Ask Quietly ... Then Wait

Me and Mr. Bud

Early on Wednesday morning I awake to a swell of anxiety, still haunted by my fall off a horse some years ago. I must be crazy to get back on a horse. Then I open the box of black Massimo Dutti riding boots and am reminded of the day, the place, and what was in my mind when I bought all the riding equipment I needed to get back to dressage. I can vividly recall coaching myself aloud to dive into what I feared, in order to create my own happiness.

I load my little white convertible with riding gear and head up country. Minutes later, as I zigzag up the mountain highway, I am awestruck by the beauty unfolding before me —cane stalks as high as my shoulders, pineapple fields wafting a sweet, almost acrid scent, and the green, green mountains straight ahead. I catch site of a double rainbow stretching across the horizon like a multi-colored canopy. This is my Wednesday morning, my life now. 

My trepidation dissipates as I get closer to the horse academy. It feels right, as familiar as returning home after years of wandering. I park, slip on my fitted boots, grab my velvet helmet and gloves and, without even realizing it, am smiling a mile wide. 

I fetch Mr. Bud from the upper field, groom him and tack up at once . My instructor, Anne, cues me to walk toward the mounting block, where I carefully grab a fistful of Bud’s mane, climb up, swing my leg over his wide girth, and ease myself into the small English saddle. Never much of a pet lover, I am passionately connected to my horse. My fear earlier this morning has now been replaced by excitement and a bond of trust. I can feel a wave of calm wash over my entire body. I take a moment to adjust my feet in the stirrups and sit up square and tall, a reign in each hand. Anne waits and then quietly says, "Walk ahead." 

With laser focus and maximum effort, I work to move Bud forward. He does not respond despite my insistence. Anne seems agitated. "Do less, let him carry you ... get quiet, release the tension," she instructs. We enter the indoor arena, where I move Bud to the outside of the mud track. He is sluggish so I step him forward by giving him a nudge, but he doesn't respond. I squeeze him firmly with my inner calves as his rib cage expands against me. His energy picks up for a couple paces so I slide my seat bones back and forth in rhythm, but his momentum is short lived. As I round the corner of the arena, I bite my lip, wince and give Bud a sharp kick with both feet to get him to move. "This is what I want," I say to myself aloud. Anne walks away, shaking her head, no longer calling out three-word instructional cues like "feel his mouth," "sense his energy," doing too much!" Ugh, I think. What ... what does she want? I'm focusing. Why is nothing working? Why is Bud resisting?

I'm now determined to move Bud along the rail and have him do perfect dressage circles in the far end of the arena, as Anne instructs me to do. I've done this countless times. I've got this! The more I press, tighten and shorten my reigns, the more he pulls in the opposite direction. 

"You won't win!" Anne calls out. How I dislike hearing her three-word comments! "He's stronger, Heather. He will win. You will not. Be quiet. Listen!" she repeats three times. 

I am so frustrated now and bewildered by what she wants me to do, I shout back, "I am listening to you!"

Anne smiles as she walks towards me and Bud, holding a long lunge line. She clips the line to Bud's halter, tells me that she is going to set the pace and direction, and that I must simply tie up my reigns, stand in my stirrups and post. “Place your arms up over your head and lightly squeeze Bud with your inner thighs. Then wait to see what you get.” 

Bud and I are now so totally in sync, it's like we are talking. This time when he slows down, I gently rub one of my feet against his hind quarter. It works. Anne signals that we are done. We come to a walk, a halt, I untie my reigns, jump down and hold onto Bud, stroking him with praise. We walk back to the stables and Anne congratulates me for my success in the last part of the lesson. 

"When you get on a horse, you and he are having a conversation. It’s important to understand that if you keep talking and don't get quiet, wait and listen, you never give him a chance to give you what you are asking for. Don’t work so hard. Bud’s your riding partner so he needs to try to comply. But if you don’t give him the time and opportunity to do the work, then you'll be stressed, he'll resist, and then a fight will surely be the outcome. Figure out what you want, ask once with conviction and strength, then get quiet. Nudge Bud gently if he takes too long to respond and then, when he cooperates, sit back and enjoy the intimate relationship you've just worked to create."

As I untack, curry brush Bud's coat and lead him out to field, I'm teary-eyed. Head down, lump in my throat, I remove my gloves and helmet, wash my hands and walk towards the arena looking for Anne. She rounds the corner and I'm certain I take her by surprise as I grab hold of her and blurt, "Thanks Anne, amazing lesson, l just love you, see you next week." She nods. As I walk towards my car, I wonder if she realizes that I was referring to the wise life lesson and not the riding lesson!