Feldspar
March 7, 1989 – July 23, 2010
I lost one of my best friends today. It was an intestinal twist. Why did God design horses like this? WHY? My friend was my very first foal. I've had him his entire life. He carried me through my young adulthood, several careers, my marriage, the birth of my son, and into the autumn of my own life. He was the horse who always greeted me first at the gate, licked my hands when I stroked his head and neck, babysat a myriad of foals without ever hurting a single one, and was the soft, strong shoulder I would cry into whenever tragedy struck our little ranch. He’s been gone for only five hours, and I already feel the emptiness of his passing.
It all started 21 years ago. The call came at 5:00 AM. “You have a new filly!” the excited voice whispered on the other end of the phone. I was still half asleep when I pulled my old tennis shoes on with one hand while I dialed my future husband with the other.
“John!” I shouted excitedly, oblivious to the fact that I had just awakened him from a sound sleep. “The baby’s here! It’s a girl! I'm on my way to the barn. Do you want to go with me?”
”On my way…” he answered without hesitation. He knew how much this foal meant to me, and I had become something that was starting to mean a lot to him. He was not about to miss being part of this important event.
We were both cops at the time, John and I. We were still “just friends” at that point, not sure if we were destined for a real relationship or just friendly work buddies. We were spending more and more time together, but we were cautious and unsure. At least I know I was. But John’s interest in my horses moved him up the possibility for permanence scale by at least 70 percent. A nice guy that liked horses…well, that was rare and that got my attention.
We were at the breeding farm in Larkspur by six. It was a very cold, early March morning and it was still very dark The owner of the mare, Holly, got there a short time later. Holly was a dispatcher at the Sheriff’s Office where John and I were Patrol Deputies. We had become good friends. Holly was an amazing rider and trainer, and had the most lovely and talented mare she had ridden to a regional dressage high point championship. I worshiped her riding and training abilities and modeled myself after her whenever I could. Holly had bred the mare to a gorgeous black Trakehner (a German Warm blood) stallion the two years earlier, and was blessed with an incredible black filly destined for the dressage ring. She let me lease the same mare the following year to breed back to the same stallion. Now I also had a quality black filly of my own. We were grand-moms of sister fillies, which made Holly and me, family.
Like any excited expectant “mother,” I had read up on babies and was ready to put all I had learned to practice. I had purchased a tape of Dr. Miller teaching “imprinting” and had all my desensitizing objects ready. Clippers, plastic bag, paper, a tiny halter, and I can't remember now what else. I rubbed and tapped and familiarized my new baby with everything I could think of before he was four hours old. I spent so much time with him he began to think I was his mother, and not the big brown beast with the milk faucet.
Him… Yes, you read right, I did not just make a mistake. The mistake was made by the young barn manager. She missed a certain piece of anatomy when she had checked the newborn foal in the dark. Neither John nor I had thought to check, and ended up calling him “she” for the first two days. It was hard to change his gender in my own mind, when I found out my darling little filly was actually a handsome little colt. I accidentally called him “she” at least three times a day for a week.
I named him Feldspar. It’s a type of crystal rock. I just liked the way the word rolled off my tongue. As is the tradition of Trakehners, I had to give him a name with the first letter of his dam’s name, which was Feather. It was going to be Feldspar, boy or girl. I was glad I was not also trying to get used to a new name.
He was charcoal gray when he was born, that soon became a strange mousy brown, and then shed out to an elegant and shiny jet black by the time he was a full year old. He was born with a headlight. It was in the shape of a large, almost perfect white diamond smack in the center of is forehead. The side points of the diamond went eye to eye. It was so perfectly shaped and so striking that it was the first thing most people commented on. He was incredibly beautiful.
People would laugh when I'd say that I'd had him since before he was born, but it was true. When he was still inside, I would put my head on his momma’s big belly and talk to him, telling him about how great our life was going to be together. I felt him kick now and then, which was very exciting and only served to increase my anticipation level. When he finally arrived, I could hardly contain my joy at the perfect little creature that came to share my life.
John and I had the following couple of days off so we spent most of it at the breeding barn, playing with the new boy. When we went back to work later that week, I proudly carried in a jar of bubblegum cigars to pass out to my teammates. At that point in my life I figured Feldspar was going to be my only “child,” so I was not going to waste the opportunity to celebrate. My all-male team of fellow cops always did think I was a rather silly girl, which was fine with me. They were good-natured about the teasing and I actually liked it. Being a bit of a clown was a great way of dealing with the tension of police work, and it was a long time before teasing the only woman in the room equated with harassment.
Feldspar grew fast. Our life changed fast too. By the time he was three years old, John and I were married, I gave up police work to become a Realtor, we bought our little ranch in Parker, and I was pregnant with our son, Alex. Holly agreed to begin Feldspar’s under saddle training while I prepared myself for human motherhood. (And yes, we gave out another jar of bubblegum cigars when Alex was born.)
Feldspar was a true Trakehner all the way… hot, loving, gorgeous, athletic. And a handful. He was a lot of horse. But back then I was still a brave rider and I loved how forward he was. All you had to do was shape his energy, and he took responsibility for moving his feet. And if he understood what you wanted, he gave it to you. I rode him a lot, those first yeas. We spent hours on the trails around our neighborhood,and then more hours in the arena as I got more serious about learning dressage.
But motherhood and my job become more and more demanding, and I rode less and less. I added pounds exponentially as I lost my riding confidence. Feldspar spent months at a time not being ridden. But he was always well cared for, and our relationship grew in ways other than that of rider and mount.
I got dumped only once in Feldspar’s entire life. We were in our arena here at our house, oblivious to the fact that our neighbors had just purchased two llamas. For some reason horses tend to think llamas are alien invaders who have come to earth to tear out horses’ eyeballs and eat their entrails. Just ask your horse. They KNOW. Feldspar and I were simply trotting along in our usually forward, energetic manner, when two wooly alien heads popped up out of the tall grass in the field next door. A microsecond later, I was lying on my back in the sand and Feldspar was at the far end of the arena at the gate, shaking like a leaf. He'd spun out from under me so fast I never saw it coming and I didn't have time to tense. I wasn't hurt at all. But I certainly had a new opinion about the cohabitation of horses and llamas.
Feldspar never kicked me or hurt me. Never. But John was not so lucky. One evening late, John was walking behind him when Feldspar had his face buried deep in the hay feeder. For some unknown reason, Feldspar kicked out, catching John on the meaty part of his thigh. Feldspar immediately knew he was in big trouble. John said when he realized whom he had just kicked, he took off and wouldn't come back to the barn. John is certain Feldspar thought he had been a horse about to challenge him for his food, not a human, and once he saw what he'd done he knew he had committed a giant unforgivable sin. John realized it was mostly his own fault for startling the horse, but Feldspar subtly gave John a wide berth whenever he could from that day forward.
When I examined John’s leg, I was not very sympathetic. There was no mark, and I began to think John was being a bit wimpy. But a few days later the most horrific, colorful, intense bruise I have ever seen appeared on John’s thigh. I was ashamed that I had not been very sympathetic, and found myself groveling with apologies. To this day, I haven't forgiven myself for doubting John’s level of agony.
Feldspar and I both have/had a little bit of a wicked child streak in us. I know that, anywhere and everywhere you go, horses are simply not allowed in the feed room. That’s a given. Feldspar knew this too, and he would never even try to enter when John was around. But when I fed by myself, which was often, he would calmly follow me in. I don't remember when this started, but for years we've had this unspoken understanding. I am a touchy-feely person who needs lots of physical attention. He wanted food. He would follow me into the feed room and go straight to the barrel of pellets, flip off the lid, and stick his head inside for a quick snack. Once his head was inside the feed barrel, I would lay the length of my body along his lowered neck and breathe the scent of his mane into my face. Sometimes, if I'd had a bad day, I would cry into his soft hair, sometimes I would just lean into him, close my eyes, and smile while my friend and I shared our naughty moment. We did this almost every day. John didn't know about it until today, after Feldspar died, when we started sharing our stories about him. I knew John would not approve, which gave our little ritual a touch of danger along with that excitement of just being a little bit naughty. It was like two teenagers sneaking out at night, not to be really bad, but just because it was pushing the established limits, and the thrill of the possibilty of getting caught felt strangely good.
Feldspar was never hard to get to back out of the feed room. All I had to do was say his name and put the back of my hand gently on his chest. He would immediately step back and out of the room without a fuss and I would go ahead and feed everyone. This was Feldspar’s and my little best friend secret, and it had a unique specialness to it that’s hard to adequately explain.
John retired from law enforcement in 2002. He immediately went back to school and got his real estate license. He’s good at it for the same reason he was a good cop. He’s a stickler for detail, and is as honest a fellow as was ever born. But the real estate market started getting soft for us by 2006. We started to struggle. We didn't know that it was a precursor to this total financial meltdown, but we were concerned enough at the time to know we had to cut back on our expenses. Horses, as any of you who own one (or more) know, are a huge expense. So, reluctantly and with great remorse, we put every horse we had, except for Teme (whom we had solemnly sworn and committed to care for, for the rest of his life) on the market. Feldspar was one of the best trained we had, so he had more than his share of tire kickers.
One day a lady came out with her dressage trainer to try him out. The gal was nice, but was very timid and I was nervous that his habit of going so strongly forward was going to scare her. He never ran away, but he had a Trakehner’s energy and it could be intimidating. She rode him around the arena and he was a perfect gentleman. She was obviously enjoying her ride. I started getting nervous that she was actually going to want to buy him. My heart started to crack. Then her “trainer” got on, immediately took the reins in her hands and pulled his chin to his chest. I felt myself gasp, as he has always been incredibly light in the mouth. This woman pushed and pulled and kicked and whined, and didn't get much out of him. She started kicking him furiously while holding the reins so tight his mouth was gaping open and his chin quivered in pain. She started yelling at me, demanding to know what was wrong with this stupid horse and why did he refused to canter? I felt myself starting to get mad as I told her as politely as I could, to PLEASE lighten up a bit on the reins! She seemed to be angry or frightened, I don't know which, and couldn't let herself give him any release. I wondered what kind of monster horse she rode (or created) that made her feel like she needed to pull that incredibly hard all the time. She continued to kick his sides and he finally cantered, but not for long. He broke back to a trot and started to whinny at me, as though to say, “HELP!” I'd had all I could take and I asked her to get off. Her student saw the emotion in my eyes and said, “I don't think you're ready to give up this horse.” I saw my out and quickly replied, “You're right. I just can't sell him. I'm so sorry I wasted your time…” They left; I pulled the sweat-drenched tack off his back and face, and leaned into his wet neck burying my face in his mane. At that moment, I promised him, out loud where he and the birds and other horses and God Almighty could hear me, that no matter what happened to us, our house, or our finances, I would never, ever, so much as consider selling him. He was safe with me. After all, he was my FRIEND, and true friends don't get rid of each other..
I kept that promise. And I'm so grateful today that I did.
Feldspar started out as the baby and bottom of the herd, but eventually, as horses came and went, he advanced and grew into the position of Alfa. He was the perfect passive leader. He was definitely in charge and no one challenged him. All it took was a twitch of an ear or a sideways look. He never attacked or bullied. For some reason I could not see with my human interpretations, he never needed to. He would allow other horses to eat with him, and became the protector of our little mini mare Ripley as she stood in his shadow while she shared his hay. He was never abusive of his power. When a young filly mistook him for her similarly colored mother and tried to suckle his male parts, he gently put his foot on her side and shoved her away. It was not a strike or an angry admonishment, just a “NO!” with gentle firmness. After witnessing that event, I had a new respect for his wise leadership. I have admired his rule of our herd ever since. I'm concerned now because we have no one even close to his personality ready to take over. I have no idea how the remaining horses are going to work things out.
Lately Feldspar has been licking me more than usual. Anytime he got near me he licked my hands and my arms. I thought perhaps he needed salt, but he had a salt block and free choice loose salt available at all time. I made the comment to John just a couple of days ago that it seemed odd, but that I liked it because it seemed so affectionate. I know I have a habit of anthropomorphizing horse behavior, so I tried to stop myself from seeing his actions as loving on me. But I have to admit that it’s hard not to think that way. Now I wonder if he knew he was not long for this world, and he was saying something to me I couldn't hear any other way.
I don't know if he could hear me through his intense pain today, but I spent his last moments of life right there with him, holding his head in my hands and thanking him for the incredible gifts he has given me throughout his and my life. I thanked him for taking care of the babies and for being so gentle with me. I thanked him for our special secret moments in the feed room, and for licking my hands and making me feel so cared about. I thanked him for always being first at the gate to greet me, and for recognizing me as HIS person. I could have gone on and on thanking him for hours, but the Vet’s needle was waiting and the pain was not waiting, so when the Vet asked if I was ready, I silently prayed that he understood enough to know that, if nothing else, he was deeply and truly loved.
Feldspar was my best equine friend. There will never be another one like him. I will never forget him.
My good friend and trainer TJ came over here tonight and helped me braid, cut, and save Feldspar’s long tail. She stayed with me while his body was being taken away. Her presence reminded me how grateful I am that I have human friends too. And she is one of the best.
I found this poem online and sent it to TJ when she lost her beloved Arab gelding friend a couple of weeks ago. She sent it back to me tonight.
Where to Bury a Horse
If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already have, he will come to you when you call; come to you over the far, dim pastures of death, and though you ride other living horses through life, they shall not shy at him, nor resent his coming. For he is yours and he belongs there.
People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no nicker pitched too fine for insensitive ears. These are people who may never have really loved a horse. Smile at them then, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth knowing.
The one place to bury a horse is in the heart of his master. "
Showing posts with label Colorado. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Colorado. Show all posts
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Riding Seat Lesson
The Riding Seat Lesson
by Kris Garrett
11-19-09
One of the great things about living where I do, is that I have so many excellent riding instructors close by.
From TJ I have learned to never give up, to accept what I can do in the moment, to sit quietly and not haul my horse around with my reins, how to do (and not over do) a proper shoulder-in, and much more. Without my dear young TJ, I would have given up riding long ago. For the past eight years, she has been there for almost every horse emergency I've had. She has quietly and calmly supported me as a true friend when tragedy struck, handling the more gruesome of details when I was too distraught to take care of the necessary business at hand.
From Melanie I experienced my first western spin. I've learned how to better speak "horse" and recognize that I was already talking equinese without realizing it. I learned how to be a better teacher of young children, maintaining safety and discipline while offering a way to feel good about every success. From Melanie, I've learned how much I value a truly good person who is so congruent with her thoughts, words, and deeds, that I feel totally safe being her friend.
From Frances I learned that I tend to lock my triceps when I am nervous, causing me to bounce on my horse's mouth. Her ability to spot and pin-point the offending muscle group for any given problem, improved my riding with every lesson. It was with Frances that I experienced my first truly collected canter with my gelding, Feldspar. It was a magical experience I will never forget. I was on cloud nine for a week.
From Kari I've learned how a confident person's attitude rubs off on a horse. I watched her take a wild mustang and calmly and gently ride her in less than a week. I could see how safe the horses felt in her presence, and how fair, consistent treatment and clear communication made a horse feel more confident and secure. And I've witnessed amazing courage as this tiny gal patiently masters the biggest, rankest mount with a smile and a chuckle.
This week I finally scheduled a lesson with Eric Zeigler. Eric's classical focus in training begins as it has for centuries, with the rider's seat.
Here's my story:
Nov. 16, 2009
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 the stirrups.
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
by Kris Garrett
11-19-09
One of the great things about living where I do, is that I have so many excellent riding instructors close by.
From TJ I have learned to never give up, to accept what I can do in the moment, to sit quietly and not haul my horse around with my reins, how to do (and not over do) a proper shoulder-in, and much more. Without my dear young TJ, I would have given up riding long ago. For the past eight years, she has been there for almost every horse emergency I've had. She has quietly and calmly supported me as a true friend when tragedy struck, handling the more gruesome of details when I was too distraught to take care of the necessary business at hand.
From Melanie I experienced my first western spin. I've learned how to better speak "horse" and recognize that I was already talking equinese without realizing it. I learned how to be a better teacher of young children, maintaining safety and discipline while offering a way to feel good about every success. From Melanie, I've learned how much I value a truly good person who is so congruent with her thoughts, words, and deeds, that I feel totally safe being her friend.
From Frances I learned that I tend to lock my triceps when I am nervous, causing me to bounce on my horse's mouth. Her ability to spot and pin-point the offending muscle group for any given problem, improved my riding with every lesson. It was with Frances that I experienced my first truly collected canter with my gelding, Feldspar. It was a magical experience I will never forget. I was on cloud nine for a week.
From Kari I've learned how a confident person's attitude rubs off on a horse. I watched her take a wild mustang and calmly and gently ride her in less than a week. I could see how safe the horses felt in her presence, and how fair, consistent treatment and clear communication made a horse feel more confident and secure. And I've witnessed amazing courage as this tiny gal patiently masters the biggest, rankest mount with a smile and a chuckle.
This week I finally scheduled a lesson with Eric Zeigler. Eric's classical focus in training begins as it has for centuries, with the rider's seat.
Here's my story:
Nov. 16, 2009
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 the stirrups.
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
Saturday, November 14, 2009
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 motherly 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
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 motherly 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.
-Kris
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