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Living in-relation with horses: foundations

When I hear ‘groundwork’, I hear two things simultaneously: work on the ground and foundational work, which together require a state of being grounded. From the moment we meet our horses we are doing groundwork in this double sense. Everything we do matters – how we greet our horses, lead them, groom them, will have implications for further work, on this particular day and in future situations. We will be establishing foundations. Most importantly, we want to establish a trustworthy connection, so that wherever we might be, in whatever circumstances, our horses will trust our leadership.

Here is a story that Corey tells of an experience that brought home to him the importance of establishing this trustworthy connection, in other words, as he puts it, ‘the importance of leaving a horse feeling good every time we have an encounter with them’. Before reading this account, you might like to look again at the post I did on Corey grooming his horse, Dorothy (see ‘stillness’).

Corey:
Early in the morning, Suzi and I unloaded our horses in a grassy area towards the north end of the common. [Corey and Suzi are the herdspeople for the common.] Right there, were the 12 head of cows that we had to put in the yards, and the herd of 8 horses that live on the common were there also. They were all around us as we began saddling up at the float. Now this is where I was amazed. While I groomed Dorothy, put on her hoof boots and her saddle, she just stood there as if she was at home being saddled. Even though one of the horses, Drover, had his head and neck right over her and another one, Nulla, was very close by, Dorothy did nothing in particular – just being. She just stood there enjoying the grooming, occasionally looking around at them but with no ears back or expressions of discomfort.

As background to this situation, it’s worth noting that Drover was the most social horse in the herd. This was because his mother had been boss mare and had allowed him to mingle with all the other horses when he was a foal. Dorothy knew both Drover and Nulla because she’d been in the herd on the common in the past. We’d purchased her when she was about one and a half years old from the breeder. As she had had no handling, we kept her in the yards until she could be easily caught, and then she went out onto the common until she was ready to be started under saddle. Although she’d been in the herd, then, she’d actually never been one to allow other horses to be too close to her. So, this was a remarkable change – how she was with Drover and Nulla on this day.

Back to the grooming – I had a relaxed feeling, getting on with it, but always observing what was going on around us. Sometimes I would use the lead rope to move the loose horses away some, being careful not to make them flee. They watched me put the saddle on. Nulla moved off a little way with that, but Drover just stood right there, interested in proceedings. After saddling, I asked Dorothy to move around a bit, here and there, girthing up in-between. Then I hopped on. And she just stood there like she would at home, and I rubbed her on the neck and withers, with a loose rein – just being.

What became so interesting for me was that all the work with Dorothy at home, slow work, trying to help her relax with grooming and through all parts of saddling and mounting, it all worked a treat in a higher energy situation. She was great. It felt like she’d been in that situation many times before, but she never actually had been. And Dorothy is a strong-minded horse who can easily get braced. So, it’s that time spent early on, always helping horses let down when things are up, that makes all the difference.

We went on to move the cows towards the northern yards. Along the way, they were going right into the thick of the blackthorn scrub along the creek bed. At one point, they crossed the creek right at a place thick with scrub, so Dorothy and I had to double back to find some sort of clear, non-boggy access for crossing. After crossing, we caught up with the cows and started moving them along really nicely. There was plenty of movement but no running. In fact, the movement must have been good because one cow that had been left behind was now following Dorothy and me. Meanwhile, Suzi was riding along the road that runs parallel to the creek, ready to block the cows should they come out onto the road and double back or go up into a gully.

As it happened, the cows kept following the creek heading in the right direction, but the scrub got so thick in places that they were leaving a narrow tunnel-like pathway. So, I had to slip off Dorothy and lead her behind me, which is a great thing to be able to do with horses – it builds confidence. While she was behind me, I tried to lift and clear small branches that were too high for her and the horn of the saddle. In a couple of instances, the horn did catch on a branch which created a rush forward in her, but she never ran on top of me.

The important thing here was that after she rushed forward, I would stop and pat her really nicely on her forehead – we have established this many times before, so she really likes it. That way she was relaxed and feeling really good before we moved on. And it worked a treat because more and more she felt confident about being enclosed in thick scrub, and not rushing, and allowing me to direct her through the better ways to go.

It got so we were really working together while riding through that thick scrub, and she even started to help move branches with her head and neck. At one point, while following a cow, she twisted her head and neck to lift a 1 ½ inches thick branch, but I quietly stopped her, and we found another way to go, as she would have made it, but not me. It was a wonderful feeling, working together, doing a job together. Dorothy had done very little cow work before, and now here we were with the cows, all moving along without any bother.

Ann and Corey

With thanks to Andrew and Suzi

Living in-relation with horses: being grounded

Gardeners speak of the transformative effect of having their hands in the earth. In gardening, we connect with a life bigger than ourselves, with life-and-death cycles of plants, with earth and air, and worms and bees. But, typically, it’s the grounding experience itself that is spoken of as the moment that brings about a change in our being. Having our hands in the ground has a wonderfully calming effect, alleviating anxieties and chatter in our heads, allowing us to come out of ourselves and into relation with the world around us.

The ecological state of being grounded is essential to our capacity to connect with our horses. It is essential to calm presence and stillness. Interestingly, the metaphor most commonly used by horse-people to describe being grounded is that of a tree – we need to be like a tree for our horses, reliably there, with our feet-roots firmly planted, in connection with the environment. This is the case whether we are working ‘on the ground’ or in the saddle: in our horse-human body, we feel right down to our hoofs-feet. Acquiring this state requires slow, deep breathing, a relaxation of our shoulders, opening of our chests and hearts, and a lowering of our centre of gravity as we ‘get out of our heads’. It also involves a softening, for being grounded is a state of strength with that softness essential to our capacity to provide a safe space in which our horses can soften and relax. (For an excellent account of being grounded with horses see N. Claremon Zen in Motion, 1991.)

The tree metaphor is typically used in situations when our horses are worried or distracted, when they are ‘up’ with adrenalin and in particular need of calm trustworthy leadership. Unfortunately, it is in those situations when we most need to be grounded for our horses, that we can find it most difficult to maintain this state. For example, if my horse is worried about something, I can easily become jumpy myself, unhelpfully identifying with her, thus making matters worse for both of us. Reacting self-protectively, I might start to subtly crab away, or move my feet anxiously, or get into a rush. When riding, if, for whatever reason, I go into a self-protective mode, I’ll lean forward, hunching my shoulders and closing my chest. When in that ungrounded position I distinctly feel like a separate ‘human’ being, which tells me just how unsupported my horse must be feeling.

In challenging situations, Corey will tell me that I need to ‘dig deep’, which I take to mean ‘be grounded’ and establish those connecting roots in the depth of my horse-human being. Here is an example of a ‘digging deep’ scenario: I’m going to work with my horse Peridot, but all the horses on the property are a little unsettled by things happening in the environment on this day. Before entering Peridot’s paddock, I breathe deeply, clear my head of chatter, take care to slow down, and, allowing my weight to drop, have awareness of my feet on the ground. I imagine Peri and me happily meeting and then grooming together. With trust in the connection, rather than anticipation of difficulties, I go in to meet her.

Peridot is generally pretty relaxed, but on this day she is on alert. As I put on her halter, I invite her to soften and then stroke her. I wait till there is a little change before I walk off with calmness and confidence – ‘there’s nothing to worry about here’. We begin our grooming routine. Now grooming is always an important groundwork activity in itself. Never merely a chore to be got through before the real thing, it is crucial for establishing a trustworthy connection. On this occasion, I know that we could be grooming for some time, that, indeed, this might be all we do today as Peri is up and down with what is going on around her. When she gets distracted, I just keep the same grooming rhythm going, and keep my feet still. Eventually, she really softens, her head dropping and her eyes closing with pleasure. Together, we relax into the grooming-being groomed.

Throughout this process, Corey has been there, a calm, unobtrusive presence, grooming his horse at the same time. In this way, he supports me in maintaining a groundedness and awareness of my state of being. When both of our horses have relaxed, we head off down the hill, down the road to the ‘play’ area. To keep myself grounded and avoid getting into a rush, I take things step by step, breaking activities down into parts. So, we are just going through the gate, then, we are carefully walking down a slippery slope to get to the road, and so on. I hold expectations lightly. After doing various things on the ground – some turns and transitions – I decide that we have a sufficiently good connection for me to be able to ride her. And, I maintain exactly the same state of being as that on the ground.

When riding, if I maintain a ‘having faith’, grounded state, breathing deeply, keeping my chest open, weight down, I can feel my whole horse-human body, and the difference it makes for my horse is unmistakable. She will relax and get in-tune, rather than try to take-over or look for things to worry about out of lack of confidence in my trustworthiness. And, if I imagine-feel the placement of our hoofs-feet on the ground, I notice that she will start to take care with her-our feet, placing them carefully rather than rushing over or knocking poles or logs. In short, being grounded means that I’m better able to maintain a connection, and in a better place to respond to whatever arises. It makes us both safer.

With thanks to Andrew, Corey and Trish

Living in-relation with horses: having faith

When I lack faith, I become controlling, thinking it’s all up to me to get something done. My hunch is that this is a common experience in all domains of life, and that it is prevalent in our life with horses. The trouble is that as soon as we become controlling, we lose a connection with our horses. If, on the other hand, we have faith, we can let go of this self-centred condition and, rather than trying to make things happen, we can work with feel through a connection with our horse. In short, having faith and trusting in the relation can help us, as Tom Dorrance would say, ‘get ourselves out of the way and let it happen’ (see eg Tom Dorrance, True Unity, 1987 Pp 46-48).

One of the most common symptoms of not having faith is overthinking. One of Tom’s students describes an experience that rings true for me:

If I think too much I can’t get in there at the right time and do what intuitively I know to do, because I am being too intellectual about it. You know like this foot is here, that foot is there, which is all part of it, but if you take that much time thinking sometimes you don’t do it at the right time. … If I don’t think about feet I have a better feel.

… lots of times you get on and you go ‘Oh?’ Gosh, you’re trying real hard but the little voice inside you is saying ‘I don’t know if this is right or not?’ and that gets in your way. … It’s so easy to get bogged down in your own thoughts. (Dorrance Pp 47-48)

For me, overthinking tends to go with anticipating problems, thinking of things that could ‘go wrong’. With one or other of my horses, I might, for example, anticipate that they will push on me while I’m grooming them, or that they will rush through a gate or shy at some new thing in the yard, or that they will run on into a trot-canter transition. In such situations, I’ll be braced, thinking hard about the correct thing to do. Distracted with anticipation, I will no longer be present, and, furthermore, I’ll be holding the thought of this event in my body. Needless to say, my horse will pick up on all of this and is likely to brace herself and lose confidence in my leadership. The trustworthy connection and softness will have been lost, and the very thing that I’m trying to avoid is more than likely to happen.

The feeling of having faith is quite different from this scenario. Here’s how it feels, for example, when I have faith that my horse Pia and I can do a balanced trot-canter transition. Rather than thinking about a potential problem, or where her feet are, or when would be the right time to ask for a transition, I have a sense of quiet, calmness. ‘I’ am absorbed in the movement, feeling the rhythm of the trot in my horse-human body, down to our feet, making adjustments and offering support where it is needed, without any micro-managing. Together, we can do this. Time slows, there is no rush or running on in distraction. Then, the right moment of transition comes; with ease and balance, we, horse-and-human, tip over into a canter rhythm.

Now, of course, things mightn’t unfold like this, but it won’t matter if I am in that calm, having faith state of being. Rather than being judgemental, thinking that something has gone wrong, it’ll be a matter of interest, an opportunity for reflection. ‘In an atmosphere where the horse cannot ‘do wrong’, there is little pressure for the rider to ‘do right’. With the mind unlocked from a right and wrong vice, there is more opportunity to be aware’ (editorial note, Dorrance P 132). With awareness and presence, then, we are better placed to listen to our horse, and to allow ourselves to feel what is called for (see eg Dorrance P 26). If the trot-canter transition hasn’t gone to plan, I’ll pause, reset, breathe, and, with faith, reconnect and have another go.

I’ve been suggesting that having faith is a full-bodied relational experience which involves letting go of that human-centred tendency to prioritise our, ‘human’, thinking and, hence, control of our horses. With faith, we can ‘get out of our heads’, and, trusting in the relation, feel down to our horse-and-human feet. In other words, the embodied experience of having faith involves being grounded, whether we are working on the ground or riding. I’ll return to this theme in the next post.

With thanks to Andrew and Corey

Living in-relation with horses: practice

While everyone knows that practice is essential for developing our horse skills, it is often thought of simply as a means to an end. But, in order to really connect with our horses, we need to be present, undistracted by goals and outcomes. This is where an appreciation of practice in the fullest sense of the term can be helpful, namely practice understood as a vocation to which we are devoted. When engaged in such a practice, we have a sense of participating in something bigger, more important than ourselves. It is something that we feel we should do, that is good: this matters, it feels right. Practice then becomes a way of life and a learning without end, thus allowing us to hold our goals lightly and become immersed in what is before us here-and-now.

Establishing a vocational practice involves setting aside particular times to be with our horses. This routine structure then releases us from the debilitating effects of linear time, and alleviates a sense of the pressures of other aspects of our lives – there isn’t time for this, what about all the other things that I have to get done…. Anxiety and chatter can be left at the gate, because, for this time, in this place, I am being with my horse, and I can attend to other aspects of my life at other times. The gate, like the entrance to a sacred space, is a point of transition where we enter the presence of slow time, where we can find stillness.

When practice is a calling, we can surrender our wilful self and allow the practice to carry us. We do not have to decide on whether we should or shouldn’t work with our horse, or when would be the perfect time to practise – maybe conditions will be better tomorrow, maybe the horse will be calmer, maybe I’ll be more focussed…. Thus, we can avoid those procrastinating tendencies brought on by perfectionism. We also avoid the related getting-ahead-of-ourselves tendencies, for, rather than feeling impatience and frustration, we can accept that this is what is before us today, that whatever emerges will provide interest and learning. Letting go of self-consciousness and destinations, we can learn from mistakes and creatively try out new things, test possibilities.

By bringing us into the here-and-now, then, practice as a learning for life helps us avoid any mindless going through the motions or drilling, which will only result in disconnection. Practice encourages awareness of our state of being, of how our horse is feeling, and, importantly, of whether we are in connection. We become attuned to the similarities and, sometimes subtle, differences in each meeting with our horse. And, in each meeting, we can remain open to whatever emerges, able to ‘adjust to fit the situation’ (Tom Dorrance, Corey).

Finally, I want to note an aspect of horse practice that makes it different from, say, the practice of playing a musical instrument. In the latter case, it should be more or less possible to stick to a certain period of practice time, whereas, with horses, we have to allow for what might arise during the practice session. It is essential that we leave our horses in a good space, feeling relaxed and happy, and confident in our leadership. Consequently, the time that we have set aside might expand. However long it takes for our horse to relax into the grooming, to be curious and relaxed about first steps into a float, to feel happy and calm about having a bridle put on, that is what it takes. And, with an understanding that this is what we are called to do, we can remain flexible, present and patient, allowing time to unfold..

With thanks to Andrew and Corey

Living in-relation with horses: awareness

Throughout these posts I’ve been referring to the centrality of awareness to the development of a connection with our horses. So, it seems appropriate now to say a little more about what is involved in this relational state of being and why it is crucial to the process of learning feel.

I think it might be helpful to begin by making a distinction between awareness and self-consciousness. Writer, Annie Dillard, puts it like this:

Consciousness itself does not hinder living in the present. In fact, it is only to a heightened awareness that the great door to the present opens at all….

Self-consciousness, however, does hinder the experience of the present. It is the one instrument that unplugs all the rest. … Self-consciousness is the glimpse of oneself in a storefront window…. (Annie Dillard Pilgrim at Tinker Creek 2007 p 82)

As Dillard insists, it is only when we are living in the present that we are truly alive (p 83), and that glimpse of oneself in a shop window or imagining oneself as if in a movie, distances us from the unfolding presentness of lived experience. In a state of self-consciousness we observe ourselves, or imagine ourselves being observed, with judgement, either approving or critical. ‘Don’t I look good as I’m doing this balanced trot’, or ‘What a mess this is, I’m useless….’ When observing ourselves as an object, we are in a state of separation, abstracted from lived reality, no longer present to or in-relation with the situation before us or, indeed, ourselves. The moment that we objectify ourselves, we lose any flow that we might have been in – we will no longer be in that balanced trot. And, when things are not going so well, if we are not present, we will be unable to address whatever issues are arising. In fact, we are likely to simply distance ourselves further with distracting judgements about ourselves and/or our horse. In short, in a state of self-consciousness we are unable to respond with feel and good timing.

Unself-conscious awareness, on the other hand, involves being fully present, immersed in what we are doing, receptive, open and alive. Rather than being fixated on our self, thinking about what we look like and whether we measure up, we are in-relation with ourselves and our various states. And, instead of the hardness of self-observation, there is a softness in awareness, and a lightness. For example, I might be immersed in a trot and then I ask for a lateral movement which doesn’t seem to work, and I try harder. And then, with a light awareness, it comes to me that I have lost the connection – I have been trying to make something happen and become self-centred. In that moment of awareness and softening and relaxing, I will be back in-relation with my horse, myself, the environment. Then, instead of judging myself for having lost the connection and flow, I can accept what is, and get back into the rhythm of the trot, and try again gently, with a bodily imagining of the horse-and-human lateral movement. Awareness of our state of being, then, involves an ‘unselfing’, a letting go of the self-centred self of self-consciousness, and having trust in connection. (See post on ‘softness’.)

In recent posts, I have been describing the trustworthy holding space provided by us for our horses, and by teachers for students. Developing awareness involves an internalisation of that supportive space provided by teachers – with awareness, we are becoming teacher-and-student, receiving and responding to our own feedback. So, for example, when ‘I’ am in this state of being, Corey is, in a certain sense, with me, participating in that space of ‘internal’ dialogue: My mind is elsewhere. Gently bring it back to Pia. Pia’s attention is on that horse over there, she is needing a little more support. Smoothly pick up a feel on the rein to bring her back to what we are doing together. I’m getting into a bit of a rush here. Slow down, breathe. Becoming aware of my states of disconnection, I can let them go and come back into connection.

By letting go of, for example, perfectionism and frustration, we can instead become curious, and explore possibilities: What happens if I try this? And, in this state of being, we can find mistakes interesting, rather than signs of personal failing. So, in debriefing, reflective sessions, I might ask: How could I have responded differently? This is how learning happens, how we extend ourselves. When difficulties, of any sort, arise, Corey always says: ‘Here’s an opportunity’. The crucial thing here is acceptance of how things are with our horse, with ourselves, with our relationship, here, now. And, as Corey frequently says, ‘it doesn’t matter that you lost the connection, what matters is that you noticed it’.

With thanks to Andrew, Corey, Suzi

Living in-relation with horses: The impossibility of teaching

‘I can’t teach you anything. I can only help you learn.’ (Tom Dorrance, True Unity, 1987, P 49

Deep learning involves discovering an intuitive feel for a discipline or field, whatever it might be – maths, Italian, cricket, playing the piano, working with horses. Like all good teachers, Tom Dorrance was insistent that feel could not be acquired through instruction, the transfer of the teacher’s knowledge to the student – ‘it is not something that can be handed to someone – it has to be learned’ (Dorrance 6). While people might get something at a cognitive level, real learning only happens through full-bodied experience – ‘It’s experience, I guess’ was one of Tom’s constant refrains. Learning feel, then, is an organic process in which each student learns in their own way, at their own particular pace (6, 12, 18, 30). And, a good teacher will set aside any outcomes they might desire for a student in order to allow this learning to happen.

Clearly Tom had people coming to him with an instructional model of teaching in mind, expecting immediate solutions to problems, (usually mistakenly thought of as a problem with the horse):

Sometimes the riders will be so anxious to get going from where they are now to where they would like to be…. [they] might want to get an answer to their questions right early – on the surface. I want them to try to figure out something: I want them to work at figuring out the whole horse – his mind, body and spirit. (Dorrance 16).

Learning feel involves developing a capacity for being-with, in this case, the whole ‘horse’ with ‘our’ whole entwined horse-and-human being (see post on ‘feedback’). To help this learning process, the role of a teacher is to provide a trustworthy, supportive space where students can relax and have a curiosity about their field of interest. This is a non-judgemental space in which students feel safe to try things out without fear of failure, and to make mistakes from which they can learn. It is a space in which they can hold goals lightly, and open themselves to possibilities before them here, now.

In providing this supportive learning space, a good teacher participates with students in what Tom describes as ‘a shared experience, a willing communication’ (Dorrance 6). Rather than trying to influence or change students, such a teacher wholeheartedly shares with students their passion for their field and their love of learning. Fully present, alive and curious, they are in an entwined state of being teacher-and-student, simultaneously teaching-and-learning.

In this state of being teacher-and-student, teachers have a feel for where students are at in their learning process, and, importantly, for the right time to introduce a new challenge, or technical knowledge, which can only be absorbed when it connects with feel. Recognising the uniqueness of every student, Tom said ‘There is so much variation in the human individual that the approach has to be a little different in order to fit the person…. It depends on what the situation might be….’ (Dorrance 30):

I try to work with them just where they are, at their awareness level. Then we build from there. I want to help the person be able to approach his or her horse with acceptance, assurance and understanding…. And I try to offer the person the same (6-7).

That safe space that we are learning to offer our horses, then, has the same qualities as the trustworthy space which a teacher provides for us. Tom frequently spoke of the need to ‘think of where the horse is’ and ‘adjust to fit the situation’ (12, 30-31), and he said the same with regards to his helping people develop this capacity.

To reflect further on the complexity of this learning situation, I’ll turn now to Corey and his role as teacher of horses and people. Like Tom, Corey frequently uses the expressions ‘adjusting to fit the situation’ and ‘it depends’ when describing what is called for in being with a horse and/or being with a human who is learning how to be with horses. Look again at this photo of Corey and Dorothy calmly together in the grooming. As Dorothy easily gets distracted, it has taken time for her to learn to relax and enjoy the grooming space, but the connection established here has been a crucial building block for developing her confidence in other situations. If you look at the photo of Corey riding her, you’ll see that she is alert and relaxed at the same time, interested in her surroundings and their activities together.

Developing this trustworthy space and knowing what is called for in providing the right support at the right time takes considerable skill. If this cannot be taught, how then does Corey help us learn? When I’m having a lesson with him, I find Corey to be that calm, unobtrusive presence that he is with Dorothy. There is no rush. He helps me relax, as he does with horses, so that learning is possible. In offering us the support that we are learning to offer our horses, Corey has to have a feel for where the horse is, for where the human student is, for their relation, and for the whole environment on any particular day. In ‘adjusting to fit the situation’, Corey is, then, participating in complex feedback loops involving teacher-student-horse-environment.

In our lessons together, Corey will either be on his own, maybe sitting on the mounting block or setting up some challenge for me, or he’ll be working one of his horses. Either way, he’ll have an awareness of what is going on for me and my horse, without interfering, allowing me to get on with working out what is called for in developing a connection. He might remind me to breathe or ‘steady myself’, and then I need to notice the change that will immediately come about in my horse, the relaxation. He’ll encourage me to try things out myself, to play with possibilities, to extend myself a little, but is careful not to suggest something that might lead to a loss of confidence. With students, as with horses, he says that what he is trying to do is build confidence.

After I have been trying something out, we will pause and debrief. Usually, I’ll start by trying to work out what I think has been going on, and then Corey will offer his thoughts. Our discussions generally focus on the connection between myself and my horse, and, importantly, my state of being and leadership ability. I can rely upon Corey to be absolutely honest in his feedback, and not allow me to get away with any avoidance strategies. He is insistent that it doesn’t matter if things go well or not so well, because there is learning in it either way. And if I should start to go down the path of being hard on myself, he’ll help me lighten up and laugh and get out of myself. Then, he might make some suggestions as we head off again to either retry something, or, if necessary, return to some foundation. It depends on what is called for.

If, at any point, Corey did feel the need to step in, say if I were struggling, on the ground or in the saddle, he would not be doing so to ‘fix the problem’. Invariably, ‘the problem’ will be one of connection between horse and human, and consequently a relational issue on my part – for example, not being present, not listening to my horse, wilfully trying to make things happen. So, this can be a useful learning experience, if it is taken as an opportunity to reflect on how the situation came about, having awareness of my state of being, and being un-defensively open to learning from situations that haven’t gone so well (see Dorrance 12).

Furthermore, there can be learning, if, in watching Corey, I imagine, in a full-bodied way, the feel of his horse-and-human way of being in this situation. Indeed, sometimes Corey will think it appropriate to demonstrate something with either one of his horses or one of mine, so that I can then imagine his way of being, and, with practice, embody it in a similar situation. And, in those joyful moments when I do experience fluency, when it feels just right, he will say: ‘Did you feel that? Remember that feeling’. I need to take note and re-imagine the bodily experience of being in-tune with my horse in, for example, a forward relaxed walk, a balanced trot, a smooth trot-walk transition, walking side by side up a hill together. (See post on ‘imagination’.)

In summary, this way of teaching is all about encouraging the learning of feel with awareness, patience, and practice. I’ll return to these themes in the following posts.

With thanks to Andrew, Corey, Suzi, Vittoria.

Living in-relation with horses: stillness

In this post I want to talk about the significance of ‘stillness’ to leadership. To reiterate briefly, leadership in our relations with horses involves the provision of a trustworthy, safe space. This requires the relational capacity to be present and open, able to listen to our horses and to respond to what is called for, without being reactive or judgemental. In other words, leadership in human-horse relations, is analogous to that in teacher-student, parent-child, carer-cared for relations. In all of these, it is the relation that leads rather than an identifiable individual. A teacher is teacher-and-student, simultaneously teaching-and-learning; a student is a student-teacher, simultaneously learning-teaching. This is the logic implied when horsepeople say that our horses are our teachers. And it calls for humility on our part.

Continue reading Living in-relation with horses: stillness

Living in-relation with horses: listening

‘Listen to the horse’ (Tom Dorrance, True Unity, 1987, P 21)

Tom Dorrance was insistent that listening was the most important aspect of communication with horses. He said that, while most people start from themselves, from where they are, and try to work back to the horse, he ‘tries to listen to the horse… to feel what the horse is feeling and operate from where the horse is’. Listening, he says, is essential to the capacity to feel the whole horse inside ourselves (pp 12-14, 21), that is, to the capacity to participate in horse-and-human feedback systems (see the previous post).

Continue reading Living in-relation with horses: listening

Thank you

I didn’t know what I was going to say to you today. Only on the train, on the way in here, did it become clear. I realised that I’d been given the very thing that had to be said.

Absent-mindedly driving to work yesterday, I stopped at traffic lights. Waiting to cross the road were a mother with a toddler in a stroller. The child was turning around to engage the mother and something about the intensity of their moment shook me from my half-life. I saw them: I saw how alive they were. For them, everything in the world was unfolding from this moment together, whereas for me it was only the empty time between leaving home and arriving at work. At the corner of Darley and King Streets, Newtown, at 11.10am on Thursday 2/11/17, two worlds touched, one a half-world of befores and laters and the other a vital moment of here and now.

What came to mind, unsought, was Pieter Bruegels’s painting Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, and Auden’s poem about it, Musée des Beaux-Arts. These two have been constant reference points in my adult life. When I got my first academic job, at Macquarie University in 1984, the first and almost only decoration in my office was a print of the painting, with Auden’s poem glued to its back. Somewhat pompously, perhaps, it was to remind me of the role of sociologists: to witness the suffering that would otherwise go unnoticed. In 1989, the picture came with me to my office at UNSW, and it stayed for decades, until the foxing became too embarrassing.

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