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Confessions of a Horse Trainee
Jan Loveless
I read The Mustangs by
J. Frank Dobie while I was growing up, but I didn’t meet my first breathing
mustang until early June, 2004, when, with nine other mid-life women, I
attended a HEAL “Horse-Human Connection” workshop. I was taking the
next steps on my continuing journey as a horse trainee in equine
assisted learning when I set out for the workshop at Batti Ranch in
Lincoln, California.
.... One of the
most gifted teachers in the therapy herd of Linda Kohanov, author of
The Tao of Equus, was an old mustang named Noche; others include her
Arabians--a mare, Tabula Rasa; a stallion, Merlin; and their colt,
Spirit. I’ve only read about these horses so far, but I know the
Arabians have led relatively sheltered, well-loved lives. I was
transfixed, though, by Linda’s examples of formerly abused, aging horses
like Noche becoming talented therapy guides. At the Batti Ranch
workshop, I’d get to interact with mustangs captured from the wild. I
wondered if they’d be as responsive to people as my plump and well-loved
Quarter Horses.
With that question and others in
mind, I drove the dusty backroads northeast of Sacramento to Batti
Ranch. Facilitator Leigh Shambo, co-facilitator Denise Moody and my
fellow participants—and, of course, the horses--would help answer my
questions. Leigh is a psychotherapist with an equine-assisted practice
in Olympia, Washington. She’s the founder of an organization called
HEAL (Human-Equine Alliances for Learning). Denise is a registered
therapeutic equestrian instructor. Leigh had already completed an Epona
apprenticeship and is an advanced Epona instructor, and Denise was in
the process of doing her Epona apprenticeship. Both are experts in
Epona philosophy. They proved to be excellent role models in practical
application of Kohanov’s theories.
Linda Kohanov’s basic concept,
developed with rich examples, is that all horses are thinking/feeling
beings, prey animals whose survival depends on awareness of their
surroundings. Their gift of reading surroundings includes linking to
the true emotions of the humans they encounter. They react positively
to “authenticity”—behavior that honestly reflects a person’s
emotions—and negatively to behavior that isn’t authentic, when a person
is trying to “fake out” other people or horses by denying real
feelings. Those “fake” people could bring danger to a horse, and horses
are ever alert for danger. So horses mirror the actual emotions--even
deeply buried emotions--of the person who approaches. Oftentimes, the
horse understands a person better than she understands herself. To
paraphrase, Linda says that when a person enters a relationship with a
horse in a collaborative spirit and tunes in to the mirroring of
emotions the horse provides, the horse’s feedback can help her sort out
her own feelings, and ultimately, know herself better. According to
Linda’s books, such a relationship offers a human unlimited therapeutic
learning potential; it might be good for the horse as well.
I’d always known that I couldn’t fool
a horse into thinking I wasn’t afraid when I was—but I’d never thought
about the horse’s ability to read other thoughts and emotions until I
dipped into Linda’s books. I was eager to see what I could learn about
myself under the guidance of trained leaders and their equine
co-teachers.
That “Horse-Human Connection”
workshop changed my life. I came away convinced that all horses are
indeed four-legged teachers. Mustangs may be among the best.
When we arrived, Leigh and Denise,
our facilitators, took a fifteen-minute tour of the Batti corrals and
selected for our use in the workshop four mustangs—two mares and two
geldings, three bays and a roan--and a palomino Appaloosa mare with a
blanket of spots.
Participants met in the Battis’ barn,
ten women sitting in a circle on lawn chairs. We began, on Thursday
evening, by sharing the issues at this crossroads of our lives in
mini-explanations of what had brought us together. Several of my
classmates were undergoing major life transitions in relationships,
parenting and career. Others were therapists considering adding horses
to their practices or people returning to their love of horses.
Most of us had some connection with
horses from childhood, even if that meant riding a stick horse through
an orchard or devouring the Black Stallion series and dreaming of
ownership.
Once we’d introduced ourselves, we
separated and stood outside the pens of the horses, writing notes about
what we felt when we faced each one. The next morning began with
sharing those notes to determine which horses “spoke” to us, how and
why. Through the facilitators’ analysis of our reactions, each of us
began to consider which horse we’d work with that afternoon in a
reflective round pen session. We spent the morning learning to do body
scans so that we could recognize and better use as information the
emotion stored in our bodies.
As we worked during the morning, the
mustang geldings appeared regularly at the doors of their stalls,
apparently curious about our presence. A handsome guy we all called
“Fabio” (for his flowing mane and forelock) seemed especially solicitous
of one of the participants. When she sat with her back to his door, he
reached out repeatedly to snuffle her hair. She was not the only person
he could have touched, but he seemed to know she needed support.
Before lunch, we again stood outside
the horses’ pens, recording our perceptions. A red roan mustang mare
named Magnolia “locked onto” one of the women. Their eye contact
produced an almost visible electricity that lasted 10 or 15 minutes.
Something had “clicked” between them; they’d need to be partners for the
afternoon work. After lunch, we again shared our perceptions, and this
time, made firm selections of horses for reflective round pen sessions.
During the final session of the
afternoon, which was a reflective session in the round pen, a
participant was to do the body scan with her back to the pen to become
more aware of her own emotions, then turn and enter the round pen to
meet with the horse of her choice--without an agenda. That
“agendalessness” felt awkward to those of us who normally have training
goals for all round pen sessions.
My session was deeply moving. I’d
selected the Appaloosa mare, whose name was Foxy, not because I’d
connected with her, but because she’d been standoffish with me, looking
away when I approached her. She’d given me a painful stab of guilt.
I’d come to the workshop struggling under the burden of a secret I’d
kept for six months. When I learned that the mare with the palomino
spots was named Foxy, that guilt felt like an abscess.
Back in January, I’d made an
impulsive decision to buy a yearling filly to help a woman who lived in
Texas. I’d never met this woman except via the Internet and telephone,
and I’d never seen the filly, except in photos. I’d found Maggie by way
of Dreamhorse.com while looking for the right instructor to give my
Dallas-area granddaughter riding lessons—a gift I wanted to bestow for
her eighth birthday. Maggie, who lived not far from my granddaughter,
had a Pony of the Americas gelding advertised for sale on Dreamhorse,
and I’d called her not to buy a pony, but to pick her brain. I figured
that a POA breeder would know good trainers for children, since POAs
have been specially developed as children’s mounts. Over a week of
communications, Maggie and I had formed quite a friendship. She had two
daughters, I learned, and a generous spirit. She offered to teach my
granddaughter herself. But Maggie had no business making such an
offer. She was ill, suffering from lyme disease, and her older daughter
was ill as well, coping with a long-standing lung infection that
required IV antibiotics. Medical bills were stacking up. Maggie had
four ponies consigned to a sale in Ft. Worth, praying they’d go to good
homes and bring in cash to make ends meet.
After I heard Maggie’s story, I’d
offered to buy from her a yearling Pony of the Americas filly named
Foxy. I had no cash to make that purchase, so I’d made a fast trip into
town to sell some inherited jewelry and an antique high chair that had
looked better in a previous house we’d owned. Within an hour, I’d come
up with the $2000 sale price, and I’d sent the money in overnight mail.
Maggie had been boarding the yearling
filly for me since January. I was torn about when to share this
purchase decision with my family, who would think, no doubt, that I’d
lost my mind to add another horse (especially one I’d seen only in
digital photos) to my already burgeoning herd. And my impulse to help a
new friend? I’d be getting reading assignments in the
“how-to-avoid-being-bilked” section of the AARP magazine.
Maggie, innocent of my concerns, had
been extremely grateful, since my purchase had eased her out of a
financial bind. Besides, my purchase meant one less pony had to go
through the auction at the end of the POA show in Ft. Worth. Maggie had
been sending me warm, regular e-mailed updates on young Foxy, a palomino
leopard in coloring—so remarkably similar to the Appaloosa Foxy’s
markings that I couldn’t deny the “coincidence.” Just looking at the
Appaloosa made me wince with guilt.
When I entered the round pen, I felt
anxious—not performance anxiety, exactly, just a nervousness that came
from the outing of my secret, which I’d shared with my “classmates” as
we revealed our impressions of the horses. The mare was nervous, too.
Foxy faced out of the pen and paced, calling and calling to her herd
mates. Occasionally, she would make a trotting or cantering circle of
the pen, barely glancing my direction. Then she’d ignore me again and
resume her frantic pacing, focused on getting back to her herd buddies
as soon as possible. Leigh Shambo, who had entered the round pen with
me, quietly observed the mare and my reaction to her. “What are you
thinking?” she asked. I replied, “She is beautiful and strong, so much
more powerfully built than the mustangs we’ve been watching.”
Leigh said, “Maybe your decision was
also beautiful and strong.”
Leigh’s words shocked me.
Anticipating my family’s negative reaction, I’d spent six months
avoiding a discussion of my Foxy-buying decision.
Leigh added, “You need to own your
decision unapologetically. You traded inanimate objects you weren’t
using for a living, breathing creature, and your motivation was to help
someone with whom you’d intuitively connected. You need to trust the
universe. Something powerfully positive could come from your actions.
You don’t know yet what that little filly will mean in your life.”
With Leigh’s acceptance, I felt
instant relief. My anxiety vanished. I could feel my shoulder muscles
unclenching, and I stopped grinding my teeth. The Appaloosa mare had
slowed her pacing, though she still looked out of the round pen and
stood with her rump toward me. I walked forward, speaking quietly to
her, stopped beside her and stroked her slowly on the shoulder.
Immediately, she sighed deeply and dropped her head, licking and
chewing. These were signs that she, too, was relaxing. She turned and
touched my hand with her muzzle, connecting. Then she walked toward me
a few steps, sighed again, dropped to the round pen sand and rolled,
completely at ease. Her body language had instantly reflected my
emotional change. I felt tears in my eyes, but they were happy tears.
Leigh told me later that she, too,
was moved to tears.
My secondary feeling was awe. When
I thought about it, I realized that Foxy had mirrored my emotion exactly
during the entire round pen session, though I was certain our audience
would not know that until I told them. Just as Linda Kohanov said in
her books, the mare had accurately read not my outward demeanor--which
would have already appeared relaxed to most human viewers--but my inner
turmoil. She felt my guilty agitation. Her nervousness when we began
our session had been her reaction to my inauthentic state. My “calm”
appearance had masked the discord inside.
After the workshop ended, I returned
home to continue learning about this way of being with horses and to
prepare to enter the EASE program at Linda Kohanov’s Epona Center.
On my 58th birthday, I
unburdened myself of the secret Foxy over dinner in a downtown
restaurant. When I told my husband Buzz that I’d made an impulsive
horse purchase to help a new friend, he reacted at first as I’d thought
he would—with anger that I’d add to our own financial ticket to help
someone I barely knew. He’s aware, as I am, that the cost of horse
ownership just begins with the purchase. But within the hour, my
husband had said that he understood my strong need to help someone with
whom I’d connected. And he was willing to allow that this Foxy might
bring something special to our lives.
I apologized for my secrecy, then
sighed and relaxed, just as the Appaloosa Foxy had done in our
reflective round pen exercise. Through her body language in reaction to
my emotions, she’d taught me a powerful lesson about authenticity.
Being authentic might not always be comfortable, but it beats the
stressful alternative.
Jan
Butler Loveless, PhD, grew up loving horses and riding with her dad
in College Station, TX. She taught in the public schools of multiple
states, worked in industry, and eventually earned her doctorate in
English. Her most exciting growth, though, has been in The Epona
Center’s program in equine-assisted learning. Now Jan offers
equine-assisted therapy/learning workshops with Leigh Shambo, MSW, at
J-Bar Ranch (www.jbar.com ) in Visalia, CA. Essential partners in this
venture are Jan’s husband Buzz and an intuitive family of horses that
sprang from her dad’s mares.
Contact Jan at
jan@jbar.com
or visit
www.jbar.com
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