One day last month Galahad and I were walking by the barn. There was lots of commotion going on: They are putting a roof on the small arena, and things are a bit torn up. That day, the red arena gate was leaning against the hitching post, and there  was a black trash bag underneath it.

Well, Galahad took exception to the changes. As we got close, he pranced, he snorted, he danced and squirmed. His eyes got as big as saucers, and he made it known that this was NOT RIGHT. But interestingly, he never once pulled on the lead rope.

I pretty much ignored his reaction. We kept moving, and along the way I asked him to yield front and hind and back up for me. After that first pass, we made another, and another, and another, until finally he walked by the red gate without reacting.

Then he got curious, and on the next pass I let him stop and look at it. He jumped when I rattled that plastic bag, but quickly touched his nose to it to be sure it really was a plastic bag, not something deadly. Then he sighed and started asking to graze.

So: leadership. After I posted the entry about Dugan, Jay asked me to clarify a couple of things about relational horsemanship. He was concerned that some folks might misunderstand and think I was suggesting that relational horsemanship was all about the horse’s feelings, and letting him express them. Nope. If you do that, you’re apt to get hurt; if not that day, then sooner or later, because the horse is going to take advantage of you.

Relational horsemanship is actually about leadership more than anything else. Leadership, the way I practice it, is NOT about bossing people (or horses) around. Rather, true leadership is the art of getting your followers, or your horse, to cooperate and follow your lead willingly and enthusiastically because they trust you and want to do it.

I posted recently about the qualities of leadership that I find most important here. One of these seems to me particularly important in the episode of Galahad and the Gate. That is the fact that in true leadership (that is, in Relational Horsemanship), the follower is permitted, even expected, to have his or her own opinions. Galahad definitely had an opinion, and he expressed it; but he expressed it respectfully. As a leader, I considered his opinion, but I made the decision. And because he trusts me, because I am his leader, he did what I asked.

My issue with the way I handled Dugan is not that I didn’t lead, but that I led without consideration. I ordered Dugan to obey, rather than asking him to cooperate. It is quite true that Dugan might well have refused, and at that point, as the leader, I would have needed to insist on his cooperation–obedience, if you will. But relational horsemanship, and (IMO) good leadership, requires that we give our partner time to respond willingly.

Of course there are times when an emergency arises and we have to demand instant obedience. That’s part of leadership, too. But if we’ve taken the time to build a relationship of trust, our followers (horse OR human) will respond appropriately and immediately in that moment because they do trust us and accept our leadership.

One more thought on leadership: A leader always has to have a plan, or at least, she has to be able to act like she does. If a leader shows indecision, trust evaporates.

I was surprised when Galahad spooked at that red gate, because it didn’t look scary to me. But I had a plan–the same one that Jay taught me and that I use every time something like this happens. Keep his feet moving, keep going, and pretend the scary object doesn’t exist. And that’s what I did. Galahad didn’t doubt my leadership–he never tried to get away from me. He never pulled on that lead rope. All he did was express his fear, but because I didn’t acknowledge it as necessary (in fact, I ignored it), he soon calmed down.

(One of these days, maybe, I’ll be as good as Jay is: Galahad will come to believe that those scary things actually do not exist! We’re not quite there yet, but we’re on our way.)

Once Galahad’s fear was out of the way, his natural curiousity resurfaced. Only then did he get to investigate, and that, plus the grass, was his reward for trusting me.

As I was putting together an article for a local newspaper on the one-year anniversary of the Ranch’s internship program, I asked the group to tell me what the program has done for them, with a focus on the benefit to our horses. What is it that keeps them coming back?  Is it preparing the horses for their new homes, getting them over their fears, seeing them adopted?

They all agreed that these are important factors that keep them engaged in the often-difficult task of learning relational horsemanship. They are all happy to have a chance to contribute to the horses’ wellbeing. But what surprised me was that every one of them mentioned the effect of this training on their own self-confidence! They have all experienced a positive effect in their own lives and relationships.

Now, I know from my work with clients that horses often have this kind of transformational effect on people, and I hoped that some of our students would experience it, too. What a wonderful surprise to discover that every single one of those who responded had noticed the positive changes!

That’s a powerful affirmation of the work we’re doing: not just changing the world for the Ranch’s horses, but changing the world for all of us. I’m grateful to be a part of that.

A few months back, a friend of mine introduced me to the work of Robin Gates. Robin is a certified trainer in the Carolyn Resnick method, and the videos on the two sites are amazing. THIS is the kind of relationship I want with my horses!

Actually, the horses and I already have already begun to develop the kind of mutual trust and affection that the Resnick method produces. After all, it’s not like there’s one and only one way to do anything in this world. But what I like about it is that it gives a series of steps, a method, that seems likely to expedite the process.

Carolyn’s  DVD describes the basics of what she calls the “Waterhole Rituals,” which are the foundation of the work. I’ve decided to begin working on those with all three horses. Over the next few months, I’ll report on our progress.

At the moment, Galahad and I are doing “sharing space”: just hanging out together. It’s something I knew would be helpful even before getting the book. Galahad and I are doing it a little bit differently, though: Because our small arena is being roofed and the main arena is rather large and muddy, we’re working right out in the big pasture with the rest of the herd. I’ve been sitting out there on a small stool, reading or watching or meditating, just BEING THERE with him.

While I’m sitting there, he comes over once in a while to check on me, hangs out for a minute or two, then wanders off. No treats involved here, either—I don’t want him (or the others!) nosing me just to get carrots or cookies. This “join-up” needs to be completely voluntary on Galahad’s part—that’s the point.

This work will demonstrate the strength of our relationship, and let me watch it change over the course of days or weeks. I believe it will deepen our bond, and I’m hoping to get to know him even better, not just as a riding companion but as a himself, an autonomous being with his own personality, desires, and needs.

It’s been fun to watch how he interacts with his herdmates and find out who the herd leaders really are, what the sub-groups are, and what the horses do during the day. It’s very calming for me, and that in itself is a blessing!

I’ll share our experiences with you here, and we may want to incorporate some of these activities in the work I do with you, my clients.

The other day at the Ranch a couple of women, both of them riding instructors at a local, private barn, came to look at a pony for their lesson string. They only allow their ponies and horses to be ridden a couple of times a day, so it’s not like a major public boarding barn where the poor lesson horses do lessons and trail rides all day long. The Ranch is very particular about where we allow our horses to find their new homes.

I had been doing paperwork and was walking across the aisle to the office when Jay hollered, “You want to ride Dugan?” The riding instructors were looking at “Dugan,” a pretty little Connemara pony who is as stubborn as the day is long.

I was caught completely by surprise. “Sure,” I yelled back reflexively, and immediately started quaking in my boots.

I’ve ridden Dugan before—he and I actually got along pretty well. He’s smart and well trained and, once he’s convinced you will follow through on your requests, is a fun little guy. It wasn’t that I was afraid to ride him. I was afraid to ride him with an audience. And of course there’s the general fear I still have of getting on a horse, the one that goes away once I’m in the saddle.

The instructors had already saddled him up and were in the process of putting on his bridle when I got to the arena with my helmet. I suggested they take the bridle off because I wanted to move him around some before I got on him. They looked at me blankly. Dugan hasn’t been ridden much in the past few months, and I haven’t ridden him in over a year, so I sure as heck wasn’t going to hop on without checking out his mood first.

They didn’t want to take the bridle off. “Just hook the lead rope to the bit,” the instructor said. “He’ll be fine.” But when it became obvious that I wasn’t going to do that, she said, “Well, just put the halter on over the bridle, then.”

So I did. I probably should have spoken up and had them take the bridle off, but I didn’t. I was too cowed.

I walked Dugan out into the arena and put him through his paces. I moved his front end, I moved his hind end, I got him to trot around me in a circle, I had him do lateral work against the wall at a pretty good clip. I did everything that one would expect—all the things I’ve been taught. But even in the moment, I knew something was all wrong.

The thing is, I feel sorry for Dugan. While the techniques I used may have been correct, the intention behind them was not. I was doing “natural horsemanship,” but this was not relational horsemanship by any stretch of the imagination.

Replaying that interaction in my mind’s eye, I cringe. Going in, my preconceived idea was that this was a stubborn little pony who needed to mind. I was rough with him, I was abrupt with him. I didn’t give him a chance to respond to me. I didn’t give him time to actually do willingly what I was asking him to do: I made him do it. My mindset was to make the horse do it, to make him obey.

In that moment I turned into Arthur, my father, and that’s not something I’m proud of. I wasn’t able in the moment to get out of my own head. A true relational horsewoman would have focused not on the actions but on the relationship, on that sense of partnership with the horse, and I was not able to do that.

Shame on me. I got the job done, but it wasn’t pretty. And more than that, it wasn’t right. It didn’t do justice to that little horse, who deserves better.

In my defense, I did have not one but two riding instructors who thought I was nuts, and “God himself” in the form of my mentor Jay, watching. Still, I wish I had been able to stop worrying about being judged. That makes me really sad.

My apologies to Dugan. Hopefully, the next time I’ll be able to do a better job. I guess the first step in changing something is becoming aware of it. Well, I’m now aware, and embarrassed, and determined to do things differently.

This little story isn’t one that I’d ordinarily put on this blog—no horses in it. It’s more appropriate for “It’s an Alchemical Life.” But it follows so well with the post about Nevada and her jaw that it seems to want to be here. So here you are: The Universe reinforcing my growing trust in my intuitive knowings.

Yesterday I was crawling around on the rocks next to my backyard waterfall when my cell phone went for a swim. I fished it out within seconds of its dunking; nevertheless, it was lifeless and still. No pretty green light or tinking bell, no comforting buzz…nothing. I took it apart, dried it off carefully, but still…nothing. Deader than dead.

Now, here’s the really intriguing thing: At the moment the phone took its dive, someone or something inside me said, “Well, dang. That’s inconvenient. But it’ll be fine.” My body said, “It’ll be fine.” No feeling of terror, no sense of dread—nothing. “It’ll be fine.”

But did I believe that? Nope.

Instead, I took to my bed (sad to say, quite literally) and the Drama Queen took over. Tears, wailing, gnashing of teeth ensued: “Why did this happen to me? What can it mean? Those phones are expensive—where will I get the money to replace it? I’ll miss all my important calls! I can’t go anywhere because I might get mugged and have no phone to call for help! What if I die!” Ms. D.Q. has a great imagination and good vocal chords.

A while later I got up again and went to the Ultimate Guide to Life: facebook. My friends had words of comfort and advice, almost all of which revolved around rice and patience. Especially the patience part; not my strong suit.

Three whole hours passed, and the cell phone was still dead. Five hours. Ten hours…twelve. Finally, around midnight, I gave up and went to bed, feeling vaguely betrayed (“You said it would be fine! You promised!“) and quite depressed.

This morning, mirabile dictu, my phone has returned to life, evidently unscathed by its visit to the Other Side. What’s most intriguing is my response: I detected a touch of disappointment in that fact! Wow! The Drama Queen was actually disappointed to find out that she has nothing to tear her hair over. Wow….

So: My intuition was correct once again. I felt that the phone would be just fine, when I listened to my body and not to my head. I felt that way even last night when it still looked to be dead, and even while wailing and moaning about being “wrong,” and “how can I ever learn to trust my intuition when I’m wrong about something like this,” and on and on…and lo and behold, the phone is JUST FINE this morning.

Here’s the Big Question: If I were to change my belief about being in the world, what would happen? What if, instead of “if you want it you can’t have it” (which is what I learned ever so well as a child), the refrain said, “If you want it and work to make it happen, very likely you can have it!” (Yes, even that statement is cautious, but hey—baby steps!)

It’s amazing: First, how difficult that change in belief pattern feels to me, and second, how vastly different my life might be—would be!—if I were to change it. My entire world would change.

My entire world will change. I’m learning to trust, even after sixty years and more.

The Drama Queen is sitting over there in the corner pouting. Get used to it, honey.

Addendum: A friend, reading this, points out that clearly I have not yet put Ms. D.Q.’s crown on Craig’s list. I have to plead guilty to that one. But it’s so pretty….

The horses are at it again, teaching me about life skills. Their latest lesson is about intuition.

It has been so interesting over the last few months, watching the battle that goes on in my head between what my intuition (expressed by my body and my gut) tells me and what my head tells me. And “battle” is the correct word, because no matter how strongly my intuition says not to worry, my head goes on spinning tales of woe and danger. And that’s despite the fact that I know, even with my head, that it’s my body that is tuned in to Guidance

Here’s just the latest example:

This past week I had quite a scare with my little mare Nevada. Because of some other commitments, six days elapsed between my visits to the barn. In that six days, Nevada developed a walnut-sized, bony growth on her lower jaw. Bone growing that fast and in such an unexpected location did not seem to bode well.

OK. So the facts were pretty scary. But I knew with my body that she was fine, or at least that whatever the growth was would not be a problem at all. I knew this. There was no tension: My heart rate didn’t go up, my stomach was relaxed, my gut was at ease. There was no sense of impending disaster—at least physically.

And all of that intuitive information was confirmed by the horses: Nevada herself insisted she was fine. And “R.C.,” our local “wise old horse” (even wiser, in some ways, than Midnight) chimed in. In his terse, old-man way, he said, “She’s fine,” and just shrugged me off—literally turned his head away—when I asked for clarification. R.C. is a horse of few words, who has little patience with panicky humans.

Despite all of that evidence, and despite the strength of that evidence, I continued to fret about how on earth I was going to pay for the expensive operations and radiation—yes, radiation treatments—that Nevada was certainly going to need. And how would I ever get her to Columbia to the vet school? Would she survive? Would I have to make the terrible decision to put her down? And on and on I went, not eating, not sleeping….

The whole time, the Witness part of me was just watching this play out, shaking its head, amazed and a bit sad to see how I was winding myself up over nothing while busily not listening to the quiet voice of wisdom that my body was providing.

This was quite a lesson for me. The vet’s diagnosis, two days later—a problem with teething that would resolve itself on its own within a month or so with no further treatment at all—was so anticlimactic that I cried and laughed at the same time. Wow. All that drama for absolutely nothing—and the entire time, my body, my intuition, knew that it was absolutely nothing, but I refused to listen.

This is just the latest in a series of such incidents, but this one was HUGE because of just how enormous the gap was between my imaginings and reality. As usual in life, the “lessons” (the Guides object to me calling them “lessons”) just get bigger and bigger until I finally get it.

I think I’ve finally gotten it this time. I’m going to go with intuition from now on. Yes, being prepared is a good idea, but worrying myself to the brink of insanity is most definitely not.

I’m going to hang up my Drama Queen crown. Maybe I’ll even put it on Craig’s List.

When I first got involved with horses a few years back, I remember thinking, “Gosh! How will I ever know what they’re thinking? They have no expression!”

Seriously?

Now I marvel daily at just how expressive they are–I just had no idea, back then, how to read the nuances of the wrinkles above their eyes, the pucker of their mouth or chin, the angle of their head.

And they communicate so clearly, once you learn to read them! Here’s a case in point:

We’ve had a dreadful fly season already this year, and the horses have been pretty miserable. Fly spray seems to be more of a condiment than a repellant for the little menaces. Several of the horses are wearing fly masks 24/7 by now. I didn’t have them for any of my guys.

The other day I went to the pasture to get Nevada, who normally whinnies and moves right over to meet me. This morning, she didn’t come, though she saw me right away. She was standing with one of her girlfriends about halfway down the fence line toward the woods, and there the two of them stayed.

I walked over, wondering for a moment if there was something wrong. But no, both horses were just fine. Nevada, though, had something on her mind.

She looked at me, then pointed her nose at her friend’s fly mask, then looked at me again; she made that same gesture three times, just in case I missed her message the first time. “I want one of those.” She could not have been more clear about it.

So, of course, I went and bought her one. She’s never had a fly mask on in her life, but as soon as I showed it to her, she stuck her head right in, ears and all, and gave a big sigh of relief.

So who says horses can’t talk?

Yesterday I had the great good fortune to attend a beginner hoof trimming clinic with Ida Hammer at her place in central Illinois. I don’ t want to become a trimmer (certainly not starting out at 60+!), but I do want to know everything I can about my horses’ feet and the care they need. So a friend and I made the 4-hour trip.

The clinic was amazing, and not just because of the information. It was such an experience, on so many levels!

I had been afraid that it would smell bad and I’d be uncomfortable. Well, it didn’t exactly smell great, but there was no smell of death—the legs were fresh-frozen and then thawed, carefully wrapped with plastic and duct tape to expose only the fetlock and hoof. Those were some gnarly, smelly feet, I’ll grant you. Hooves of all shapes and sizes, in pretty bad condition.

The sheer amount of information that was shared was astonishing and overwhelming at times. Ida’s knowledge is deep and broad, and her enthusiasm and love for the horse is huge. The most important thing I learned was how much I still have to learn—a lifetime isn’t enough!

What was most interesting of all, though, was the “relationship”that I developed over the course of the day with the big horse whose foot I trimmed. There’s no explaining it in logical terms, other than to say it was my imagination running away with me—but I know that wasn’t the case. From the moment I first picked it up, that leg felt alive to me, not in a physical way, but energetically, psychically. That horse was PRESENT. His energy was big, warm, curious, friendly, happy. He was not in the least distressed by what was going on.

As the day went on and the trim proceeded, I found myself talking to him, patting him, reassuring him, like I would have done to a living horse. I was careful to put the leg down gently, and to protect it from people walking past. Doing a good job with the trim was important to me so he could walk properly and freely—even though this leg, obviously, would never again feel the ground in a joyful gallop. No matter.

Call me crazy, but that experience was as intimate as anything I’ve had with my own living, breathing horses. By the time I had that hoof trimmed up and looking great, I felt like he was “my” horse—felt so much affection for him and happiness in his presence! The thought of him running across those heavenly pastures with beautiful, sound feet was a joy.

When it was over and Ida asked who was going to take their leg home, I wanted to raise my hand. But we were several hours from home without a way to keep it chilled overnight and on the trip back.

What, you ask, would I have done with an amputated horse leg? Buried it in our little pet graveyard out in back of the house, with Shadow and Oshie and Wendy the Dog—those other four-legged family members who’ve gone on ahead.

But instead, I’ll write, and honor his memory and his sacrifice this way.

I wasn’t the only one to sense the presence of the horses yesterday. My friend, auditing, says she could feel the entire “herd” there with us, happily grazing and watching us as we learned from their feet and legs, just hanging out with us. Horses, in life and death, are amazing creatures.

Last night, lying in bed at the hotel, I missed my new-found friend and grieved his passing as if I had known him a long time. Those tears felt right and just. This morning, the intensity of the sadness has moved on and I’ve gone “back to grazing.” His memory, and my gratitude, remain.

Many thanks, my four-legged friend! And if you didn’t know love and care in your lifetime, I hope you could feel it yesterday. Godspeed!