A Room of One's Own

I just returned from visiting a breeding farm a few hours north of here. After trying out a few of the breeder's horses as possible matches for students of mine, I was treated with the luxury to overnight in her darling guest cottage. As far as accommodations go, this self-contained little place was paradise. I awoke the following morning well-rested and comfortable, which isn't always the case when one stays at strangers' homes as often as I do.

Over the last few years, I have averaged five to six nights per month away from home sleeping in other people's guest rooms, couches, R.V.s, and anything else available. Such is the lifestyle of a traveling horse trainer. Succeeding at this nomadic life relies on going with the flow, to borrow from Zen adages. I've immersed myself in all kinds of family dynamics, unplanned events, and sleeping arrangements. I've shared beds with barn cats and shedding dogs, taken showers without hot water, sat uncomfortably through marital spats over dinner, stayed at homes without electricity. When relying on others' generosity and hospitality in its various forms, I've learned to let go of being persnickety.

Equestrians occupy all walks of life and financial hierarchy, a love of fine steeds being the glue that joins us all in the same social category. Staying in their homes allows me to experience the vast differences among this eclectic group, which -- as I stated above-- means I never know what I'm in for.

One time while giving a clinic in Nevada, I stayed in a home so enormous and sprawling that, after dropping my bags in a designated bedroom, I could not find my way back to the center of the house. Eventually, I discovered a hallway intercom and pressed a series of buttons until a human voice told me the directions through various hallways, chambers, and staircases down to a kitchen the size of a basketball court. It took me close to an hour to arrive there, given my need to stare shamelessly at the collections of artwork along the way. I stood in front of an original Picasso, my mouth gaping in awe, realizing I might never be in front of an original Picasso again in my life. This awe was swiftly overturned, though, by a nearby stone horse head dating to the Han Dynasty.

A few weeks later, while training in Portugal, I fantasized about that luxurious home and my bed with sheets whose thread counts I'll likely never again experience except at 5--star resorts. In a drafty three-room cottage in the Portuguese countryside, I was trying to recover from a cold shower (the home's heater fritzed a week earlier) and the damp drizzle outside by curling up on the only uncluttered surface available, a tattered love seat with a bird cage tottering on one end and an unruly cockatoo shrieking at me. Teeth chattering, I pulled my limbs into my chest and sneezed for the next few minutes. I watched the slow moving hands of a wall clock, praying I could speed them forward to morning.

Another time in New England, I awoke so fully covered in dog hair that two showers were required to make me presentable to teach that day. Then there was a morning in northern California that I awoke with a swollen tongue and spinning head after conceding to drink my hostess' homemade wine. It took me two days to recover and rivalled the time I awoke to the bad news that my hostess kept a coffee-free house. What? No coffee? It ranks as one my grumpier and least productive teaching days.

No matter the disparities in amenities, the experience of staying in my students' and colleagues' homes with them allows us to know each other on a more personal level than simply one horse woman to another. I've pitched in during family emergencies, helped catch herds of loose cattle, been present for proms and graduations and weddings. In many cases, I've become a quasi-family member who shows up every several weeks and stays for a few days. And despite the fact that my students' husbands have to suffer the fact that their homes with be filled with nothing but horse chatter for those few days, I tell myself that no easier house guest exists than me.

For the hosts with whom I stay every few weeks through the busy summer horse show and clinic months, I am easy-going, pleasant, and entertaining addition to their homes. Or at least I tell myself this to abate the real truth that I probably wore out my welcome last year. The fact is that I'm actually pretty advanced on the high maintenance scale. Take into account that I am a vegan, a health fiend, and an occasional wine snob, and you've got a pain in the butt. As much as I prefer to believe otherwise, there is nothing easy about hosting a vegan.

I've watched my hosts developing stress disorders right in front of me trying to figure out what kind of non-meat sustenance to feed someone who runs around with horses all day. Doesn't she need more protein?, they ask each other. How can she work with horses all day and not need to eat meat, even just a little? Sometimes when they get very panicky looking about their lack of animal-free products in the kitchen, I'll tell them not to worry because I generally have my own food with me. Which is a polite way of saying I have a granola bar and a seed packet in the dark recesses of my car's glove box.

Neither of these will sustain a grown adult enough to teach all day in the heat, wind, or rain. The result: a crabby, wilted instructor blathering commands of little sense by day's end. Hence, my hostess' stress-riddled interest in feeding me. I watch them pace in circles chanting "protein, protein" to themselves, making sure they'll feed me something to keep me from crashing and burning mid lesson. Meanwhile, I sit nearby sipping a fine coffee or wine, reflecting on what an easy house guest I make (if only I weren't vegan) and casting an investigative glance down the hallway for my next possible Picasso sighting. Or kindergarten finger painting.

What do You Mean By That?

Back in college philosophy class, we learned about the concept of relativism which basically states that truths and values are relative to the person holding them. Nothing is absolute or universally true. But college happened a long time ago and I hadn't given much thought to philosophical truths-- relative, absolute, or otherwise-- until last weekend when receiving a real-life lesson on the fact that we all hold highly individual realities.

My problem arose from equestrians' tendencies to use different terms to describe the same situation. For instance, some folks will call a horse that bucks, bolts, and rears "very broke" while I might choose to call him "a wild beast worth avoiding." I've witnessed riders call their flighty, skittish mounts "bombproof" even while they're spooking at the same spot in the arena for the umpteenth time. I choose to call the same horse "volatile and reactive."

Long before philosophy class, my father tried to educate me about the differing interpretations in the horse world. When someone offered me a strange horse to ride as a kid, I always agreed. But then sometimes right before mounting up, I started to get nervous and entertain second thoughts. Pretty soon, I felt like riding this horse might not be so safe; maybe I should just stay on the ground. As the horse jittered and reared, I voiced my concern to my Dad. "But the owners said he was totally broke. And a really good boy." Why was I starting to doubt all that? I wondered as my nerves soared. At this point, Dad put his hand on my shoulder and explained again that everyone has their own definitions of "broke."

My refresher course on relativism came last weekend when I-- a hardcore dressage queen--was afflicted by an irrational motivation to join my colleague on a 25-mile endurance race. He had a feisty young Arabian for me to borrow and the event was happening right here on hometown trails. It sounded like a fun change from my daily life inside sterile dressage arenas. Arriving at the even, I found my steed tied to his trailer quietly munching hay. He was a handsome grey gelding with intelligent eyes and a strong body. I started to get excited about our ride, imagining the wind in my hair, the morning fog against my face, and the satisfying fatigue of horse and rider after 4+ hours in the saddle. Plus, the camaraderie of winding through the Redwoods with my buddy seemed straight out of a movie. In my eagerness, what I didn't imagine was the icy sensation of submersion in the waist-high San Lorenzo River as my horse raced down the trail without me.

Let me first acknowledge that I did receive a slight warning that my horse was "not real fond" of water crossings but should manage fine. To me, not being fond of something indicates that an animal will undertake the task presented but perhaps be a bit grumbly about it. Or maybe some resistance will surface, but everything will work out okay in the end. In hindsight, I could have researched in fuller detail what "not fond" meant for this particular horse.

Operating with the assumption that all would be fine, I crossed the start line of the race knowing that the river crossing loomed ahead at the 5-mile point. This section of the San Lorenzo River in Santa Cruz stretches nearly 20 feet wide and is strewn along the bottom with large rocks, making an already hair-raising crossing potentially treacherous.

Knowing my horse wouldn't be a big fan but should manage it well enough, I approached the water steadily without letting him balk and get worried. I kept my eyes up, pushed my heels down, checked my grip on the reins, and urged him on. We kept our momentum and he put one foot in the water. And then another. Admittedly, he didn't love the experience but was handling it decently enough to get us to the other side. With his next step, he dropped down from the rock we were balanced on and plunged into deeper currents where the river rose above his belly. Instantly, I was saddled to what felt like a bucking bull at the rodeo.

My horse jumped so high and so far that we plunged over the two riders in front of is and landed on the opposite bank near spectators who scattered like bowling pins. Pulsing with adrenalin, he sprung in the air again as I madly tried yanking his nose up from between his knees. This time, we jumped straight over the top of a boulder in our path, landed briefly on the other side, and then sproinged over a fallen log. By this time, we were on dry ground with the river well behind us, but my horse-- totally locked into his rodeo routine-- kept bucking and leaping down the trail.

Spectators gasped and shrieked. Race officials radioed for help. I scanned the ground for a soft place to bail off. A miracle from my guardian angel, though, kept me on that wild beast. And we skyrocketed up and down over more debris for a good number of meters more before he paused long enough that I could grab a chunk of mane, regain my stirrups, and yank him to a stop. Anyone who witnessed the spectacle agreed that the fact I stayed on defied both gravity and physics. It was sheer luck. Or so I thought. Then it occurred to me that, since my horse had not gotten rid of me, it meant I had to finish the loop ahead of us and then cross that darn river AGAIN on our way home. Shoot. By now, all that romantic hoopla about the wind in my hair, camaraderie with trail buddies, and blah blah blah drained out of me. I wanted to ride straight to the nearest sterile dressage arena and never leave.

Mustering up some reserves of courage and/or insanity, we sailed around the trail's main loop and refrained from antics that would incite further 911 calls on our behalf. But then, sure enough, there we were at the San Lorenzo River again. I knew I couldn't count on two miracles in one day, so the likelihood of my staying on my horse as he morphed into a wild water buffalo was nil. This time I decided the best option would be to get off and lead him through the water. He seemed to like the idea, standing quietly as I wade into the chilly currents up to my navel. My leather boots filled up like buckets and my wobbly legs froze to the point of not working very well. I tried staggering over the river rocks to give him an encouraging lead. But my legs moved sluggishly, too sluggishly to keep up with my horse as he reared up on his back legs and then blasted past me, jumping like a dolphin at high speed. He tore the reins from my hands and got to the trail on the other side as I was still sliding around on mossy rocks, trying to keep from being pulled under by the river. Treading water faster, I worked my way to the other side as quickly as is possible when you are fully dressed and with boots and wading through water up to your chest. By the time I got there, my horse had disappeared in the distance and I could faintly hear his lightning hooves far down the trail.

As I began huffing after him with water spilling out of my boots and cold wet clothes stuck to me, it occurred to me that I hadn't envisioned this part of the ride experience when I got the idea to participate in this event. Indeed, I imagined doing the whole ride on horseback. The romanticized daydreams I initially concocted about the ride were now lying at the river bottom. I was now engaged in an entirely different sort of morning than I expected.

And therein lies the problem-- one's expectations. Had I not expected the idea of a horse managing a water crossing "just fine" to mean we'd still be together on the other side, I wouldn't be in such shock jogging down the trail while other riders passed me on their nice quiet horses. Yes, the day could have been much less harrowing had I recalled some simple college course material. Our own truths are relative to ourselves. My own definition of my steed's behavior towards water would be: he hates it but WILL cross it, though the rider will likely not be part of the picture by then.

** POST-SCRIPT: my horse was caught by a fellow rider not too far down the trail and we managed to finish the event. And, minus the f$%^&ng river crossing, it was a rollicking good time!**

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.