‘Because the job is not to know, it’s to become.’ Rebecca Solnit
When I start in on anything horse, it is, inevitably, never about the horse.
‘Work with the Anne you have today,’ says my London friend on yet another late night chat, as we psychoanalyse each other’s lives. The line is a take on Warwick’s Schiller’s ‘work with the horse you have today,’ which, of course, is chapter one in his Principles of Training book. I didn’t really understand what kind of horse I had on any given day. Time spent in this space highlighted how often the Anne who showed up was often the horse I was given. And horses don’t lie. And therein, the struggle.
Some days when Evie wanted nothing to do with me, I would think: if you were a human, I don’t think we’d be friends. Look at me, grovelling at your hooves, not understanding why you won’t move your feet, that blank stare you give. I didn’t understand she’d checked out in order to cope with being in my presence. One day, on the drive home from where she lives, I got stuck behind an L plate driver, and the ragey screams that came out felt about right. I knew it wasn’t the horse who needed changing.
I started again. I didn’t know what that looked like but I climbed down off her back and started on the ground. I obsessed over training methods of other horse-humans and settled, for a while, on Warwick Schiller. He had a certain energy I wanted. He, too, was on his own path of discovery around horse connection, and I understood this was our missing ingredient.
Two years passed, never really sure of what I was doing, but always turning towards Evie to see how she felt about things. Some days what she told me was hard. Still, we were now having a conversation, and because she felt seen and heard, she began offering more. So, too, the Anne I took out to the paddock each time, she began to soften, even on the days of overwhelm when it felt as though we were going backwards.
I put her saddle on a month ago, to see how we both felt about that. We stood there, quiet, shooting the breeze, unfazed. After Christmas I got on, to see how that felt, no ‘riding’ as such. No bridle, just her rope headstall, and leadrope for reins. Would my body remember the misunderstandings and anxiousness of why we had stopped riding in the first place? My body had to be reminded to breathe, and I watched Evie lick and chew when she needed, turning to me for guidance. All this work we had been doing on ourselves, it seemed to be working, even at height.
Last weekend I rode Evie in a lesson (first time in over two years). I was so damn proud of us. While the visual celebration of the ride was a focus, it was really about so much more. I’ve come to understand that the measurement of success with a horse is how you make them feel, that’s it. Riding is a bonus. It isn’t the thing, it’s a by-product of the thing.
To add to this, a few years ago the thought of riding in a rope headstall was one of complete fear, and when I watched others ride in one, complete awe. And yet when I rode Evie on the weekend in her headstall, it felt no different to all the other days we’ve been working together this past while. The only difference: I was on her back. We still focused on the breath-work, being attuned to each other, is she listening, are her thoughts easily got back, what am I feeling, in with all the training we had learned. I hardly gave thought to the headstall. Isn’t that something? Meagan, my beautiful human instructor, who has supported us in this path, reminded me to enjoy being on her back when I was getting caught up in the details. ‘Just enjoy her, Anne,’ she says. ‘Love being on her.’
The next day I read a Rebecca Solnit essay on the radicalness of slow change, and the importance of foundations in order to create the thing. Often, it’s difficult to assess if you are making progress when you’re deep in the work, hard to tell at the end of each session if things will ever change.
Then the ride happened. The writer in me wanted to see it as some kind of dramatic turning point, because who doesn’t love a story with one. Human overcomes the odds to ride again (even though it’s not about the riding). But I can see now, it’s the slow change that’s been our making, incremental change unseen at the time, that adds up.
Still, I think I needed to experience this ride, and to have Meagan bear witness, to see how much we have changed. ‘Sometimes seeing it is sudden,’ Solnit writes. ‘Because change has been going on all along but you finally recognize it.’
Evie and I have been the slow change we wanted to see, and it feels like the most radical act of our lives.
Onwards.
Pony hugs. Ax
anne myers 