We Heart Horses

Back in the 1990s, Dr. Gary Chapman wrote a book titled The 5 Love Languages that indicates people express their love in five distinct ways, depending on the individual. Some folks use words of affirmation, others do acts of service, and so on. Since then, it's become trendy to talk about languages of love, and not just in touchy feeling conversations but in everyday chatter on the sidewalk. It's almost as commonplace as talking about the weather. Several other hardcover books have since been published on this topic. Likewise, weekend couples' workshops charging hefty fees for love diagnoses are popping up around the country. Apparently, we humans are plenty eager to plunk down a big chunk of cash on products that promise to psychologically analyze how we treat people with whom we're smitten.

Folks with tangled heart strings could save themselves quite a bit of money and confusion, though, by spending time with a local horse trainer. Trust me, horse trainers have been witnessing the languages of love for centuries. We are no strangers to the expression, expectations, and reception of the nebulous subject of Love. This unfolds nowhere more consistently than in a typical day at the barn in interactions between man and horse.


As a warm-up to this conversation, let's analyze your scribe first. Most psychologists would define my affection, as demonstrated for our purposes in caring for my horses, as a masculine or male style of expression. You see, men bond by doing activities together (read as: sitting silently in a fishing boat, walking through the woods, watching a sports game), whereas women have a need for more measurable connection like eye contact, conversation, expressing their feelings. For a guy, so long as two people are in the same place doing the same activity, they're bonding, no touchy feely about it. Hence, this male version of affection sums up my approach to horses. It's just how I'm wired, I can't help it. What says you love something more than getting out and exercising together? No coddling, no feeding treats, no special grooming. Just some good silent activity.

So, now that we've begun our Horse-Trainer-Turned-Psychologist analyzing, we should acknowledge that there are a few more nuances than just masculine versus feminine languages of love. For your reference and study, I have outlined the major ones. Read closely as you will not find these in a fancy manual at your bookstore.

The Bran Mashers

This is the crowd that likes to bestow affection by adding value to their horses. They spend a hefty sum each month for fancy supplements, powders, minerals, and vitamins that they read or heard somewhere will make their steeds' lives healthier and therefore happier. You will never find them feeding plain old grain and hay, as if those things were only for underprivileged horses without access to a better lifestyle. Instead, this type of owner usually has a supply of the newest organic equine cookie brand on the market in frilly packaging that looks like it came from a bakery. They are quick to buy any edible product that promises to make their horse happier or better in some way, regardless of the science (or lack thereof) behind it.

These folks commonly spend more time mixing up their horse's mid-day meal than they do riding. They will assemble this meal each day from an array of little plastic containers filled with formulas for better hair texture, joint function, digestive processes, attitudes. You name it, these equestrians have a supplement for it.

If questioned, they will swear their horse absolutely cannot function without these supplements, suggesting that it was his good fortune to have ended up with owners like themselves. With every scoop of Grand Skin Formula and MegaFlex Supreme, they pour a little of their love into this beast. So, while the feeding/supplementing routine replaces riding time for this group, it leaves the Bran Mashers with the same satisfaction. For them, soaking a pail of beet pulp and scooping flax powder and dicing apple chunks provides the same enjoyment of horse ownership that the rest of us might get from galloping around in the sunset.

The Bathers

When I bought my first new car, I wanted to take the best possible care of it so that it would last forever. Since I knew zilch about engines, maintenance, or repairs, my desire translated into obsessively washing the car at frequent intervals. I soaped and waxed it every three days for the first summer, feeling the pride of a new mother with each buff. I applied my affection with sponges and window cleaner, and spent more time standing back admiring the spot-free vehicle gleaming in the sun than I did actually driving it. I'm not sure where I got the idea, but it seemed I now equated "taking care" of something with scrubbing, wiping, and polishing it.

A group of equestrians-- that I call The Bathers-- treat their horses the same way. A loved horse is a clean horse, in their mind, and to them, nothing says affection like a bottle of tail detangler and coat sheen.

A Bather's horse spends as much, if not more, time in the wash stall as it does in the arena. For Bathers, discovering a new grooming product at the tack shop is on par with the excitement of learning new skills in the saddle. When asked how their horse is doing or how its training is advancing, they answer with names of new shampoos and hoof polishes. To their barnmates, they giggle and share the satisfaction of their relationship with their horse like a schoolgirl with a crush, except instead of mushy anecdotes they chatter about clean rumps and silky manes. At lunch with their friends, they recount the day's whisker removal and ear trimming, adding a cute story about how their 'adorable' and 'funny' horse tried to nibble the clippers or put his lips on the hose.

After investing an hour or more of her day to the horse's bath, a Bather will spend another hour holding him outside in the sunshine to dry and then selecting a blanket from his extensive wardrobe to cover his clean body until tomorrow's grooming session. Phone calls will be held, whining children will be ignored. No matter how stressful or busy the Bather's life is on a given day, the bathing ritual goes uninterrupted. Otherwise, the Bather would be at a loss for how to speak her love and this particular horse-human relationship would stagger.

The Reciprocaters

Many folks, particularly those new to horse ownership, possess the Reciprocater style of love for their steeds. These are the poor souls that dole out affection generously with the expectation that it will come back to them in kind. They are the ones standing in the barn aisle with a dejected expression asking their horses why he just stepped on their feet or bit their arms or walked into them and pushed them aside. Why did he just do that? And what they mean, of course, is how could he have just done that after all the love and kindness they give him? How could he possibly be so ungrateful? And while they're at it, they want to know why he bucked them off yesterday or spooked and bolted after seeing that spot of nothingness in the arena?

Even though they knew better, the Reciprocaters get caught up thinking the horse deeply contemplates every action before doing it. Thus, if he loved his owner as he should, he would NOT have bucked in the arena and acted like an imbecile. Rather, he would treat his owner with the same unbridled kindness and affection that she bestows on him. Reciprocaters generally believe that new behavior problems from their steeds are the result of not enough affection, even though they may already spend half their days engaged in spoiling these beasts. Thus, as ill-mannered antics crop up, the Reciprocater heaps on even more "love" in the form of cookie treats, grooming, purchasing stall toys, using lovey dovey talk. And of course this only leads to further bad behavior from the horse, leaving a very angst ridden Reciprocater asking him just what his problem is. Doesn't he know how good he has it? Why is he acting like a spoiled brat and not showing his owner a little more gratitude?

I am able to speak authoritatively about Reciprocaters, given that I myself conducted my early equine relationships with this language of love. My childhood pony "Sheba," who many believed to be a she-devil incarnated, held very few positive feelings towards humankind. In fact, she was so ornery that she possessed few actual likable traits. I adored her. I doted on her day and night. I turned down invitations for sleepovers at friends' houses in order to spend even more time with this little black mare who always wanted to bite me on top of my head and pull out a mouthful of hair. The more she bit me, the more I fed her carrots and curried her. The more she bucked me off, the more I begged my mom for a fancier saddle for her. When she kicked the neighbor kid in the face, I made a list of excuses and reasons why his mother shouldn't be upset. I wrote in my diary about Sheba and penned school papers about her. All these years later, I can report with certainty that she never returned even a fraction of such affection to me. In fact, I'm not even sure she liked me very much. Nowadays, I'd probably recognize that and compromise for a strictly working relationship with her, settling for a decent ride on a regular basis and skipping all that affectionate stuff.

But I wouldn't choose to turn back the clock and change anything. Having recognized the different languages of love, I now know that you can't force any equestrian to conduct herself in any other way than the one that feels right to her. If that means giving a spoiled horse more carrots, then so be it. If it means bathing him to the point of getting bald patches, so it is. With all this in mind, consider sidling up and plunking yourself down on a hay bale next to a horse trainer the next time your head or heart or mate puzzles you. You will not have a need for costly books or weekend couples' seminars. Just sit there long enough and the language of the barn will inform you just as much.

Placing Blame

Learning any new sport brings its own challenges, but in terms of unusually large and sometimes cruel learning curves, horseback riding takes the top spot. Not only must a new student learn to wrangle her body into never-before-experienced poise and isolation but she also needs to simultaneously wrangle the 800-pound beast under her with polish and grace. Keep in mind that at any moment, said beast is prone to his own whims, disinterest, and overall lack of enthusiasm. Or worse. This makes learning to ride-- an already formidable challenge-- far more difficult than other sports. A student learns to proceed with a noted amount of flailing, spastic gestures, and jiggly balance.





The ultimate unfairness of this learning curve surfaces when a student has the opportunity to watch a trainer ride in graceful effortless harmony. It will appear that the trainer is sitting atop the horse doing...nothing. Where is the flailing? The bungling? The pinched up, frustrated facial expressions? Of course the student acknowledges that such skilled riding style comes from years of mastery and she might one day possess it, too, but in the meantime, she allows herself some good old-fashioned envy because she knows she's a long way from riding like her trainer.





At this point, something interesting happens on the learning curve. It is something that coaches from other sports never witness. Sure, they will deal with frustrations, egos, and emotions of their students and players. But they will never encounter the creativity that riding students eventually adopt in finding explanations for why their progress is so slow. That awkward beast under them eventually becomes a really convenient excuse on days things are not going well. We have each fallen into this at some point, for instance on the day we are bouncing around attempting a decent sitting trot with our coach yelling at us when, exasperated, we announce that we would be able to manage the sitting trot just fine if only our horse would give us a smooth trot to sit. Or we'd be able to give the right cues if only he would pay attention. He's the reason for our sub-par performance, not us, we tell our coaches. In time, this line of reasoning gives riders a handy and consistent way to explain the glacial speed of their skills progressing.

And what pleases the human mind more? What satisfies us more than believing that we are hindered exclusively by factors other than ourselves? What else allows us to go around thinking we're A LOT better at something than we actually are?

I pondered all this recently while struggling through a swim lesson. As a kid, I never learned to swim and now as an adult it seemed ridiculous, so I went to a local pool and signed up with a coach. "This is going to be really fun," I told myself the first day, much like new riding students probably tell themselves driving to the barn. I shimmied into my swimsuit, jumped into the water, averted drowning and felt like I was well on my way to being a decent swimmer. In fact, I held all the same beliefs of beginning riding students: I am an athletic, capable, quick-learning woman; how hard can this be? Just moments after thinking I was well on my way to becoming a decent swimmer, I found myself unintentionally upside down and unable to get my bearings back. I tried paddling my arms, which only flipped my body around in circles like a rotisserie chicken. Through my goggles, I saw sky, bottom of the pool, sky, bottom of pool, sky....

My coach jumped in and rectified matters, allowing me to sputter chlorine out of my ears and nose. Then, immediately, I hurried to find an explanation. Surely, the episode could not be explained simply by the fact that I was a very bad swimmer. No, there needed to be another reason I was flailing in three feet of water. Could it be the pool temperature? A clothing malfunction? Interference from another swimmer? But when you're doing a sport with no equipment, no teammates, and very little clothing to malfunction, you realize quickly-- and rather disgruntled-- that there isn't anywhere to put the blame except on yourself. Ouch. Yes, the reason I tended to bob up and down like a buoy at high tide rather than execute a graceful breast stroke was the fact that I was a very bad swimmer. There was no way around this. Unlike a few moments prior, I acknowledged that cows might fly before I became a decent swimmer. "This is not going to be fun at all," I told myself on the drive home, wet hair dripping down my back. Humbled and deflated, I tried to find a silver lining in the reality that I was pathetically unskilled at this new sport I hoped would bring me a lot of happy hours.

At least it brought me in touch with the tribulations that my riding students go through. It gave me a taste of their frustrations and hopes and failures. This, I believe, helps make me an effective coach for them. Yet, in my humbled state, I couldn't help feeling that they were far better off than me. At least they had a horse to blame! They had something with which to assuage their failures, like a hearty dose of putting the blame on something else. I will assure you that this is much preferable to standing in a swimming pool realizing that there is nothing-- nothing!-- to use as an excuse for sub-par performance. So, be forewarned that the next time one of my students gets frustrated in the saddle and questions why on earth she has taken up this cruel sport, I will tell her she has no idea how good she has it.

Delusions of Grandeur

When I moved to California as a young trainer, my initial concern was not how I would make a living but instead that there was something funny in the drinking water. Whatever substance or chemical it might be, it had the same effect on every novice equestrian: filling them with the belief that, with a little effort, they would end up in the Olympics.

This puzzled me because if there is anything that riding is, it's HARD. Dressage in particular seems suited for only those who enjoy constant struggle and failure, perfectionism, fleeting moments of accomplishment followed by futility and frustration. I like to think it's probably easier to become a millionaire than a decent dressage rider. A lot easier. But call it what you will, perhaps The American Dream, for scores of beginning adults take up riding every year with the naive sense that, with some effort and determination, they will reach great achievement. Little do they know that what lies ahead is a mighty ego smack down, the likes of which they've probably not yet experienced in life. In time, they will learn firsthand the cruel fact that even with a monastic level of focus and dedication, riding accomplishments like to remain elusive.

Yes, my optimistic reader, even with proper funding, reams of disposable time, access to world class instruction and horses, you will likely still be looking far off into the distance in a few years to see the pinnacle of the sport. That's just how it goes with riding. If, on the other hand, you wanted to master the Art of the Bruised Ego, you will find that achievement comes much faster. And consistently. If you relish the acquisition of skills slipping away right before you get your fingers around it, then equestrian sports are for you. Should you find something satisfying in being bruised, battered, downtrodden, or deflated, you shouldn't wait another second to begin a riding career.

In recent years, the number of newbies telling me they'll participate in future Olympics has illustrated for me just how cynical equestrian sports have made me. Granted, I consider it a healthy cynicism because it's been well honed from a lifetime of the equestrian success-deflation cycle. As a trainer, I try not to crush any one's personal American Dream with my cynicism but sometimes I try to safeguard them from that mind-boggled state that comes from riding one moment with perfect execution of skills and harmony followed within the blink of an eye by a moment where you cannot get anything right. Sometimes there are whole weeks like this. These weeks are filled with disgruntled utterances that go like this: "What the *bleep*?! I just did this (fill in the blank: 'canter depart,' 'half-pass,' 'shoulder-in'), how come I can't do it again? I just did it perfectly and now I can't do it at all...?"

So it goes for those who have signed on for The Art of the Bruised Ego, for those who take up this sport that requires probably more than one lifetime to master, although they would prefer it to take a couple months. Let me confess, admirable equestrians, that I am not immune from delusions of grandeur or my own personal American Dream. I have suffered the same follies of believing that I might accomplish overnight something that takes other mortals decades of toil. Prior to my present day cynicism, I thrived on the kind of starry eyed ambition that feeds my Olympic hopeful students. Mine wasn't for horsemanship or dressage but for something just as elusive: a zen state.

Many years ago, I decided my mind could use a good scrubbing out and thus found myself at a zen monastery with no previous training or real understanding of zen (you can draw the parallels here with the newbie dressage rider who buys a fancy horse but doesn't have a clue how to sit on it). I had read and heard that it took decades of disciplined study and practice to tap into the teachings of zen, but rather naively and probably egotistically, I thought I could abbreviate the process. In fact, I expected full spiritual enlightenment after a few weeks of sitting on the meditation cushions in this room full of bald-headed guys and gals. Let's face it, what was holding me back? I am an intelligent, motivated, goal-orientated, and capable woman. With a little focus, enlightenment would be mine. Goal accomplished. The unobtainable obtained. (You can draw more parallels here with the novice equestrian believing she'll be a contender in the next Olympic trials.)

Needless to say, my budding enlightenment received relentless blows before it ever got started. In fact, it's still waiting to start and I've been toiling for a decade. I sat on that little round cushion telling myself "this shouldn't take too long, I'm more capable than the average person, this is going to be straightforward for me..." and all kinds of other delusional things. I might as well have told myself I'd be the next princess of Morocco. Numerous teachers tried to reel in my preposterous ideas but I regarded their sage advice like fat rain clouds over my parade to enlightenment.

So it goes with The Art of the Bruised Ego. It's not that I've given up on my zen state, though. No, I'm still sitting on the little round cushion regularly, humbly acknowledging that I sure haven't abbreviated any pathway or process. By the same token, I haven't given up on one of my starry eyed students making it to the Olympics. But I would feel more optimistic about their chances, as well as my own, if the next Olympic Games added a new event called The Sport of Dashed Dreams. I already have several contenders groomed to take the podium.