make enough noise for her to hear and zero in on her horse’s location. Even so, her horse has learned how to hide from her by being very still. It’s become a game. Who says horses don’t have a sense of humor?

I enjoyed our chat and hope to meet Marcia someday. I admire her pluck and determination. She didn’t let a huge challenge stop her from doing what she loves. Makes my weight issue seem pretty minor. I hope I can learn to be more like her.

-Kris

It Depends

It Depends…
By Kris Garrett

“It Depends…” are words that live in a world of gray. The left-brained, analytical side of me hates gray. Black and white makes sense and is easy to visualize. Black and white represents yes and no, good and bad, always and never. But gray? Well, it depends….

I asked Tom a lot of questions yesterday. Too often his answer was, “it depends.” It got to be somewhat of a joke, so a snicker and a grin often preceded his words. I found myself giggling just about the time my question left my lips, instantly knowing what two-word answer was about to be floated back across the arena dust.

When the skills you’re hoping to learn depend on so many diverse factors, they can be tricky for the mind to grasp. I figure that’s why, after watching Tom work horses for several months, I’m just now starting to comprehend the big picture regarding what he’s been trying to get me and his other clients to understand about the minds of our four-legged friends.

A few dozen horses and a tall stack of videotapes later, I’m just now starting to truly recognize the power of his work. And I really do mean just starting. The more I learn, the more I realize that I need to learn. I’m a novice, a baby, a slab of cold wet clay waiting to be molded. I humbly admit that hanging out with horses on a daily basis for the past 45 years has not made me a true horsewoman. But at least now I know that I don’t know. I grovel at my Master’s feet. My cup is empty.

There is no better, and in reality, no other, place to begin.

Predator and prey. Those words are fairly black and white. Horses are prey animals and humans are predators. No secret there. But how does a human predator step fully into the mind of the prey animal so we can understand what they are thinking? Many people believe they can do this through the intellect. Our big human brains have enough computing power to analyze the evidence and figure out, almost without fail, how a horse is going to react to the specific stimulus we offer. Many people call this “whispering,” and have hung their shingle on the doorway of understanding without fully entering the building.

At my encouragement, a good friend agreed to let Tom help her with her lovely and very sensitive half-Andalusian mare. I could tell my buddy was a little hesitant, but she trusts me and let me set it up. I promised to film the event, no charge. Just let me be there.

I figured her concern might be because Tom is not a dressage rider and has no “level” or fancy credential attached to his name. He doesn’t fit her usual mold of “horse trainer.” He’s a quiet, self-assured eastern plains rancher, usually found in a dusty feed store baseball cap and blue jeans. He prefers the company of mules to that of horses. I assured her there was little chance that Tom would actually ride the horse so there was no worry that he didn’t understand her style of training. Riding was not the point.

I’ve known this gal for over ten years, and I have always been impressed with her riding skills. She’s had tons of formal instruction in dressage and jumping, as well as the natural sensitivity that allows her to be light with her hands and kind to the horse. She rode my horses for many years, helping me keep them fit while her own were still at her folk’s ranch, a mountain range away. My Andalusian mare, Lumina, consistently trotted up to the gate whenever her car pulled into the driveway. This spoke volumes to me. If my horse liked to be ridden by her, she certainly had passed the hardest test I could offer.

It‘s clear to me now that good technical riding instruction and years in the saddle do not always equate to a good equestrian experience. The lovely and talented mare my friend recently purchased has had tons of training, but like so many Iberian horses, is incredibly sensitive. Educated hands and a quiet seat are not enough for a hyper-alert horse like this. More lunging or roundy-round the arena kicking up dust at an energetic trot is not going to make things better. Neither was sending the mare off to another trainer. No doubt, the horse would benefit from more hours under saddle and come back with more knowledge, but more of the same kind of training was not going to fix the dangerous crack in the foundation of my friend and her mare's personal relationship.

The first issue to be healed requires building a strong bridge between the pair's very dissimilar minds. That bridge, that understanding, is the basis for everything else. It’s personal. It does not automatically transfer from one person to the next. Another trainer teaching the horse what kind of nice feeling horse/human relationship was possible, was worthwhile and invaluable. But my friend also needed to reestablish her own position in the relationship. Without that, another trainer’s work would be almost useless.

“She’s a piece of popcorn ready to pop,” Tom explained as he held the end of the long leadrope, the float of the rope lying quiet on the ground. His personal energy and his calm voice was as low and relaxed as he could make it. The mare was stock-still in her body, but her eyes were wide and concerned. She was frozen with tension. Tom knew she could blow at any minute, and in any direction.

Tom had watched my friend handle her horse before touching the leadrope himself. She moved the horse’s feet, backed her up with a side-to-side shake of the rope, Parelli-game style, and calmly moved the mare’s hind-end away with a waving hand, pivoting around the front legs in a decent turn on the forehand. When she stopped, the mare walked up close and nuzzled her chest. My friend stroked the mare’s soft nose contentedly, a smile on her face. Obviously they had great affection for each other. My heart swelled at the touching tableau, recalling my own moments of snuggly affection with my beloved horses.

Tom praised my friend for her clarity of the requests. But I knew what was coming next. I’d heard it before. “Your horse just ran over you…” he’d begin. While he didn’t mean it literally, he did mean that the mare’s thoughts, her energy, had just figuratively trampled over my friend. She was clearly in my friend's "space." When that mind-set was accompanied by a startle or spook, the horse’s thousand-pounds of flesh and bone most likely WOULD go right over the top of my pal. And for us fragile humans, that could mean severe injury and even death.

Tom took the leadrope and began the process of establishing his own personal space. He didn’t do so by become overly protective of himself as much as making a clear decision in his own mind where his space started. If she crossed that line, he asked her to leave by creating energy or "pressure." When she moved herself outside that space, all pressure from him stopped. If she moved toward him and got in his space, he used just enough energy through his body and the leadrope to make it uncomfortable for her to stay. “She always has the option to leave…” he’d say, over and over again when the horse took a step toward him. “…but she must leave going AWAY from me. And I have to give her enough rope to do it.”

Teaching the horse that he or she always has the option to leave is one of the first foundational pillars of the mind-bridge. Knowing that there’s always a way out that fits the prey animal’s innate need to flee, establishes and cements that first keystone of trust.

A hungry wolf would not give the struggling mustang, held tight in his bloody jaws, the option to leave. It would hold on tight and try to make the horse stay in one place until it was dead. If fight and flight are both denied the horse, he’s either going to have to shut down in shock and “die”, or explode beyond the predator’s ability to maintain control.

Tom calls the ability to leave the “door” in the “box.” We put our horses in the “box” when we ask them to let us ride them or otherwise control them. The simple act of picking up a foot to clean it out is a type of putting them in the “box.” We take away a leg, and therefore diminish their ability to flee. We confine them in a box with our reins and seat when we ride, asking them to give up control of their bodies to our every whim.

To the horse’s mind, a “door” that allows him the ability to flee must be left open for him to tolerate and submit to our control. Once he realizes that his natural desire for flight is always an option, the beginnings of trust in the human handler take root. The presence of the door is the very thing that gives the horse the ability to not actually need to use the door at all. This perceived trustworthiness demonstrated by the handler is what gives the horse the security to willingly stay in the box.

Some horses live in the box easily. They rarely, if ever, challenge their rider or handler’s control. But sensitive, insecure horses, like the one my friend now owns, become worse and worse as the box tightens in around them. Harsher bits, tie downs, increased feelings of confinement, and abusive physical punishment only exacerbates the problem. These sensitive horses often end up being sold again and again, many times leaving a long line of injured and frustrated owners in their wake.

When these sensitive horses learn that being in the box can feel good, comfortable, and safe, they have the potential to be the lightest, most exceptional of equine partners. As Tom said to my friend as he stroked the mare's soft brown neck, "This is a nice horse. She's worth the time...."

The mare Tom had at the end of his rope HAD to know that she could leave. The option to escape the human imposed box had to be obvious to her, or she would continue to escalate to her much more dangerous “fight” behavior. At this point, in her mind, she had no other options. Flight or fight. That’s it. Once she realized she could flee anytime she had to, her mind would then relax enough to open to a third possibility. Only when she knew that she had the ability to escape could she calm her need for self preservation enough to confidently choose to hand over the leadership role to someone else. Our goal as equestrians is to be that "someone else." My friend has to being the strong, trustworthy leader whom the mare believes can keep her out of harm's way.

So if she became over-faced and had to leave, Tom let her. By letting her leave when she needed to, Tom assured the mare that she was not trapped. She was able to keep her mind relaxed enough to continue to function, and she was able to learn how to make good choices.

Leaving doesn’t mean running away and going back to the barn, it means leaving the immediate energy of the stressful situation. Tom couldn’t physically stop a thousand pound animal anyway, so why set up a fight he was sure to lose? If the horse continues to leave to the point he or she hits the end of the long leadrope, Tom does not let go of the rope, he simply redirects the horse’s body and changes the direction the horse is going. The horse may be going in a circle around Tom, but in the horse's mind, he's still leaving.

Tom may let the horse hit the end of the rope hard, but he doesn’t pull back and hold the pressure. This would create a brace or a fight. He may draw hard on the rope to turn the horse’s head so the horse changes direction, but then he releases the pressure and lets the animal do whatever it takes for the horse to satisfy his need for movement. This adrenaline release lets the horse calm down on his own terms. When he’s ready to look for another option, Tom is still there, quiet and consistent. Tom never snubs the horse tight or demands that he or she stay. He lets them out the “door.”

There is one rare black and white rule to this door-in-the-box. The horse can jump and kick and blow off adrenaline with as much activity as needed as long as the energy is going AWAY from Tom’s personal space. If the horse comes at Tom, he makes himself big by raising his hands and flapping leadrope toward the animal to say, “Not toward ME!” He uses his own body language and energy as loud as necessary to change the horse’s direction. Like one horse kicking another, Tom might even smack the horse with the end of the rope if necessary.

“I’ll be just as rude to the horse as he is to me,” Tom says. “It may look big and scary, but I have no interest in beating up on the horse, I just want to direct his energy away from my space. He can go any other direction, just not toward me. I make this very clear. I don’t lie to the horse and let him trample me one time but not the next. I’m honest with him. I never lie.”

Eventually, the signal to the horses that says, “you’re in my space, move away please” is as subtle as a blink of Tom’s eye or a raising of the energy in his body. Sometimes he lifts the leadrope an inch, changing the weight of the float in the rope. All of these messages are a type of “pressure” that require the horse to think about a response. The smaller the effective signal, the “lighter” the horse.

Never does Tom take up contact with the halter and physically push the horse way. “The horse has to be responsible for the decision to move. I don’t move the horse. I give the smallest signal I can to tell the horse to move away from the pressure, and stop asking the moment he decides to do so.”

In the beginning, it rarely looks “light.” The horse may not know what to do other than run away. And that’s okay as long as it’s away from Tom’s space. Once the horse uses up the flight adrenaline, Tom goes back to asking him to move his feet to reestablish leadership. He “speaks” in the horse’s own language, which is “he who causes the other guy’s feet to move, is the leader.”

Of course, Tom doesn’t always get the answer he’s asking for. He doesn’t make a big deal about it, he calmly starts over wherever they left off. When he does get the answer he’s looking for, he stops asking and waits. That complete stop of pressure creates the magical moment of nothingness where the horse decides to change. More often than not, the horse begins to lick and chew. This quiet moment free of pressure is where learning really occurs. A lot of time is spent in this place of stillness as the horse “bakes” the new information in his mind.

It doesn’t take long before the horse realizes that it feels safer and more comfortable to simply give leadership to the fellow at the other end of the leadrope than it does spending his valuable energy being hyper-alert and reactive. Tom teaches the horse to FEEL CONFIDENT in him, and therefore safe in letting that him fill the role of dependable leader. His directions are clear and consistent. It’s the very best kind of carrot one can offer a prey animal.

A horse who’s trained though fear, force, and suppression of his fight or flight instincts will almost never become a true partner. We’ve all seen those numb, glassy-eyed horses who’ve been forced into submission by violence and domination. They may seem quiet and safe to the untrained eye, but the energy of fight or flight is never truly extinguished. Having submitted and shut down as a way to survive the intense pressure applied by humans is only temporary for most of these poor beasts. If they wake up enough to spot an opportunity that reignites their natural instincts to fight or flee, they can become the most dangerous horses of all. These numb, equine-robots just might be tightly packed kegs of dynamite, waiting for a match.

Tom patiently taught the mare that there was a good-feeling place to be. Then he asked my friend to take over. The horse obviously liked my friend a great deal, but she just as obviously didn’t respect her as her leader. Not owning that respect caused the mare to lack confidence in her human partner’s ability to keep her safe. So, like any good herd member, she took on that role herself, becoming more and more hyper-vigilant to protect them both. This looks like spooking and overreacting to the human partner, but it was simple herd survival instinct to the horse.

The realization that our horses don’t respect us tends to hurt us humans, as lack of respect equates to rejection to our human “predator” minds. But to a horse, it’s simply a matter of herd hierarchy and perceptions of safety. Someone needs to be the leader, and if the human is not up to the job, the horse is going to take over.

I watched through my camera lens as Tom and my friend took turns “talking” to the mare through alternating requests of movement, and releases into quiet stillness. I could tell my friend was a bit overwhelmed by the shear volume of information she’d been challenged to understand in a short couple of hours. I felt her pain. That’s why I’m videoing Tom any chance I get.

He’s not so sure this work will translate well to being shared in books or videos, because each situation and each horse is so different. There’s no pat answer or black and white response that fits every circumstance. “It depends…” is much more common a remark than, “this is what you do…”

But after a lifetime of frustration that’s left me wondering where I went wrong with my own imperfect interactions with horses, I’m not about to let this information go unshared. Tom was very resistant at first, but my friend Melanie and I turned up the pressure and convinced him that not sharing his work was unfair to all the misunderstood horses in the world.

Tom may hesitantly tolerate my desire to create media with which to share this work, but he’s certain he’s not interested in being put in a box. He doesn't call what he does "natural horsemanship" or "horse whispering." He wants no label. He doesn't want to be famous or care about making big bucks. He has a small, loyal following that I suspect is about to get much larger. But I'm respectful of his modesty and I make sure I leave a door wide open where he can stop my camera from rolling at any time. And that open door is why he continues to let me follow him from horse to horse, watching, filming, and learning.

Will this collection of “Tom” videos I have stacked on my desk be available to everyone someday? Well, that depends…








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