For no particular reason

Since I'm so new at this and since my good friend Dawn likes WordPress, I'm changing blogging environments. No problems with Blogger at all. I do admit to enjoying the look of an add-free blog, even though advertisements about making money with blogs got my attention (but in an ironical sort of way -- there's no money I can make by babbling about horses at this point in time).

So I've jumped over to:

www.riderone.wordpress.com

Please feel free to follow along.

In My Ideal Stable

In my Ideal Stable, the birds fly quietly and invisibly, getting on with their bird-life which presumably includes the devouring of bugs. They swoop, yes, because they are birds and they have the right to swoop, but they do not flutter in a way that spooks the horses. They call to each other but without making a ruckus. They snatch bugs out of mid-air and their young signal their hunger only by opening their beaks. The parents, with their amazing eyesight, see the open-beaked babies and hurry to feed them grubs and what-not. The horses have no idea any of this is going on and so they trot on, blissfully unaware of flying things in the eaves and rafters of the barn.

In my Ideal Stable, all of the people using the ring are polite. They display their politeness with style and a gracious formality. All of them, every single one of them, calls "Door!" in chiming tones to announce their imminent arrival into the ring. Every single one of them does this without being taken aside for a stern talking-to. They do this even if they think this rule doesn't apply to them, really. There are no surprise entrances, the type that are announced only by the impetuous whinnying of a stallion who has been cooped up too long and the subsequent prancing into the ring by that same stallion (no matter how pretty he is, no matter what a tough nut his rider might be) in such a manner that discombobulates both the Friesian and the person riding the Friesian (they were there first anyway).

In my Ideal Stable, there is one loving and affectionate cat per person. Cats may sleep on saddles not currently in use and cats may use the office equipment. Long-distance calls are discouraged. Goats clean up after themselves after using the Fax.

In my Ideal Stable, there is always hot water for tea. Coffee will be considered. Pastry is mandatory.

My Ideal Stable is stocked with antihistamines.

In my Ideal Stable, Management (or its deputy) is on the ground at least half the day, dispensing courtesy and good wishes in a manner that puts people on their best behavior without having to think about it.

In my Ideal Stable, doors do not bang with the wind or swing wildly on hinges, all of the stall doors work, strolling players are invited to serenade the animals with lutes, and a breakfast trolly runs at 7:00 a.m., 9:30 a.m. and 10:45 a.m. There is toast on Wednesdays with three different kinds of jam and whipped butter.

My Heart Leaps Up

When I watch a kid riding, I get taken out of myself. I'm full of happiness in a great, basic, rock-bottom sort of way. There's nothing goopy going on here, I swear, nothing mawkish or sentimental. I'm amazed when it happens, the increadible rush of simple joy. And it happened this Saturday out in Plain City, a community north and west of Columbus, a community not yet overwhelmed by the Burnham-Wood-to-Dunsinane (that's from Shakespeare's Scottish play) March of the Condos.

The owner of the stable very graciously invited me out to get an idea of the facility and the program. It's a place with a lot of soul and I felt comfortable right away. Horses were dozing in their stalls, nipping at each other's halters out in the field, and going through their paces in the ring with their riders aboard.

I watched one girl go around, doing just fine, asking her horse into a trot and then a canter under the eye of her teacher. She was concentrating. Didn't looked relaxed by any means, but did look intent. When she got the horse up into a canter, I found myself nodding along with the 3-beat gait, the way you do when you keep time to music. The horse came around the corner and past the fence, the girl kept a good steady seat, and just by watching I felt like a kid too. It was magic.

Oh more's the pity! The word magic is used too much when we try to talk about how we felt when we were first horse and rider. Transubstantiated is not too strong a word -- but might be the wrong word. Love works pretty well. I wish there was some word that combined more with enough. I feel like I am more than the sum of my parts, like I understand that I do have a soul -- and that I am enough and don't need anything else. Both of these feelings exist within me at the same moment when I hear the 3-beat gait and watch the girl riding the horse. I am her, back when I fell in love with horses.

But I'm not her. I'm the grown-up 46 year old woman. And I am made into enough by the horse.

On the Necessity of 12-year-old Girls

I realized how much I depend on 12-year-old girls when I first started taking lessons almost 2 years ago. I was getting the tack on my horse and I was fumbling or dropping things or doing something awkward when a girl (I think she was 12 -- 14 at the most) asked me if she could help me or if I needed anything.

She was so polite, so confident and self-assured. There was nothing patronizing or belittling in her attitude or question. She simply saw someone who needed assistance, and then offered it.

I am struck over and over again by the poise I see in girl who are hanging around the barn. They've chosen (or been chosen by) a pursuit that demands concentration and maturity. They are not self-conscious and yet they are competent. They know how to fasten a girth. They know where stuff is in the tack room. They can tell when someone needs a hand because they remember when they needed a hand too. They've been scared and they've gotten over their fears.

They treat me like an adult and I hope I return the favor because I need their wisdom and guidance.

A Selfish Post

It's probably one of the rudest things I've ever thought, but I'm very glad I wasn't present when my instructor got thrown from the Irritable Mare.

I came a little early for my lesson (I usually do since I was late once and here in Central Central Ohio, you never know what ugly thing the traffic will do next), so Amanda had me go ahead and get Wilco ready. Since the two tacking bays were occupied, I groomed him in his stall. Amanda, meanwhile, was quite sanguine about the day being her 24th birthday and the possibility of meeting her maker while riding the Irritable Mare. But Amanda knows what she's doing so it's OK. I guess. All I know for sure is she sent me off with a job to do.

So I brushed Wilco, a little concerned because we were in the stall together and he is so goll-darned big (I mean if he took a notion to sit on me, that would be that!), not thinking a thing about my teacher but just about my own butt as I brushed and curried and worked to get the little limps of dirt out of Wilco's coat.

When I finished, I went looking for Amanda since she usually leads him out (this has changed; I now do my own leading of Wilco, thank you very much!) and found her. She seemed to have something on her mind.

"How did the ride go?" I asked.

"Fine," said Amanda.

"How did the mare do?"

"She threw me."

"?"

"I went over her head, right over the front."

"!"

"Small horses are quick. They can fool you."

Good night! At least I didn't have to watch

Today's picture is a detail from Bernardino della Ciarda Thrown Off His Horse, 1450sTempera on wood,Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence

Dreaming in Horses

I had the best dream last night! It was simple and plain; just the sort of dream I like the best. I dreamed I was leading a horse. The horse was brown and had some sort of white blaze on its face. There was nothing fancy or identifiable about the animal other than it had a beautiful curved neck, like a noble equestrian statue.

And we weren't doing anything fancy either; it was just like the end of a regular lesson, the time when I walk the horse back to his stall after grooming him in the cross-ties. And it was so real! The horse was trying to get ahead of me, I was reminding him to stay back, either by making him stay or by putting my elbow in his shoulder. We walked on together, the lesson over the for day. I was perfectly engaged in the moment but I can't speak for the horse.

It was the kind of work I enjoy -- the simple, step-one basics that are about everything even though, on the surface, they have nothing to do with jumping on a horse and cantering into the the sunset. I love the basics. I love learning how to stand, how to hold the rope, how to walk with the horse, how to breathe, how to think.

And I feel victorious when I get up in the morning and realize that my subconscious is truly engaged in these building-block matters.

(Today's picture, Dreaming Horses, is by Franz Marc)

Courage in the Face of Large Animals

Two lessons ago, my riding instructor Amanda (probably 105 pounds ringing wet) showed me what she could do with an animated and attitudinal mare who was hell-bent on showing herself (the mare, not Amanda).

Amanda was giving me a ground lesson and thank God all I had to do was watch from the safety of the observation area. Let me tell you, the observation area doesn't feel too damn safe when a mare (even a smallish one) is running around and around in crazy circles, bucking, snorting, galloping, and then bucking some more. There's no iron bars or glass or a nice big moat -- just a low wall between the observer and the observee.

I hugged myself tight as I watched Amanda stride fearlessly out with nothing more than then end of lead rope in her hand to give the mare directions. See, every time the mare stopped, Amanda ran up to her and began twirling the rope overhead, which sore distressed the mare. Even when the mare "hid" on the other side of the ring behind the round pen, Amanda wouldn't let her off the hook, but kept her going around and around.

When the mare charged past the observation area, she'd cock a look my way. Naturally, I stepped back a pace or two since I had visions of the horse, all foam and hooves, deciding to attack me. I was sending out waves of fear from my trembling body (easily outweighing Amanda's by at least 30 pounds) and my mouth was hanging open. If it was warm out, I would have caught flies but never noticed them, so tremendous was the thunder of the irritated little horse.

At some point, the horse stopped her running. Amanda walked over to her slowly as the mare folded her legs underneath herself and then lay in the dirt for a moment to roll.

"Why did she did that?" I asked. Heck, I thought horses just stayed standing unless they had an itch some place. It's something to watch that big thing (even a small big thing) get down on the ground. It's like watching and ironing board fold and then unfold itself.

"I don't know," said Amanda, "but it was really brave of her. It was a brave thing to do." The horse was vulnerable when she did that; that's why it was brave.

The horse was brave? Amanda was brave. "I'm terrified," I admitted.