Winnow Equestrian Outreach

Bending

nospam@example.com (Julia Wangsgard) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 00:32:34 -0700

Reflecting upon last clinic's ride, I am again reminded of the courage and generosity of the horse. It is January in the Northwest and snowy, frigid, cold. I can see my breath and the breathing of my dark bay Arabian as we work together on bending. My little guy is immensely brave. This is new to us and bending is hard for him. As a young colt, neighboring horses broke into his pasture and chased the little fellow about. Attempting escape, he leaped the fence and impaled chest, shoulder and neck upon a tee pole. There he hung in agony, until found and ministered to. It was believed he would not live â€“ yet he did. He is a tenacious little fellow, even if hot and high strung.

â€œSoften right here, my boy,â€ I whisper in voiceless intention, â€œright here, soften right here.â€ My calf feathers, it nudges, with no go to it, â€œright here, soften right here. Look this way, this way, soft, soft, softer.â€ Elbows are engaged in steady, gentle contact with quiet, so quiet hands. â€œThis way, look this way, but soft right here, right here.â€ Straining, his energy lurches forward but heavy planted seat bones say, â€œright here, stay right here,â€ energy then crashes out into the outside shoulder as the croup swings. He gets off a sideways hip-hop or two. Much too slow, an outside elbow and seat bone engage and back he comes. A stretching heel backs up the swinging croup. Even as he straightens he is ready to go again. I love his lightening quick mind. It is always ready to go again.

He stretches ever slightly forward, I ask, â€œstraight, but look in â€“ soft, right here.â€ My asking is too strong and his neck pops up, his back hollows, outside elbow, seat bone, thigh, and stretching down heel define the outside boundary, a similar concert banks the inside energy â€“ back! Backing fast! I have been too strong and the energy is running backwards! One thing this exercise reminds me is that this little guy can go forward in reverse just as readily as he can go forward in forwardness. But there is a big difference for me. In forward, forwardness there are many thing I can do to change the energy, things to influence, adjust, suggest. But in backward forwardness I can do nothing; it scares me just a little. He is so fast and quick, even in backwards!
â€œWill I ever be soft enough!? Will I ever sequence clearly enough, yet be subtle enough?â€ I agonize inside for a fraction of a split second.

â€œHelp him! Help your horse!â€ echoes the word memory of my instructorâ€™s insistence, spoken to me countless times before this moment. â€œHe needs that much help!â€

There is something I can do, am expected to do, even as he is running back. â€œApplesauce,â€ I tell my seat as I become a soft lump in the saddle. I take deep, slow breaths and in my calm I can feel his mind locked in backwards. I must change something â€“ in clam. I can only think of one thing; taking up the reins in one hand, I set my black gloved hand gently, affectionately but fully on his lower neck and softly call his name slowing and lowering my voice through it. His mind distracts and listens. He stops. I tell him what a good boy he is.

Then we do it again and again and again â€“ right then left â€“ always quickly offering a loose rein at the slightest hint of a â€œyes.â€ Dropping his nose nearly to the ground, his back high and full beneath me, round and around we walk a small circle â€“ scrubbing off excess energy into calm, and then we do it again.

The running back quit before the end of the lesson, though still a challenge not to jig right or left. Stryder never did manage to soften at my leg on the terribly injured right side, there is much long, patient work needed there, but our last go â€“ I caught sight of that beautiful inside nose and eye that was his vey biggest â€œyesâ€ of the night. After sliding off his back and offering the accustomed treat, before going up to our instructor for questions and comments, the two of us stood quietly together â€“ still resonating in the sharing. I love this little guy. Though he is not physically perfect, his courage and immense generosity humbles my heart anew every time we work together. I love working with him and green as I may be, he seems fine being with me.

A Horseman Is Born!

nospam@example.com (Julia Wangsgard) — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 22:47:55 -0700

I remember loving horses before I ever stepped a foot inside kindergarten. I felt drawn to their beauty and grace, not to mention those large liquid eyes bespeaking such generosity. And though I read every horse book in the library and sketched vast imaginary herds along with chiseling out pages of poetry about them â€“ the living creature, itself, always felt just beyond my touch. Oh, I managed to survive a handful of spontaneous horse â€œrides,â€ offered by other lucky horse owning kids, unsupervised and unwise, inevitably ending with my very young self a bruised and terrified heap on the hard ground. Funny, I donâ€™t think my young mind could ever quite pair these jarring painful moments with these most beautiful creatures; serious denial. For surely those liquid eyes and joyful strides called horse could only exude loving, benevolent playfulness. And so goes my childhood memory of the horse.

By my young adult years I had concluded that two kinds of people were deemed lucky enough to interact with horses; those lucky souls born into the horse world and those rich enough to buy in. The rest of us must, by default, come to peace at being relegated to the vicarious experience of others, all the while, longing to touch the lovely horse just out of reach behind other peopleâ€™s fences.

With my resigned horse reality in check, I didnâ€™t give it much thought beyond catching my breath each time one of these magnificent creatures passed through my line of sight until my own first born daughter came into her ninth year. She too had acquired that unique â€œhorse lovingâ€ gene that announces itsâ€™ presence in first words and play imaginings. One evening my daughterâ€™s older friend mentioned 4-H horse night. I pounced on that with the intensity of years â€“ not quite daring to believe it. And though I looked, I didnâ€™t find it right away.

We moved out of the city into a small mountain hugging suburb dotted with many beautiful horses still behind other peopleâ€™s fences. Every day I drove my 10 and 6 year old daughters up the street to School feeling very sick from a last difficult pregnancy. Together we marveled at the many fenced pastures housing the most beautiful horses. We daydreamed and fantasized together rendering each lovely horse â€“ our own.

In one pasture a white haired lady would be out giving riding lessons to young people. My oldest pleaded for me to stop and ask about lessons. Increasingly in trouble with the pregnancy I asked her to wait until the baby came. But I would drive by as slow as possible as all three of us looked longingly at the magic of a horse on a lunge line offering a gentle ride to a child. I still could not quite bring myself to fully believe I could touch that world.

One day in late spring while driving home from school with a tiny premature son in the back seat with his sisters, this lovely lady astride the most beautiful horse I had ever seen, was about to cross in front of me at the intersection. The elegance of the two took my breath away and I could no longer wait. To the cheering urges of my girls, I pulled the SUV over, asked the girls to watch over their preemie brother all propped up with terry- cloth rolls in his oversized car seat, jumped out and walked over to the stopped horse and rider. I blurted out,

â€œdonâ€™t you give horse lessons to children?â€

â€œI do,â€ replied a smiling voice.

â€œDo you have room for two more?â€ I could hardly bring myself to ask the question and then I had to hold my breath in wait for the answer. What if she said no?

â€œWhy yes I do,â€ answered the lovely voice.

A time and place was set. The children and I bounced in our seats all the way home. Little did I know that she was a local 4-H leader of many years, nor did I have any idea how contagious 4-H leadership is whether you can ride a horse or not. I did not know the difference between English and Western riding, or that there even was a difference. All I knew was the most beautiful, kind, elegant lady riding the most beautiful horse I had ever seen said she would teach my children to ride horses.

Those following summer months were magical. In a clover filled pasture under a warm, lowering sun, amidst white, back-lit Dandy-lion heads, I held my tiny, fragile infant son in my arms as my young daughters received their first lessons. The younger child couldnâ€™t help but kick up her stirruped feet in delight, laughing joyfully while playing balance games on the lunge; the older, lithe daughter concentrating so earnestly beneath a furrowed brow, moved rapidly from the lunge to beginning guidance of that most beautiful horse her teacher rode. A new hope filled my heart easing away all those early, dark, Christmas mornings that - for a fraction of a split second - a small black pony waited for me, before my young mind put in order, the dark shadows of an empty, snowy, front yard. The many years of longing, daydreaming, and fantasizing paled into the background with every new touch of a soft muzzle, a breathy, whinny in greeting, a sudden burst of that sweet, pungent smell that says â€“ â€œhorse.â€ A new horse reality emerged.

A more generous world congealed that allowed horses with in it. And though it would be many months before I would mount the dear creature myself, standing through those short hours of beginning lessons in that golden, summer pasture, almost dream-like in my memory anymore â€“ a horseman was reborn.

Julia: Are you getting this?

nospam@example.com (Ann Gilpin) — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 19:27:06 -0700

Hello Julia,

Are you reading this? I think we may be up and running.