I lLove You, I Just Can't Live With You

I took a check and watched as a young woman loaded the mare I raised from a weanling on to her trailer and prepared to drive away. I hurried to my car so I wouldn't have to watch her leave and  because I felt that tell-tale prick behind my eye and my throat clamping shut that signaled I was about to sob. Not a polite wiping away of a stray tear, but a gut wrenching, oxygen gulping bawl. You see, even though the mare was going to a lovely new owner and it was the right decision, I still had a hard time saying good-bye. I loved the mare. She has a unique personality and great talent, but she was not a good fit for me. It only took me about eight years to come to that conclusion. Not unlike a marriage or family, our relationship with a horse can be full of love, but that doesn't necessarily mean we can harmoniously live together. This mare was sensitive and intense, a workaholic and a very strong leader. I, in turn, have become a much more casual rider as a result of a demanding work schedule and just "old age." I wanted to enjoy my time together with an equine partner and not have to work or think so hard. Often times a horse comes into our life because we were meant to learn something only that animal can teach. And learn I did from this red mare. She taught me to be straight, how to let go, to perfect my timing, and to let her carry half the responsibility for the ride because she demanded perfection from her rider. I learned my lessons from her, sometimes the hard way, so now another horse will benefit from my improved skills. And another rider--a more accomplished and younger one--will no doubt benefit from teaming up with this special mare and hopefully together reach their full potential together. People come in and out of one's life and so do horses, but never without leaving something behind. But it's never easy saying good-bye, so instead, I'll just say "thanks" to my dear, red mare.

The Writerly Advice "Show, Don't Tell" For Trainers

by Lisa Trovillion

I read a post today from a Grand Prix trainer talking about teaching the student how to balance a horse in a methodical, systematic way rather than just telling her to execute a half-halt. I've synthesized down the content of the post, which was much more complex and nuanced, but I believe this was the gist of it. Or, this is what I took away from it. See, this is the problem. We as human beings rely heavily on words alone to convey our thoughts and emotions. The thing is, a word can mean various things to different people the same way as a color may look to be a different shade to different individuals. Having worked for years as a linguist/translator I'm acutely away of the micro-layers of meaning behind many words and expressions. In preparing or correcting translations from one language to another, fierce debates had been known to break out and carry on for days over the meaning of one little expression.

So, getting back to riding and the meaning of half-halt--a word that doesn't even exist in the dictionary by the way--what do we do when all we have is our very anemic and flat language to use when describing the dynamic, shifting and subtle art of riding? We try to give the feelings names and to codify this terminology into the lexicon of horsemanship so everyone will be on the same page and know what we are talking about...but we still have trouble. Debates still rage over what really is connection, on-the-bit, half-halt and a dictionary of other terms. Are we seeing or feeling the same thing as the horse person standing next to us when we call it by a certain term? The more I ride and train, the more I realize I had no idea what a half-halt really was. We humans are blessed with the gift of speech, but it is still an imperfect form of communication. We want to communicate with horses, but our language is of little to no use there. We have to translate our intentions into their language. When we become expert at doing so, it seems it is very hard to translate horse language back into human in order to teach others.

How good are we communicating with others? Not very, it seems, on too many occasions. The word is our building block to form sentences, paint images, share emotion, impart information, convince or coerce others. Words are powerful, but their meanings are at times obscure. In writing, we often are told to "show, not tell" because I think it's felt on some level that words are not as clear as action. Although I believe that piece of advice is sometimes overused (I've read stunning novels from authors who "tell" almost the whole story), the point is well taken. Words can let us down. The same in the world of riding. If our instructor stands in the arena shouting "half-halt!" and we think we are doing one, but are instead stopping the forward action with too much hand and not a re-balancing through the horse's body, can we really say we have learned anything? Can we instead have more instructors who, like writers, are warned "show, don't tell" and coach us into accomplishing the desired action without every putting a name to it. Perhaps then we will be freed from the tyranny of the horse terminology and further on the path towards becoming communicative riders.

Updates and Revisions

My literary agent recently arranged for me to get the rights to several of my earliest works back, a “work” being a book. This sometimes happens when a publisher closes their doors or changes focus on the kinds of books they want to publish. When a writer sells book rights to a publisher, the publisher then has the “right” to publish the book for a specific time period in ways, shapes, and forms that are detailed in the publishing agreement, but that are also usually left up to the publisher.

This means an author usually has little to no say about what the cover looks like, or the size of the type, or whether or not it ever becomes an audio book. The tradeoff is typically excellent editing; the support of sales, PR, and marketing teams; and often, a hefty advance in anticipation of solid book sales.

One of the books I got back, Success Within, is eleven years old and used to be one of my most requested books at my horse clinics and at horse fairs and expos. Used to be, until I couldn’t get copies after the publisher sold out to a company that had no interest in this particular title. Long story short, I am in the middle of the last of the revisions of the book for an updated second edition, and it should be out in March. If you are interested, my website will have news of the actual publication date.

In doing the revisions, I was both thrilled and horrified to find how much I had grown as a writer these past eleven years. Granted, I had never been happy with the final edit of the initial book, but far beyond that, I really hope this second edition will be much better written, and far more engaging. I found some of the passages in the first edition simplistic and more than a few thoughts poorly explained. Horror rushes through me when I think of people reading this early work, but that feeling is mixed with huge pride that the book touched a great many lives.

As writers, we all constantly work to improve our craft. We, hopefully, learn to streamline words when needed, develop beautiful passages of prose and place them in the right places, and both cut to the heart of the matter and communicate our point in ways that leave the reader wanting more. That is not an easy task and writers struggle every day to make that happen. When it does, we rejoice! As time goes on, the idea is that we should improve in this and in doing this rewrite, I am very glad to see that I have.

This process of updating and revising, and the strengthening of my craft of writing, is not all that different than what most of us do with horses. We constantly learn about the horse and find new ideas that will improve communication. Periodically, we reject older methods for ones that work better for the horse, and revel in the beauty of those rare moments of perfect partnership. In that way, the craft of writing and the art of riding are not all that different. 

Lisa is the author of My Horse My Partner and Horse Country, among many other books, and the award-winning Cat Enright cozy equestrian mystery series, now optioned for film and television. When not writing, Lisa is a therapeutic riding instructor who consults with PATH and other centers about their horse herds. She splits her time between Tennessee and Minnesota.

Horses, Books, and Sanity

by L. R. Trovillion

I'm only sane because I write and I ride. I see that now.

All last year during a particularly difficult period wherein my horses became unrideable, I swore to anyone who would listen that I had bought my last horse. Friends and family smiled, nodded, and disbelieved me. I was speaking the truth. I'd had my heart broken for the last time. I was done.

A week or so ago I accepted the invitation of a friend to ride a horse at his barn. When I arrived and was shown a very tall, red Thoroughbred ex-racer waiting in the cross ties, I asked myself "What woman of a certain age gets on an OTTB when she hasn't slung a leg over a horse in more than a year?" Well, I'll tell you. A woman who has lost a sense of self preservation or one who is sad over having lost a part of herself. After a short ride (the limit for my out-of-shape muscles) I got off, but wasn't ready to leave. The identity of being a Rider came back to me both barrels and ripped open that plugged up place in my heart which had convinced me that riding was a thing of the past, time to move on, close the book. No. I am a rider--maybe not a great one or even a good one, but that's who I am.

Something inside woke up and took notice. That something got plucked once again this week as I was reading Elizabeth Gilbert's work on creative living, Big Magic. In a passage about persistence I read words that leapt off the page and slapped me in the face. She was talking to me. Gilbert likens the creative mind to a border collie dog. You must give it a job--something to do--or it will find  a job you won't much like, such as tearing up the couch. I laughed, how true! But then she hit home, writing about herself: "...if I am not actively creating something, then I am probably actively destroying something (myself, a relationship, or my own peace of mind)."  I reflected on this. Think of the "creative temperament" here--the many artists and writers who self-destruct. The creative minds that don't create,  destroy. But Gilbert gives those in pursuit of the creative life hope instead of hopelessness. She goes on to explain how creating something gives us an escape. Creating lets us forget for a while our duties, failures, age, backgrounds, enemies and insecurities. Certainly other things in life can do this as well, but by completely absorbing our attention in the act of creating something, for a short and "magical spell" we temporarily relieve ourselves from the "burden" of everyday being.  (And as writers, with our stories, hopefully we can relieve others as well.)

So, back to the myth of the tortured artist. As Gilbert points out, it is not creativity that turns people crazy, but rather not expressing it that threatens one's sanity; in other words, repressing who and what you are. So despite the difficulty, the discomfort, the heartbreak and the fear, I am going to do what I must to safeguard my sanity by being both a Rider and a Writer.

Winter Writing Wonderland

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm obsessed with weather. I have weather applications on all mobile devices, a state-of-the-art weather forecaster in my kitchen window and an amazing barometer/temperature reader in the barn. You see, it's not enough to know I feel cold, I want digital proof! Just this week I feel it in the air and see it in the changing leaves and slowly darkening days. Autumn is upon us with winter not far behind. Full disclosure--winter is not my favorite season, but this year I am going to try and take a different tact and embrace the season instead of fighting it.  I derived a lot of satisfaction in preparing for it yesterday as we mended the barn's front door so it will close properly come time and replaced broken fence boards. I'll get in a good store of hay and pick up my cleaned blankets. I'll be ready, but more than that. I'll stop trying to do what I can't in the winter (and feel bad about it) and instead use the time to do other things. And be OKAY with that. First and foremost on the list of those "other things" will be writing. When the siren call of the outdoors has lost it voice, yes, I'll be putting butt in chair, fingers on keyboard (or notebook) and finishing the first draft of what I believe is a very promising work in progress. And hopefully more.

Like preparing for the winter season, I'm now likewise preparing for a writing season. I've outlined (and I'm NOT a planner) key scenes in the work, drawn up character profiles, worked out timelines, and even attempted to learn a new word processor--Scrivener. I've researched historical background and even cut out inspiring pictures. I'm laying in the proverbial "firewood" to stoke up a blaze when I sit down and hammer out the ending. And edits, and more edits. The winter is almost here. How will you spend the season?

First Horse

by Toni Leland

I never wanted anything more in my entire 8-year-old-life than a horse. 
Not the occasional ride on a carnival pony or camp horse. Or the few-and-far-between rides on my best friend's horse. 
I wanted a horse of my own.

My parents were terrified of horses, and there you have it. End of discussion. But parents don't always have the last word – not when the world around them sees the longing in a little girl's eyes.

To make a short story long, when I was 15, a good friend of my father's took him aside and said, "Look, Toni's never going to get over this passion. She needs a horse and I just happen to have the perfect one."
(I heard about this conversation years after the fact.)

I have no idea how that man convinced my father to let me have that horse, but at the time, I didn't care. My dream was coming true!

At dawn on the day the horse would arrive, I rode my bicycle a mile to the pasture where he would live. It was the longest morning I've ever spent, because grownups don't get started as early as kids. But finally, a pickup truck towing an old blue horse trailer pulled into the lane beside the barn.

Sonny, the most beautiful horse in the world.

I was beside myself. Mind you, I'd never laid eyes on the horse that would be coming off that trailer. Our friend had told me that the horse's name was Sonny, and he was a 16-year-old retired showhorse. Wow! How much better could it get?

The ramp clanged to the ground and a shiny copper rump backed out of the dark interior. Sonny was the biggest horse I'd ever seen.

He was also the homeliest horse on four legs, but I didn't see that back then. To me, he was Walter Farley's Island Stallion.

Sonny and I settled in quite nicely, spending every one of my waking minutes together. This caused no end of problems with my parents. I disappeared with the sunrise and came home just before dinnertime. I was in heaven.

I did not own a saddle, but Sonny came with a good bridle, and we spent many happy hours exploring the trails through the foothills behind my home in Southern Oregon. Sonny was surefooted and always interested in what lay

Parade Day. What horrible posture!

around the next bend. He and my dog, Lucky, were the best of friends and I swear they were the ones who decided what trail we would take. What a great beginning to summer vacation. We even got to ride in the Memorial Day parade. 

Then, disaster struck. While riding through a field with my best friend, Sonny's front foot hit a chunk of wood hidden in the tall grass. He began to limp and I began to cry. We got down off our horses and my friend examined his leg. She'd had her own horse for several years and knew what she was doing. 
She stood up and shook her head. "I think it might be broken."

My world came crashing down around me. Broken legs in horse meant only one thing. We led the horses back home, me sobbing all the way. Late that afternoon, the veterinarian came out and x-rayed Sonny's leg, which by then was huge and puffy. 

"Not broken," he said. "But you shouldn't ride him for the next eight or nine weeks until the bone bruise heals, and then only on soft ground."

Do the math. My summer with Sonny was over. I was overwhelmed with relief

Lucky with a winter friend.

that he would be okay, but devastated at the implications of his injury.

Every day after that, I applied a black, gooey poultice to Sonny's ankle in the morning and again in the evening. I spent my time with him and the dog in the pasture, dreaming of the day when we could ride the trails again.

By September, Sonny's limp had not disappeared, but had grown worse. The nights were growing colder and school had started. One afternoon, my father's friend came to the house and said he'd be willing to take Sonny back home where he could live in a big warm barn and rest his leg. I was devastated, but could do nothing about it. Truthfully, in my heart I knew that Sonny would be better off, but that didn't ease the pain. 

Sonny died that winter in a big warm barn. A horse would not grace my life for another twenty years.

Success with Sarah

by Lisa Wysocky

As both an able bodied and a therapeutic riding instructor, I really enjoy teaching people to ride. But, as most horse people know, there is a lot more to riding than just staying on a horse. In addition to learning to care for horses and the tack, and developing stable and pasture management skills, a rider needs to learn about the horse, and that is best done on the ground. 

This concept was recently brought to the forefront during a lesson I taught a month or so ago. A young teen was having terrible difficulty getting her horse to respond correctly to her cues. It wasn’t that Sarah wasn’t giving the cues correctly, but that her horse, Tramp, was ignoring them.

It was clear that Tramp did not respect Sarah. He was generally a kind and genial fellow who was quite safe for beginners, so he never did anything to put her in danger. His disrespect took the form of making Sarah ask four or five times to move from the walk to the trot, or from the trot to the walk. If she pointed tramp at a trail obstacle, he’d veer two feet to the left or right, no matter how correct her steering was. I could see how frustrating that was for Sarah.

I had to work hard to convince both Sarah and her mother that Sarah getting had a better chance of learning to ride off her horse. But, convinced they finally were. With no round pen in sight, we spent the next lesson doing leading exercises. Walk, trot, turn, stop, move the hips, and back. At first Tramp was sluggish, but as Sarah’s focus increased and her body posture became more businesslike, her giggles and frustration decreased and Tramp's ear focused in on her and he began to respond quickly and correctly.

The next lesson we did walk/trot reining and Dressage patterns on the ground, and Tramp became engaged and responded so well, that by the end of the lesson, she was able to do the exercises without touching the lead rope. When Sarah got back on during the third lesson, Tramp was a different horse.

Most of us are just like Sarah. We love to ride, but do not take the time to do foundation work with our horse. A riding instructor once told me, “if you can’t do it on the ground, you can’t do it in the saddle.” That is so true. Groundwork is consistently a part of my interactions with my horses.

I am so proud of Sarah. I am honored that she trusted me enough to try something different, and excited that she listened and took direction well, even though she was out of her comfort zone. Students like Sarah remind instructors like me why we do what we do, and I can’t imagine doing anything else.

If you'd like a copy of some of the leading patterns Sarah did, they are a free download on my website. Enjoy!