Getting Too Comfortable

My left hand stirred a bucket of soupy bran mash while also using the wooden spoon to swat at the growing population of barn flies. My right hand, meanwhile, grabbed my tuna sandwich from where it rested on a nearby filth-covered bucket. Ignoring the knowledge that mice frequently trotted across my lunch's perch with their dirty feet, I blew off a cobweb and munched away. Then, in the middle of this unsanitary lunch situation, I paused to admit what an unfortunately familiar scene this had become.





Having meals at the barn means stealing bites of who-knows-what from your coat pockets between lessons or sharing snacks with the resident dog, cat, or goat. It involves grimy hands, mouthfuls of horse hair, and standing up. You are always standing on your feet. And you often use only one hand because the other is occupied with separate tasks.





As unglamorous as this might sound to folks who work in clean office buildings with designated rooms for enjoying lunch, it's just part of life at the barn. Soon, it feels normal to be half-slurping, half-spilling a cup of soup as you walk to the arena. Eating is an area of life that we horse fanatics have adapted to fit into our barn routines. It's one of the events that start to feel completely normal in this fly-ridden, hay-strewn place. In time, other things start to feel normal, too.



In my case, that means bringing to the barn services for which that I once drove into town. Consider my former trips to the Farmer's Market, for instance. In order to procure fresh local produce, I used to visit one of our community's abundant outdoor markets weekly. Given that they were in populated areas, this meant that I needed to make myself presentable to the general public. I had to shower, brush the hay out of my hair, and wear real clothes like the other folks (read as: no jodhpurs or chaps, no manure-covered boots). A trip to the Farmer's Market, therefore, required a few hours of time away from the barn, a senseless concept.



Nowadays, though, a dear student of mine with acreage and farming skill brings me a basket of produce from her land each week. Last week, my bounty included beefsteak tomatoes, fresh mint sprigs, and several pounds of Pippin apples. In the past, she has brought free-range eggs, preserved pear slices, and lettuce greens. Every week when she comes for her lesson, she presents me with a box or bag or basket of organic and succulent harvest. It's like a Farmer's Market that comes to the barn. Not only am I deeply grateful for the produce but I am also thankful for eliminating one of the needs to leave the barn.



Most recently, I have also begun receiving chiropractic treatments in the barn aisle. Dr. Michael Agrella, a long-time human chiropractor had completed licensing and begun treating some of my training horses. He got miraculous results with a couple of them; the horses appeared noticeably more comfortable. If his work was good enough for them, it was good enough for me, I reasoned. From then on, we maximized the doc's barn visits by first treating horses and then laying me face-down on his traveling cot. At the end of the day, the steeds and their trainer all felt mighty fine. And I eliminated one more need to leave the barn.



At first, my students and colleagues viewed this as very odd behavior. How legit could it be to have your spine jerked around on a makeshift cot in the barn? they wondered. Sure, at first I missed the adornments that get one to relax in a practitioner's office-- the gurgling zen fountains, the soothing flute music, the gaudy but nonetheless mesmerizing paintings on the wall. In the barn aisle, I had none of that. I relaxed to the sound of horses kicking their stall doors, dogs barking, water buckets filling. But, maybe pathetically, I can't think of a more relaxing setting. These are, after all, the soothing sounds that surround us every day at the barn and part of the scene that we love to occupy to escape the rest of the world. Dr. Agrella adjusts me in my jodhpurs, chaps, and boots. Except for my birthday suit, I can't think of anything more comfortable and natural for me to wear.

As he snaps my neck back into alignment, we discuss horse training issues and crazy clients. A wheelbarrow swerves around us, driven by the young lady who cleans stalls. I lay contentedly looking up at a blue cloudless sky listening to one of my horses slurp at his bran mash. A fellow trainer walks past and casts us a puzzled glance, probably wondering if this large man pushing his knee into my chest is a qualified bodyworker or a disgruntled client.

Immediately after Dr. Agrella finishes, I slip back into my barn jacket, hand him a check, and climb on a horse. No need to drive across town. No sitting in traffic. And this is exactly my point. You see, lots of people think we horse folks are an unkempt bunch. Our appearance lacks the polish of manicures, styled hair, facials. So, others assume that we don't care about any of that; we neglect it all in favor of looking untidy. Let me set the record straight. It is definitely NOT the case that we do not care. It is more the case that all that primping stuff requires A LOT of time away from the barn. Which explains why most of us have trimmed it from our lives. However, if we were able to get manicures and facials at the barn we would be just as polished- if not more- than the rest of our communities. The issue is not whether or not we care or have enough money or find the time. The issue is whether or not we need to leave the barn.

We might all help each other out by brainstorming what services could be adapted to happen at the barn. I'd like you all to ponder this on your next lunch break, or more accurately the next time you're looting crumbs from your pocket to cram in your mouth.