The barn was my sanctuary. It was immaculate. I kept it that way. The stalls were raked almost hourly when possible. The tack was clean and orderly. The feeding schedule rarely varied. Not a speck of organic matter spent much time on either the ground or my horses.
Feeding, grooming, cleaning, riding and raking are not chores: they’re rituals. They are rituals revolving around purity and care of the spirit. Being in service to the horse requires this labor of love and the bodily sacrifice of blood, sweat and tears. Some rituals stem from superstition and tradition, like lucky horseshoes. Some rituals stem from experience and witness, like the daily routines around the barn that run like clockwork.
The most meditative rituals take place in the presence of the horse. Grooming and tacking up are carried out with the same precision and attention to detail every time the ritual is re-enacted in preparation for a ride. While grooming the horse, the hands smooth over every hair on the horse’s body in the same ways that a climber’s hands run over entire lengths of his ropes looking for wear before a big climb.
How can we deny that our identity is shaped by what we do? How can we separate body from ritual, and ritual from body?
We can’t.
I didn’t know who I was unless I had my horses. I didn’t think I could be who I was without them, without being with them, without working around them. I was what I was doing in the barn, and I was doing what I loved. I couldn’t separate myself from my rituals.
When looking at the lived rituals of religious practitioners and horse people, it is difficult to separate body and experience from the ceremonial aspect of ritual. There appears to be no separation of self and performance. Ritual shapes us, and we shape our rituals. By looking at the medieval women who experienced their personal mystical experiences, we see how ritual and devotion mesh so closely (inseparably) from emotion and the sensuous body. In Carolyn Walker Bynum’s medieval context and discussion of medieval women mystics, these women mystics have become part of the word made flesh. These women moved body up to the realm of godliness and away from the often dirty image cast up on women’s physicality. Horsewomen too, move the body into positive light, as the body becomes a way of knowledge and communication with their beloved horse.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
A new religion that smells like horse
“I think I’ll start a new religion. I’ll call it “Houynnm-ism, ism, ism”
- from The Legend of Flying Horse.
- from The Legend of Flying Horse.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Deification
"Deification is the ultimate distorting mirror that man has held up to the horse in our shared history. While the ancient elevation of the horse to the status of god is hardly a tradition that endures to affect modern-day attitudes toward the horse, it is nonetheless a reflection of the intense emotions that the horse was –and still is—capable of evoking. When the ancients were overwhelmed they found an outlet for their feelings in religious and magical terms; in our more competitive age we are perhaps more likely to impute our motives more crassly, for instance in wishing to believe that our horses love to win ribbons at horse shows. We may not literally worship horses anymore, yet the religious awe that the horse once evoked is testimony to a basic inability to see straight on this subject, which endures."
- Stephen Budiansky, The Nature of Horses
- Stephen Budiansky, The Nature of Horses
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
at once of nature and transcendent of nature
"It takes a harder heart and a stronger mind than I, for one, possess not to be dazzled by the pure beauty of man and horse working together. The almost magical cooperation of horse and rider is testimony both to the inventiveness of man and to the remarkable learning ability and physical prowess of the horse. It is art as much as science, a product of pure imagination as much as it is any predictable outcome of evolutionary biology. The thrill of watching the performance of a superb racehorse or jumper or cutting horse or polo pony or dressage horse come from the sense that these are creatures at once of nature and transcendent of nature."
- Steven Budiansky, The Nature of Horses
- Steven Budiansky, The Nature of Horses
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
C h o r e o g r a p h y
“You need never break a horse. If you want the horse to dance, you must never break him. The horse must like the training, enjoy the dancing. …” from The Legend of Flying Horse.
On a late fall afternoon, I went to Golden's Table Mountain Ranch to spend the afternoon with horse choreographer, Barbara Gardner. Barbara was wonderful: a petite woman with moxie, owner of 3 talented horses, and former owner of an experimental dance company in NY. She has spent the last 25 years as a horse choreographer, creating freestyles for World Cup and Olympic performances and exhibitions that have been seen at the National Western Stock Show, An Evening with Dancing Horses, and Ballet on Horseback, to name a few. At 65 years old, she was still spending her afternoons with her little herd of horses and riding two of them daily.
I talked to Barbara about the connections between horses and dance, about her experiences and performances, and about her horses. And she asked me about my thesis. I watched as she free-lunged her Andalusian gelding Vigo in the round pen. “Are you just focusing on riding?” she asked from the center of the ring. “That’s the image I proposed in chapter 3,” I said. “But I’m well aware that it is a limiting image and that communication on the ground is a huge part of it.” “Yes,” she agreed as Vigo was tuning into her from the edges of the pen. “This is all part of it. You can see he is listening to me, and I’m listening to him.” I watched as she slowed her body down in order to slow Vigo down from a canter to a trot, and eventually a halt.
On the walk back to the barn, with Vigo calmly in hand, Barbara began talking about what it takes to have a horse-human relationship. “It’s all about compromise—give and take. Compromise, concentration (focus), communication…and patience.” I agreed, and remembered a trailer loading incident about 11 years ago that took over 2 hours in the bone chilling cold which tested all of the above—especially patience. In relating dancing to riding, Barbara stressed the importance of learning to be passive, then learning to follow, then to direct.
As a rider, one must be passive and not get in the horse’s way; one must also learn to follow their partner rhythmically with grace and balance, and then a rider can direct the movement of the horse. The importance of following is the importance of feel and the awareness of the body—the rider’s and the horse’s body. A rider must learn the tempo and the body of the horse. Some European rider’s spend 2 years or more riding on a lunge line before they ever pick up the reins. Some will ride with no hands and go through exercises in which they will be told to close their eyes and tell the person holding the lunge line what hoof is leaving the ground. This allows them to develop a sense of feel that is rooted in their body’s way of knowing through feel and touch. These are exercises that strengthen one’s ability to ride with his/her body and not primarily with their hands.
“Do you really think it’s possible to ride 1200 pounds on 5 inches of mouth?” asked Barbara sardonically. Much like a VW bug, a horse’s “motor” (or drive) resides in the backside, or hindquarters, which means the impulsion carries through the horse from back to front when he is working correctly. That’s a lot of energy to be responsible for on the five inches of mouthpiece on the bit. I watched Barbara as she executed a half halt, where the horse rounds out his back and drives from the rear all in one foot-fall, all with her body placement. She also stopped Vigo with her seat and legs, not her hands. They proceeded to circle the arena performing various upper level dressage maneuvers with that sense of partnership that is seen in a dance hall.
Meeting with her not only deepened my thesis discussion, but (of course) ignited my horse passion again. Sometimes it is hard to be grounded when my emotions for wanting my horses back are so strong. But it made me realize that in the world of horses, I was raised well with a good bit of horse sense and common sense and intuition when dealing with these animals. I had to thank my lucky stars for getting started on the right hoof. Before I left, Barbara introduced me to a cute little bay Arabian gelding named Phamous. I would hope for him whenever I got bored writing my thesis.
On a late fall afternoon, I went to Golden's Table Mountain Ranch to spend the afternoon with horse choreographer, Barbara Gardner. Barbara was wonderful: a petite woman with moxie, owner of 3 talented horses, and former owner of an experimental dance company in NY. She has spent the last 25 years as a horse choreographer, creating freestyles for World Cup and Olympic performances and exhibitions that have been seen at the National Western Stock Show, An Evening with Dancing Horses, and Ballet on Horseback, to name a few. At 65 years old, she was still spending her afternoons with her little herd of horses and riding two of them daily.
I talked to Barbara about the connections between horses and dance, about her experiences and performances, and about her horses. And she asked me about my thesis. I watched as she free-lunged her Andalusian gelding Vigo in the round pen. “Are you just focusing on riding?” she asked from the center of the ring. “That’s the image I proposed in chapter 3,” I said. “But I’m well aware that it is a limiting image and that communication on the ground is a huge part of it.” “Yes,” she agreed as Vigo was tuning into her from the edges of the pen. “This is all part of it. You can see he is listening to me, and I’m listening to him.” I watched as she slowed her body down in order to slow Vigo down from a canter to a trot, and eventually a halt.
On the walk back to the barn, with Vigo calmly in hand, Barbara began talking about what it takes to have a horse-human relationship. “It’s all about compromise—give and take. Compromise, concentration (focus), communication…and patience.” I agreed, and remembered a trailer loading incident about 11 years ago that took over 2 hours in the bone chilling cold which tested all of the above—especially patience. In relating dancing to riding, Barbara stressed the importance of learning to be passive, then learning to follow, then to direct.
As a rider, one must be passive and not get in the horse’s way; one must also learn to follow their partner rhythmically with grace and balance, and then a rider can direct the movement of the horse. The importance of following is the importance of feel and the awareness of the body—the rider’s and the horse’s body. A rider must learn the tempo and the body of the horse. Some European rider’s spend 2 years or more riding on a lunge line before they ever pick up the reins. Some will ride with no hands and go through exercises in which they will be told to close their eyes and tell the person holding the lunge line what hoof is leaving the ground. This allows them to develop a sense of feel that is rooted in their body’s way of knowing through feel and touch. These are exercises that strengthen one’s ability to ride with his/her body and not primarily with their hands.
“Do you really think it’s possible to ride 1200 pounds on 5 inches of mouth?” asked Barbara sardonically. Much like a VW bug, a horse’s “motor” (or drive) resides in the backside, or hindquarters, which means the impulsion carries through the horse from back to front when he is working correctly. That’s a lot of energy to be responsible for on the five inches of mouthpiece on the bit. I watched Barbara as she executed a half halt, where the horse rounds out his back and drives from the rear all in one foot-fall, all with her body placement. She also stopped Vigo with her seat and legs, not her hands. They proceeded to circle the arena performing various upper level dressage maneuvers with that sense of partnership that is seen in a dance hall.
Meeting with her not only deepened my thesis discussion, but (of course) ignited my horse passion again. Sometimes it is hard to be grounded when my emotions for wanting my horses back are so strong. But it made me realize that in the world of horses, I was raised well with a good bit of horse sense and common sense and intuition when dealing with these animals. I had to thank my lucky stars for getting started on the right hoof. Before I left, Barbara introduced me to a cute little bay Arabian gelding named Phamous. I would hope for him whenever I got bored writing my thesis.
Monday, March 15, 2010
"Equestrian art is the perfect understanding between the rider and his horse"
from Reflections on Equestrian Art, by Nuno Oliveira, p 17-19
[The horse] is the ideal companion for man, who loves him and finds in his company something rarefied and transcendent. […]
Equestrian art is the perfect understanding between the rider and his horse. This harmony allows the horse to work without any contraction in his joints or in his muscles, permitting him to carry out all movements with mental and physical enjoyment as well as with suppleness and rhythm. The horse is then a partner, rather than a slave who is forced to obey a rigid master by constraint.
To practice equestrian art is to establish a conversation on a higher level with the horse; a dialogue of courtesy and finesse. The rider obtains the collaboration of the horse by the slightest hint of demand, and the spectator can then see the sublime beauty of this communion. He will be touched by the grace and the form, and captivated as if he were hearing the most grandiose music. […]
The true rider feels for, and above all loves, his horse. He has worked progressively, remembering to help the horse to have stronger muscles, and to fortify its body, while at the same time developing the horse’s brain and making it more sensitive.
It is at this point that a conversation on a higher plane becomes established which the horse will never forget, even if separated for a long time from his rider. He will reply to this conversation easily the day he is reunited with his pedagogue.
[The horse] is the ideal companion for man, who loves him and finds in his company something rarefied and transcendent. […]
Equestrian art is the perfect understanding between the rider and his horse. This harmony allows the horse to work without any contraction in his joints or in his muscles, permitting him to carry out all movements with mental and physical enjoyment as well as with suppleness and rhythm. The horse is then a partner, rather than a slave who is forced to obey a rigid master by constraint.
To practice equestrian art is to establish a conversation on a higher level with the horse; a dialogue of courtesy and finesse. The rider obtains the collaboration of the horse by the slightest hint of demand, and the spectator can then see the sublime beauty of this communion. He will be touched by the grace and the form, and captivated as if he were hearing the most grandiose music. […]
The true rider feels for, and above all loves, his horse. He has worked progressively, remembering to help the horse to have stronger muscles, and to fortify its body, while at the same time developing the horse’s brain and making it more sensitive.
It is at this point that a conversation on a higher plane becomes established which the horse will never forget, even if separated for a long time from his rider. He will reply to this conversation easily the day he is reunited with his pedagogue.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
F r a g m e n t s
Recently, I have been plagued with the thought of selling my saddle, my last remnant of my other, horsey life. Part of me thinks I should just keep it--It's a beautiful saddle, and it's not like I have grown much since the days of 13 & under classes. The other part of me asks "why let it sit in the garage while I wait for a horse again, not knowing when that will be?" I have felt rather conflicted about this decision mainly because it is my last token of my horse-ownership-past.
Mine is a late 1988 Billy Royal equitation seat western saddle with mahogany oil and frosted with silver. I bought it in 1994 with the prize money Norman and I had won with our two top fives at the Minnesota Arabian Horse Fall Festival. I used the rest of the money to update the silver, add more silver and revive it to its current condition.
"Parting with a saddle is like letting go of you binky. *sigh*," wrote my fellow barn-mate, Nicole.
A good saddle becomes part of many memories. When I sit again in my saddle, my body remembers the feeling of "a good ride" as my mind fills in the blank with the embedded rhythm of a soft and supple horse. A good saddle also wears as the saddle-rider interface relates on a daily basis, creating a sense over time that "this saddle was made for my bum." The fit feels like your favorite T-shirt, and those familiar feelings add a comfortable sense of security not only for the rider's seat. The technology of the saddle allows for a closeness kin to bonding, as well as assistance and reassurance through rough transitions--yes, very much like a binky.
Some people never leave their binky behind through life's phases; some people keep them around beyond the "time to burn the woobie." My dad always facetiously threatened to burn my woobie—in light of the scene from the late 80’s movie “Mr. Mom”--and just that threat of forced separation from my beloved blanket would drive me to tears. My "woobie" ended up in my memory box that was sent out to me this past summer by my mother. I found it again, zipped up in that plastic sack, and could see through the layers of faded, threadbare fabric that had kept me so warm since my very first days in the world.
I remember looking at it, knowing that at the time I zipped it up for safe keeping I couldn't have watched it go in the trash. But that hot summer day, I parted with it. Now, sitting here and thinking further back, I can remember what it looked like before it became a well loved sidekick. I remember the sketches and the lace edging and the pink and the little yarn knots that turned to knobbies after so many washes. I remember my mom made it for me before I was born. Most of all, I can remember what it felt like: what it felt like to have with me at night, what it felt like on my skin, and how it felt to be wrapped up in its warmth.
It is funny how some feelings don't fade, whether it's the security of a old binky, the wowsa-tingle-to-the-core of a suave first kiss, or that feeling of a great ride in which every stride falls so easily into place that you feel like nothing separates you from the horse. These moments etch into our body, in our sensory memory that fleshes out our ways of being in the world.
Mine is a late 1988 Billy Royal equitation seat western saddle with mahogany oil and frosted with silver. I bought it in 1994 with the prize money Norman and I had won with our two top fives at the Minnesota Arabian Horse Fall Festival. I used the rest of the money to update the silver, add more silver and revive it to its current condition.
"Parting with a saddle is like letting go of you binky. *sigh*," wrote my fellow barn-mate, Nicole.
A good saddle becomes part of many memories. When I sit again in my saddle, my body remembers the feeling of "a good ride" as my mind fills in the blank with the embedded rhythm of a soft and supple horse. A good saddle also wears as the saddle-rider interface relates on a daily basis, creating a sense over time that "this saddle was made for my bum." The fit feels like your favorite T-shirt, and those familiar feelings add a comfortable sense of security not only for the rider's seat. The technology of the saddle allows for a closeness kin to bonding, as well as assistance and reassurance through rough transitions--yes, very much like a binky.
Some people never leave their binky behind through life's phases; some people keep them around beyond the "time to burn the woobie." My dad always facetiously threatened to burn my woobie—in light of the scene from the late 80’s movie “Mr. Mom”--and just that threat of forced separation from my beloved blanket would drive me to tears. My "woobie" ended up in my memory box that was sent out to me this past summer by my mother. I found it again, zipped up in that plastic sack, and could see through the layers of faded, threadbare fabric that had kept me so warm since my very first days in the world.
I remember looking at it, knowing that at the time I zipped it up for safe keeping I couldn't have watched it go in the trash. But that hot summer day, I parted with it. Now, sitting here and thinking further back, I can remember what it looked like before it became a well loved sidekick. I remember the sketches and the lace edging and the pink and the little yarn knots that turned to knobbies after so many washes. I remember my mom made it for me before I was born. Most of all, I can remember what it felt like: what it felt like to have with me at night, what it felt like on my skin, and how it felt to be wrapped up in its warmth.
It is funny how some feelings don't fade, whether it's the security of a old binky, the wowsa-tingle-to-the-core of a suave first kiss, or that feeling of a great ride in which every stride falls so easily into place that you feel like nothing separates you from the horse. These moments etch into our body, in our sensory memory that fleshes out our ways of being in the world.
Friday, March 12, 2010
T h e o
I had lunch with Mary Midkiff on a beautiful Boulder day in August. I was nervous. It was that same sort of anticipatory anxiety that I get when I am called to the duty of driving a horse trailer full of expensive horses over a route I have never before driven. I had never really met an author before, besides my professors.
But, we had a big thing in common—horses—which made conversation easy. We talked about my thesis, her books and her work with her horses. Then, she told me about a horse she was training.
M: I’ve been working with another Theo. He’s very talented. He has a great personality. He’s bay with a star. He’s looking for a sensitive rider.
A: Oh (desiring groan). My favorite boys were bay with a star. This is the worst possible time for me to have a horse again.
M: You should come meet him.
A: (thinks to self) Gawd, what horse-loving religious studies scholar could pass up a horse named Theo?
I met him one Friday afternoon. He transformed under saddle. He was gorgeous. I was trying not to be in love. It wasn’t working.
I was invited to come and ride him. I came the next morning. I brought Nicole for a voice of sensibility. At this point I couldn’t see straight on the issue.
I watched as Mary warmed him up. I hadn’t ridden much since last fall. This meeting had potential to be disastrous. It wasn’t. It was lovely. We hit it off.
I felt giddy even at the slim .001% chance that I could have a horse again. I entertained all possibilities: another student loan, taking up a collection, eating Ramen.
I ached to have a horse of my own. That feeling, that partnership, is like nothing else in the human realm.
I called Dad. I had nothing to lose to ask him if he would buy his 24 year old daughter another horse. My birthday was coming up. He just laughed. He laughed so hard he dropped the phone. I took that as a ‘No.’
I called Mom, to run my thoughts past her, to see if I was too totally disillusioned by these crazy horse thoughts. She cautioned me against it. But then called me back the next morning:
Mom: Ali, I’ve been thinking about you and your horse decision….
Ali: Yeah, me too….
She tried to offer some suggestions to make it work. It was nice to have someone on my side, someone close who understood. I knew it was still a crazy dream. We ended up reminiscing about our other life with horses.
I had to think long and hard about this decision. Being practical in the face of longing is agony.
But, we had a big thing in common—horses—which made conversation easy. We talked about my thesis, her books and her work with her horses. Then, she told me about a horse she was training.
M: I’ve been working with another Theo. He’s very talented. He has a great personality. He’s bay with a star. He’s looking for a sensitive rider.
A: Oh (desiring groan). My favorite boys were bay with a star. This is the worst possible time for me to have a horse again.
M: You should come meet him.
A: (thinks to self) Gawd, what horse-loving religious studies scholar could pass up a horse named Theo?
I met him one Friday afternoon. He transformed under saddle. He was gorgeous. I was trying not to be in love. It wasn’t working.
I was invited to come and ride him. I came the next morning. I brought Nicole for a voice of sensibility. At this point I couldn’t see straight on the issue.
I watched as Mary warmed him up. I hadn’t ridden much since last fall. This meeting had potential to be disastrous. It wasn’t. It was lovely. We hit it off.
I felt giddy even at the slim .001% chance that I could have a horse again. I entertained all possibilities: another student loan, taking up a collection, eating Ramen.
I ached to have a horse of my own. That feeling, that partnership, is like nothing else in the human realm.
I called Dad. I had nothing to lose to ask him if he would buy his 24 year old daughter another horse. My birthday was coming up. He just laughed. He laughed so hard he dropped the phone. I took that as a ‘No.’
I called Mom, to run my thoughts past her, to see if I was too totally disillusioned by these crazy horse thoughts. She cautioned me against it. But then called me back the next morning:
Mom: Ali, I’ve been thinking about you and your horse decision….
Ali: Yeah, me too….
She tried to offer some suggestions to make it work. It was nice to have someone on my side, someone close who understood. I knew it was still a crazy dream. We ended up reminiscing about our other life with horses.
I had to think long and hard about this decision. Being practical in the face of longing is agony.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Notes of a Horsey Daughter: My experience with Hippophile-hysteria, or “horse-crazy girl syndrome”
I have been horse-crazed for well-over half of my 25 years. I can barely remember how it all started, really. Most of the time I think I bothered by dad about getting me a horse just to see if he would actually do it. But I don’t think I can confess to being that conniving so young in my life. I had a fixation with unicorns and Pegasus as a young girl and had a herd of them in my stuffed animal entourage in bed with me at night. My mother tells me that my plea for a horse began in the second grade when I went on a trail ride in New Mexico. I can recollect fragments of that first trail ride adventure: the horses, the afternoon sun, the dust, the smell of horses, the knotted reins, the old saddle, an unkept mane in front of me and the view of the desert landscape from between my horse’s ears. I remember that while everyone else on the ride complained of being saddle sore the next day, I was proud that I wasn’t; and because of this I thought myself to be a natural horsewoman.
As far as obsessions go, it was all downhill from there. The phrase “Dad, Can I have a horse?!” was the most repeated set of words my father would hear for the next few years. My parents told me they thought it was a phase I was going through, and they were convinced it would pass. When they saw me trying to saddle and ride my younger sister, they began to take me more seriously. Once I realized that my sister was too small and fragile for me to sit on, I started tying her to the wagon like a carriage horse and would make her gallop around the hilly yard with me in the wagon in tow. I knew she didn’t have as much endurance as a real horse would, and neither did the saw horses in the garage. My mind was reeling constantly astride the fantasy of horses. As an avid reader, my parents would often take me to the book store in the local shopping plaza each week. In no time I had burned through every book in the Saddle Club Series and The Black Stallion series. I had always held the image in my head of being able to befriend a wild horse like the Black. And those images in my imagination were so red-hot and vivid, that I probably had a fixation disorder. I longed so deeply for a horse of my own, that I latched on to everything horse: Horse books, horse movies, Breyer horse models, catalogs, posters, and calendars. I was just short of turning into a horse myself.
My dad worked in the heavy equipment business, in the management and sales end, and had come to know many people in west-central Wisconsin—many folks that not only had a need for tractors and earth movers, but also had horses. On the weekends he would take me to their barns and pastures so I could get my fix of real horses. But I was never satiated, and those visits were just teasers. I would touch the horse’s soft muzzles and all those vivid images in my imagination would rear up again. Dad would keep pointing to the mounds of manure to remind me of the great sums of work involved in owning a horse, with no avail. One time around Christmas he took me to a customer’s farm. They had an Appaloosa mare, 4yrs old, not really broke, but FOR SALE. Her name was Maya. My hopes were so high that that horse would find her way into my Christmas stocking. At 10 years old, even I knew that this was not the horse best suited to me, but she needed a home and I needed a horse, and at that moment, that was enough. I kept dreaming and scheming that my parents would buy her for Christmas that year and put her in the bathroom in the finished basement until I found her in the morning (I figured mom would like her in the bathroom because the tile floor would be easier to clean than the carpet). I think I got horse stickers that year instead.
Shortly after that drastically unfulfilled Christmas wish, I joined the local 4-H Horseless Horse Program, a program that matches horse-less kids with kids that owned horses as a mentorship and a hands-on crash course in horses. My horse partner was Erin Kleven, and “my” horse was Miss Tonto Cann, a.k.a. Tonto: a sorrel Quarter horse mare with a stripe down her face that looked like an ostrich. I met with Erin and Tonto as much as possible, helping out with everything horse care related. I showed at the 4-H fair that year and won first place with Tonto in the Horseless Horse 13 and Under Showmanship Class. That summer of ’91 was the summer that I got my very own first horse: a flaxen chestnut Morgan mare named Laraco’s Starfire. “Tulip” and I had many ill-fated adventures as a beginning duo, and a medical catastrophe rendered her unable to be ridden. By that time my sister had recovered from being ridden herself, and had a horse of her own to ride. Soon my parents left their beloved, newly remodeled show home in town, for a fixer-upper with a beautiful barn on 11 acres with a creek running through it on the county line. We had become horse people.
Even to a greater extent than before, I continued to eat, sleep and breathe horses. The barn was my immaculate sanctuary, and I took care of it from feeding to cleaning, and of course, grooming and riding. Mom would drive me weekly to lessons an hour away. When I learned how to drive, I learned to drive the truck and trailer. When I began to shave my legs, I used the horse clippers. While our neighbors were on vacations, I was the local barn-sitter. Our family weekend rituals involved packing to horse shows. And in no time, the 5 stall barn was full of horses. We lived out on the county line for 8 years and had 7 horses in that time: Tulip led to Sophie, Norman, Fuzzy, Lily, Carpet, and Sweetpea. Through my middle and high school years, I felt like I had my identity with horses. Some girls played sports after school, yet, I loathed school days for the time it kept me out of the barn. Although I was always the last person picked for teams in gym class, I had my horses, and that was something I was good at. I never went to High school dances. I defined a hippophile in a haiku poem in English class as “someone who would rather clean stalls than go to prom.” I was the only one in my school with horses so I felt as though I was notoriously special, that I couldn’t really be known without my horses.
When I graduated high school in 1999, my parents decided to move back into town, close to our old neighborhood. At the time I was down to 2 horses which were boarded. I missed the daily barn ritual, but took summer school classes at the University, and visited the horses daily. Once the academic year was in full swing, I met so many new friends who didn’t know me with my horse associations, which made me reflect on my own issues of self-identity-without-horses. Although by that point, the horse was so much of an integral part of my functioning system, that when I sold my last horse in 2002, it was as though I was losing a limb.
I sold Carpet while I was studying in Montana. He had been shipped out from Wisconsin to hang out with me on the ranch I was working at. I decided to sell him because it was too expensive to tote a horse across the country in those years of collegiate learning and unfair to a good horse in his prime to wait for me to finish with school. The woman who bought Carpet lived in Ryegate, MT, through Sweet Grass County, where The Horse Whisperer was filmed. I delivered him myself and I remember thinking how I felt like I was in the movie as I drove through the scenery. It was a strange coincidence to leave my last real horse in the setting that spawns most horse fantasies. Horses have always been part of my landscape. No matter how much I tried to tell myself that I didn’t need horses anymore, I found myself sick from the huge void in my life where the horses used to be. I found that I could not go for more than a month without seeing, touching, or thinking of one. It was a feeling of visceral emptiness. Something in my heart ached. I craved them. Once I moved to Boulder, I was away from horses for about 3 months, keeping myself busy with a new masters program, a new setting, etc., but all it took was seeing a horse painting on a Pearl Street stroll to ignite that passion again. I needed a job and I knew that I loved horses too much to ignore it. I had sent out resumes and a cover letters to 18 area barns, looking for any chance to stick my foot in the manure pile again and be with the creatures that I loved so much. Any horse-crazy girl could tell you a similar tale, and I often consider myself lucky. Most tales of severance from horses may never have a re-connection, some girls only get to dream about a horse of their own, and some women have had the un-fulfilled promises of horses in their youth only to unite with their first horse in mid-life. Horses immerse those who love them deep in piles of labor. Working with horses is hard on the body and the pocketbook, yet people will impoverish themselves just to own horses. The horse-human bond is a crazy thing.
There’s something about boys that just isn’t the same when it comes to the desire for a horse. The desire for a horse is like the mythical desire that epic love stories are made of where the Soul ascends to the beloved, the divine. After my fiancé’s brother read “Notes of a Horsey Daughter,” he said to Kevin: “Well, I don’t think you need to worry about her running off with any men, but I’d be worried about those horses….” And best of all, when Kevin had called my mom to 'ask for her blessing,' she warned him: "But you know she will have a horse again, don't you?" I told him she was right, that it is inevitable, really, and that these animals make me happier than I care to admit. It is a strange phenomenon: boy falls in love with (recovering) horse-crazy girl, only to find out that there is no recovery; it's like a sick addiction or an overwhelming sense of wandering until we feel ‘home’ and whole again on his back. This creates a strange love triangle, and plenty of room for vying for attentions. When my barn-mate Nicole got engaged this summer, I asked her at one point if she had then disclosed to her beau that he not only got her, but her horses, too. An old friend of mine had had her horse well before she had met her future husband, but had sold the horse once they were married. When, after she had raised two boys, she told him that she wanted to get another horse again, he looked at her as if she were crazed and said "Why?" Ultimately, the horse was the last straw to their relationship.
In my life with horses, there have been as many happy trails as sad ones. The world of animals is wrought with emotion: horses die, babies are born, hard-earned ribbons are won or lost, we get kicked, bucked off, bitten. Every time an animal dies on the ranch in Montana, my friend Phil will tell his mother: “Mom, it’s not like you install kitchen cabinets for a living. You work with living things. They die. But you love it, so you pick up and move along.” Whether happy or sad, there are always tears with animals. For me, all it takes is watching a horse on the silver screen, or reading horse stories, or looking pictures of humans and their horses and I am a teary-eyed mess. In my most longing moments, I think back to the memories of when I had my own barn full of horses. I dream about those days now. Those were the moments that I would return to if given a trip back in time. Every horse reminds me of those days. I keep telling myself that if I am going to stick with this horse thing, I should really get over crying. But I think of how the many mystics cried when they experienced God, and cried whenever they felt ‘that’ presence in their hearts, so these tears must mean something.
And that is where this thesis starts: at those feelings of something greater in the presence of the other, in this case, the horse. “Do you enjoy writing about riding?” my friend Rob asked me once. “Yes. That’s what I am writing my thesis about,” I said. “I write them instead of ride them, because there’s nothing to ride home about.” The horses stay alive and galloping in little spaces of my life and large parts of my imagination. I know I am writing my thesis on horses to fill the gap in my life that lacks their warm, breathing presence, because I know I would give almost anything to be that complete again.
Allison Nicole Schultz
March 11, 2006
As far as obsessions go, it was all downhill from there. The phrase “Dad, Can I have a horse?!” was the most repeated set of words my father would hear for the next few years. My parents told me they thought it was a phase I was going through, and they were convinced it would pass. When they saw me trying to saddle and ride my younger sister, they began to take me more seriously. Once I realized that my sister was too small and fragile for me to sit on, I started tying her to the wagon like a carriage horse and would make her gallop around the hilly yard with me in the wagon in tow. I knew she didn’t have as much endurance as a real horse would, and neither did the saw horses in the garage. My mind was reeling constantly astride the fantasy of horses. As an avid reader, my parents would often take me to the book store in the local shopping plaza each week. In no time I had burned through every book in the Saddle Club Series and The Black Stallion series. I had always held the image in my head of being able to befriend a wild horse like the Black. And those images in my imagination were so red-hot and vivid, that I probably had a fixation disorder. I longed so deeply for a horse of my own, that I latched on to everything horse: Horse books, horse movies, Breyer horse models, catalogs, posters, and calendars. I was just short of turning into a horse myself.
My dad worked in the heavy equipment business, in the management and sales end, and had come to know many people in west-central Wisconsin—many folks that not only had a need for tractors and earth movers, but also had horses. On the weekends he would take me to their barns and pastures so I could get my fix of real horses. But I was never satiated, and those visits were just teasers. I would touch the horse’s soft muzzles and all those vivid images in my imagination would rear up again. Dad would keep pointing to the mounds of manure to remind me of the great sums of work involved in owning a horse, with no avail. One time around Christmas he took me to a customer’s farm. They had an Appaloosa mare, 4yrs old, not really broke, but FOR SALE. Her name was Maya. My hopes were so high that that horse would find her way into my Christmas stocking. At 10 years old, even I knew that this was not the horse best suited to me, but she needed a home and I needed a horse, and at that moment, that was enough. I kept dreaming and scheming that my parents would buy her for Christmas that year and put her in the bathroom in the finished basement until I found her in the morning (I figured mom would like her in the bathroom because the tile floor would be easier to clean than the carpet). I think I got horse stickers that year instead.
Shortly after that drastically unfulfilled Christmas wish, I joined the local 4-H Horseless Horse Program, a program that matches horse-less kids with kids that owned horses as a mentorship and a hands-on crash course in horses. My horse partner was Erin Kleven, and “my” horse was Miss Tonto Cann, a.k.a. Tonto: a sorrel Quarter horse mare with a stripe down her face that looked like an ostrich. I met with Erin and Tonto as much as possible, helping out with everything horse care related. I showed at the 4-H fair that year and won first place with Tonto in the Horseless Horse 13 and Under Showmanship Class. That summer of ’91 was the summer that I got my very own first horse: a flaxen chestnut Morgan mare named Laraco’s Starfire. “Tulip” and I had many ill-fated adventures as a beginning duo, and a medical catastrophe rendered her unable to be ridden. By that time my sister had recovered from being ridden herself, and had a horse of her own to ride. Soon my parents left their beloved, newly remodeled show home in town, for a fixer-upper with a beautiful barn on 11 acres with a creek running through it on the county line. We had become horse people.
Even to a greater extent than before, I continued to eat, sleep and breathe horses. The barn was my immaculate sanctuary, and I took care of it from feeding to cleaning, and of course, grooming and riding. Mom would drive me weekly to lessons an hour away. When I learned how to drive, I learned to drive the truck and trailer. When I began to shave my legs, I used the horse clippers. While our neighbors were on vacations, I was the local barn-sitter. Our family weekend rituals involved packing to horse shows. And in no time, the 5 stall barn was full of horses. We lived out on the county line for 8 years and had 7 horses in that time: Tulip led to Sophie, Norman, Fuzzy, Lily, Carpet, and Sweetpea. Through my middle and high school years, I felt like I had my identity with horses. Some girls played sports after school, yet, I loathed school days for the time it kept me out of the barn. Although I was always the last person picked for teams in gym class, I had my horses, and that was something I was good at. I never went to High school dances. I defined a hippophile in a haiku poem in English class as “someone who would rather clean stalls than go to prom.” I was the only one in my school with horses so I felt as though I was notoriously special, that I couldn’t really be known without my horses.
When I graduated high school in 1999, my parents decided to move back into town, close to our old neighborhood. At the time I was down to 2 horses which were boarded. I missed the daily barn ritual, but took summer school classes at the University, and visited the horses daily. Once the academic year was in full swing, I met so many new friends who didn’t know me with my horse associations, which made me reflect on my own issues of self-identity-without-horses. Although by that point, the horse was so much of an integral part of my functioning system, that when I sold my last horse in 2002, it was as though I was losing a limb.
I sold Carpet while I was studying in Montana. He had been shipped out from Wisconsin to hang out with me on the ranch I was working at. I decided to sell him because it was too expensive to tote a horse across the country in those years of collegiate learning and unfair to a good horse in his prime to wait for me to finish with school. The woman who bought Carpet lived in Ryegate, MT, through Sweet Grass County, where The Horse Whisperer was filmed. I delivered him myself and I remember thinking how I felt like I was in the movie as I drove through the scenery. It was a strange coincidence to leave my last real horse in the setting that spawns most horse fantasies. Horses have always been part of my landscape. No matter how much I tried to tell myself that I didn’t need horses anymore, I found myself sick from the huge void in my life where the horses used to be. I found that I could not go for more than a month without seeing, touching, or thinking of one. It was a feeling of visceral emptiness. Something in my heart ached. I craved them. Once I moved to Boulder, I was away from horses for about 3 months, keeping myself busy with a new masters program, a new setting, etc., but all it took was seeing a horse painting on a Pearl Street stroll to ignite that passion again. I needed a job and I knew that I loved horses too much to ignore it. I had sent out resumes and a cover letters to 18 area barns, looking for any chance to stick my foot in the manure pile again and be with the creatures that I loved so much. Any horse-crazy girl could tell you a similar tale, and I often consider myself lucky. Most tales of severance from horses may never have a re-connection, some girls only get to dream about a horse of their own, and some women have had the un-fulfilled promises of horses in their youth only to unite with their first horse in mid-life. Horses immerse those who love them deep in piles of labor. Working with horses is hard on the body and the pocketbook, yet people will impoverish themselves just to own horses. The horse-human bond is a crazy thing.
There’s something about boys that just isn’t the same when it comes to the desire for a horse. The desire for a horse is like the mythical desire that epic love stories are made of where the Soul ascends to the beloved, the divine. After my fiancé’s brother read “Notes of a Horsey Daughter,” he said to Kevin: “Well, I don’t think you need to worry about her running off with any men, but I’d be worried about those horses….” And best of all, when Kevin had called my mom to 'ask for her blessing,' she warned him: "But you know she will have a horse again, don't you?" I told him she was right, that it is inevitable, really, and that these animals make me happier than I care to admit. It is a strange phenomenon: boy falls in love with (recovering) horse-crazy girl, only to find out that there is no recovery; it's like a sick addiction or an overwhelming sense of wandering until we feel ‘home’ and whole again on his back. This creates a strange love triangle, and plenty of room for vying for attentions. When my barn-mate Nicole got engaged this summer, I asked her at one point if she had then disclosed to her beau that he not only got her, but her horses, too. An old friend of mine had had her horse well before she had met her future husband, but had sold the horse once they were married. When, after she had raised two boys, she told him that she wanted to get another horse again, he looked at her as if she were crazed and said "Why?" Ultimately, the horse was the last straw to their relationship.
In my life with horses, there have been as many happy trails as sad ones. The world of animals is wrought with emotion: horses die, babies are born, hard-earned ribbons are won or lost, we get kicked, bucked off, bitten. Every time an animal dies on the ranch in Montana, my friend Phil will tell his mother: “Mom, it’s not like you install kitchen cabinets for a living. You work with living things. They die. But you love it, so you pick up and move along.” Whether happy or sad, there are always tears with animals. For me, all it takes is watching a horse on the silver screen, or reading horse stories, or looking pictures of humans and their horses and I am a teary-eyed mess. In my most longing moments, I think back to the memories of when I had my own barn full of horses. I dream about those days now. Those were the moments that I would return to if given a trip back in time. Every horse reminds me of those days. I keep telling myself that if I am going to stick with this horse thing, I should really get over crying. But I think of how the many mystics cried when they experienced God, and cried whenever they felt ‘that’ presence in their hearts, so these tears must mean something.
And that is where this thesis starts: at those feelings of something greater in the presence of the other, in this case, the horse. “Do you enjoy writing about riding?” my friend Rob asked me once. “Yes. That’s what I am writing my thesis about,” I said. “I write them instead of ride them, because there’s nothing to ride home about.” The horses stay alive and galloping in little spaces of my life and large parts of my imagination. I know I am writing my thesis on horses to fill the gap in my life that lacks their warm, breathing presence, because I know I would give almost anything to be that complete again.
Allison Nicole Schultz
March 11, 2006
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