Lessons from my Dad

It’s no secret that I think my Dad was a saint, or more likely a bodhisattva, sent here to lead an exemplary life for those who knew him to follow.  Here are some of the lessons he taught me in his time on earth.  For those who knew him and loved him, what lessons did you learn?

1. He taught me to shoot, not to shoot well, because I didn’t have the aptitude or the desire.  But, he taught me to handle and respect a gun.
2. He taught me that the value in a person or animal is not in what they can do for you, but what you experience while you are with them, what you can learn from learning about them, and how you can help them.
3. He taught me all the words to What do you do with a Drunken Sailor and Waltzing Matilda.
4. He taught me how to respectfully disagree with a person.
5. He taught me that every animal is exactly as intelligent as it needs to be--there is no point in discussing the intelligence of a horse, a pig or a fish--they are all perfectly evolved to be what they are.
6. He taught me to throw a straight punch.
7. He taught me to appreciate classical music, and to enjoy playing it, even if I was a less-than-mediocre musician.
8. He taught me to identify native trees and plants and to identify birds by their songs (I wish I remembered those lessons a little better).
9. He taught me poems:  If by Rudyard Kipling, The Rhyme of the Restless Ones by Robert Service and Invictus by William Ernest Henley.
10. He taught me that, when given the choice, always order the house wine, but always order an imported beer.
11. He taught me to love Shakespeare, especially Henry V.
12. He taught me the value of quiet in the wilderness.
13. He taught me how to work, and how to give my word and follow through on it.
14. He taught me to “fill up the back of a shovel, because then the front takes care of itself”.
15. He taught me how to pace out 100 yards and how to find corner monuments in the middle of the woods (he was a land surveyor).
16. He taught me that there is very little in life that cannot be patched up with either duct tape or baling twine.
17. He taught me how to cook a steak.
18. He taught me that when training horses, as in life, sometimes things around you get pretty crazy.  In those moments, the best thing to do is to “be a post”, hold your ground and wait until things calm down to make any movement.
19. He taught me how to accept a debilitating illness with grace and courage and to face death with the peacefulness of a life well-lived.
20. He taught me to love bagpipe music.
21. He taught me that the true value in things is not what they look like but what their purpose is and that the more scars a person, animal, or object holds, the more precious it is.
22. He taught me how to read a map and draw a scale drawing.
23. He taught me to drive a tractor and paddle a canoe.
24. He taught me that if you're going to have a knife, keep it sharp, if you're going to have a gun, keep it clean and if you're going to have a horse, keep it mannerly.

Wanting the Ridiculous

I used to imagine God as an image I got from a Taoist book.  It’s the idea that we are all God; that God decided to become multiple, many beings and inhabit the entire world.  But, we forget that we’re God, except in certain moments, and we certainly forget that other people (and beings) are God, too.  That has been my guiding metaphor for God for the last several years—a God that is part of us and with us, in which we live, love and hurt.

Now I realize that that God can be Christ for me.  Maybe it isn’t how Christ is for everyone, but it certainly is very close to how Anglicans describe Christ.  Christ is with us always, has always been and will always be.  The story of Jesus’ human manifestation, with the virgin birth, the miracles, the death and the resurrection is there to illustrate that Christ is with us.  Not believing in the virgin birth and the resurrection doesn’t mean that Christ isn’t with you.  But, believing in it makes the whole thing a little bit sweeter, more human, and more mysterious.  I don’t just want to believe that Jesus was an important teacher who was close to God, or even was a human man who realized his “god-self” fully and lived as an example to us.  I want to believe that Jesus was a conscious part of God (the God that is in all of us that we forget about), who became flesh to illustrate a point to us all, in the most dramatic, surprising and mysterious way that we cannot still comprehend.  I WANT the mystery of it.  I want the audaciousness, the ridiculousness, the unbelievable.  I want to be humbled by the story.

I want this because I want a path to get to God, somehow.  I know I can’t understand God, or approach God, but Christ gives us a connection, a reminder of the God within ourselves.  Christ is the way, the truth and the light.  Although I can’t comprehend the entire mystery of Christ, I can relate to parts of it.  Because God became human, we can identify with God a little bit.  Christ makes God real for us and begs us to act upon that realness.  It’s not enough to live in philosophical ideas of how we’re all parts of God that forgot about being God.  I need to live in Christ, a person whose story we can follow, whose pain and love we can feel, and look for Christ in others.  I need something personal.  So, now I’m beginning to understand what it means to “take Christ into your heart”.  It’s still kind of scary.  But, it’s also compelling and very necessary to me.  I need it.  The ridiculousness of it makes me need it even more.

The Story of Ben (to be continued)

This is the story of a special, average, every-day horse.  The kind of horse who was carefully bred, raised, trained, shown and loved by a family.  The kind of horse who was never a Horse of the Year, a regional champion, a Grand Prix contestant.  The kind of horse who served his owners dutifully and cheerfully every day of his life.  The kind of horse who made his owner smile whenever she thought of him.  The kind of horse that we all know, who live with us every day.  The kind of horse who is not special to everyone, but extremely special to someone.  His name is B.W. Bendigo, or Ben to those who love him.

If a rider is lucky, one or two horses truly become her partner.  Ben was one of mine.  I was 14 when he was born and 17 when I started him under saddle.  I had started a couple of other horses by this time, but he was truly MY project.  For the first 3 years of his riding life, I was the only person on his back.  

Horsemen talk about a thing called “feel”.  Feel is difficult to define, but the best definition is the connection between horse and rider.  It can be physical connection, between the seat, legs and reins.  But, sometimes one can have a “feel of” a horse without even touching him.  Feel is the way a rider and horse work together.  One cannot achieve harmony, or even communicate without a nice, soft feel.  Feel is not taught, but learned; it grows organically out of time, patience and attention to each other.  Ben was the first horse I trained thoughtfully and got a true “feel of” the horse, and I was the first rider he “got the feel of”.  For better or worse, Ben and I created each other’s feel.

Things weren’t always rosy and lovely between us, of course.  Ben was a Polish Arabian and, true to his breeding, tended to be “hot”.  A “hot” horse is full of energy, light in the bridle, light to the leg and quick to react to stimuli.  To this day, that is the type of horse I love the most--because of Ben.  But, hot horses are not always easy.  One day, a judge spoke to me after a class.  He said, “I wish your horse would quit bucking in the canter departs, because he’s a nice mover and I’d like to place him.”  I said, “I wish he’d quit bucking, too, sir!”  A few years later, I decided to train Ben in dressage.  I was eager and intense and Ben wasn’t exactly convinced that this new sport was for him.  After a frustrating ride, my trainer asked me, “Does he ever run away with you?”  I answered (honestly), “No, he always stops when he runs.”

As my ambition grew, I had to leave Ben behind on my family’s farm in Ohio.  I took a position as a working student, pursuing my dream of becoming a dressage trainer.  The lessons I learned on Ben’s back served me well.  Once, a trainer was critiquing my riding (and he was NOT going easy on me); the only compliment he could say was, “I have never seen you lose your temper and take it out on a horse.”  I said, “I’ve had some horses that would have taken me out if I’d lost my temper on them.”  Thanks to Ben I learned patience, or at least forbearance.

By the time Ben was 13, I felt it was time to let him go.  This wasn't an easy decision, but I believe it was the right thing. I have always believed that if a person has a well-bred horse with a good temperament and trains that horse with patience and consistency to be a willing partner to the rider, then that horse will have a happy life.  People will want that horse and will want to take care of him.  I wanted other people to benefit from Ben's gifts, as I have benefited from the training of my other horses.  I felt it was time to pass him along.

So,I sold him to a nice family and helped two girls learn to ride him.  He had matured by then and was a really pleasant, sensitive riding horse.  It seemed like a lovely home.  After a few years, the family let me know they’d found a home for Ben, unless I wanted him back.  The home sounded nice to both of us, with other kids around to pay him attention and a place where he could be lightly used for the rest of his life. 

Since then, something went terribly wrong.  On Tuesday, April 9, twenty-three horses were removed from a farm because of severe neglect.  Five were found dead in the stalls.  Conditions were horrific.  I have been told there was no food on the property and no water in the stalls.  One of those horses rescued was Ben, MY horse.  They found him dehydrated, starved within inches of his life, his halter leaving grooves in his face, covered in tar-like feces and standing in filth.  And he was one of the lucky ones who made it out alive.

He is now in the hands of a rescue organization, Pawz and Clawz, who are caring for all the horses in the best way possible.  He is building back his strength, with lots of love and attention from eager volunteers.  I hope that I can adopt him when all of this is over and take him back home to where he was born.  He can live out his days in 20 acres of pasture with his old friends.  My family bred him, I picked him out as mine, I trained him, I showed him, I sold him to nice family who thought they found him a good home in retirement. I want him back. I want a Disney movie ending for all of this suffering.

So, what is the moral of this story?  I have NO idea.  Something went terribly wrong at that farm and the people could no longer take care of the horses.  How does this happen?  We can say someone should have turned them in sooner, we can say they should have turned over their horses, we can certainly say I should have never allowed my horse to end up there.  All of those statements are true, but I'm not sure that any of them help.  With a situation so gruesome, I can’t waste time with what should have been.  We can only move forward.  I think the only message from this is that terrible things happen in this world for inexplicable reasons.  But, here’s the beauty of it.

When terrible things happen, people come out of the woodwork to help.  In a matter of hours, the Animal Control officer organized groups of people to feed and transport the horses to a new home.  Horse lovers from across the area came together to clean stalls, groom, donate their time and money to keep 23 severely starved horses alive.  Vets and farriers donated their time and resources.  Clawz and Pawz phones are ringing off the hook with people wanting to help.  My horse is still alive because of all of these people.  Thank you for saving my Ben.  He isn't famous or very special to very many of people, but he is everything special to me.

Information on the rescue can be found at http://clawzandpawz.info/

It's Not Cool

After hanging out with the Episcopal crowd for a month or so,  I had a realization.  The fear that held me back before  was not of Christian theology; I was afraid of Christians!  I was raised by my Mennonite mother to have faith; I was raised by my Buddhist father to question: to question what others tell me, to question what I read and to question myself.  I know I can find meaning in a good Christian liturgy.  I am an English teacher—I can find metaphor and symbol in many places.  I know I can hold my own in a theological discussion.  What I might lack in education, I will make up for with reason and argument.  I might “lose” but I will certainly enjoy it.  So, why not just jump into a Christian church and see how it goes?  It’s clear my spirit is hungry for a celebration of God’s love in Jesus Christ.  So, why not?

Well, until recently, I was afraid of calling myself a “Christian”.  It has been a long, long, time since I used that word to describe myself.  When my husband and I talked about our beliefs (early on in our relationship), I said, “I think Jesus is OK, but I don’t really believe in original sin.  I certainly don’t believe in the subjugation of women, or that homosexuality and sex outside of marriage is a sin.”  My Roman Catholic husband said, “If you believe in Jesus, you’re a Christian.”  I didn’t buy his definition—it seemed too easy.  It seemed like I couldn’t be a Christian if I didn’t believe those things.  I figured many Christians didn’t believe that stuff either.  But, I thought their churches taught those ideas and the people just held their own views, quietly in their own heart.  I didn’t want to have to keep quiet, or be told I was going to hell.  I didn’t want to hear that I had to be “saved” by some mystical force I didn’t understand.  I could never figure out what was so wrong with me and what would be changed if I was “saved”.

I was afraid to identify as Christian, because I thought that so many Christians were self-righteous, judgmental and sanctimonious.  I had been hurt by those people before.  The people who tell my sister that our father is in hell, no matter how spiritual he was, or how much of a great man   he was.  That he’s in hell just because he wasn’t “saved”.  That’s hurtful.  I’ve had conversations with people about our similar upbringings.  Then those people start talking about how terrible it is that states are now passing laws to allow gay marriage.  I say, “Where did you get the idea I was against gay marriage?.”  Well, you were a Mennonite, weren’t you? (Never mind that I do not recall a single Mennonite EVER saying that homosexuality was a sin.)

Well, I’m OK with sin now.  Rather, I’ve experienced my own sin and the well-meaning sins of others.  I can admit that I’ll continue sinning, no matter how hard I try not to.  And, I’m ecstatic to believe that it doesn’t matter—that God loves all of us sinners, no matter what.  So, I can make confession.  I can even believe some sort of metaphorical story about original sin, because I’ve seen people with the best of intentions break the hearts of all who love them.  I have seen good people do terrible things.  I know people are flawed.  So, agreeing that mankind sins isn’t much of a stretch anymore.  Especially when it comes with this wonderful story of divine forgiveness of ALL sins—period.

I also began to realize recently that the most important thing to being a Christian isn’t accepting the idea of man’s dominion over nature, or that sex outside of marriage is a sin, or that women should be submissive to men.  Many Christians don’t believe it and their churches don’t teach it either.  It’s not just people sitting in pews, filtering the “party line” that comes from the pulpit.  It’s not even that important.

What is important is saying, “Yes”.  Yes, I need God in my life.  Yes, I believe that Jesus is divine and holy and redeemed the world with his sacrifice.  Yes, I believe that God loves me, no matter how badly I hurt or how badly I screw up.  Yes, I believe there is a great mystery to the world and God and the Christian story is part of it.  Yes, I want to surrender to Christ and follow him (oh, that’s the harder part, I think).  That’s what being a Christian means to me at this moment in my life.

A good friend and mentor said to me once, “Being a Christian is embarrassing.”  Maybe cradle-to-grave Christians wouldn’t understand that but it resonated strongly with me.  During my late teens and twenties, I figured I was way too cool to be a Christian; that that old faith about people wandering around in the desert thousands of years ago didn’t have much to do with me.  Paganism was kind of cool, but too unfamiliar and scary for me to try it.  Atheism was cool, but it lacked a spirit and mystery for me.  Buddhism was rational, cool and actually very helpful; but I lacked the discipline to be a very good Buddhist.  Unitarian Universalism is proud that it’s cool because it’s so expansive and tolerant.  (Although I’m not sure how tolerant the UU’s are of Republicans.)  Basically, everything else I’ve tried was quite a bit “cooler” than Christianity; and I thought I was “too cool” to be a Christian.  But in the last year or so, I was surprised to find out that Christianity actually had quite a bit to do with me and even more surprised to find out that I really, really want it.  Still, it is decidedly not cool.

Still, I can’t put a Jesus fish on my car.  I don’t display the Christian books and I only play hymns on my Ipod when it’s just the kids and me in the car.  I talk about church, as something I do, not something I feel.  I will not quote the bible in my facebook status, except as a rebuttal against someone using it to bludgeon others into their way of thinking.  I’m not comfortable with public displays of faith.  Maybe someday I’ll come around to it.

But, I think that being a Christian is supposed to be embarrassing.  The disciples were embarrassed at times, I’m sure.  Jesus made sure to disrupt cultural norms and ask burning questions of the elite.  Peter denied Jesus three times before the cock crowed—remember?  Christianity is supposed to humble us and it’s not cool to be humble.  We’re supposed to admit our weaknesses and surrender to a greater love—that’s not cool, either.  We’re supposed to love our enemies, and to love the Lord our God with all our mind, with all our heart, with all our soul—it’s not cool to care that much about anything. If we can be embarassed daily by God’s overwhelming love for us in Jesus Christ and our undeserving nature, then maybe we’ll get a little closer to God.  Jesus says to give up our lives to follow him; not to make sure we look good doing it.

Re-learning to be a Christian--the Beginning of the Story (more or less)

I had been attending a Unitarian church for about 4 years and really enjoying it.  I made some meaningful friends and done some meaningful work there.  I taught some religious education classes, joined the book club and several discussion groups and even led two church services.  All of this exploration has led me to read some Christian books and EVEN the Bible.  I was surprised last year to find out how meaningful the Christian view of things was to me.

I was finally beginning to see beyond the “Sunday School version of Christianity” that I got when I was a child.  I was beginning to see a universal story of salvation and some of my hang-ups began to slowly melt away.  I wasn’t offended at the idea of sin anymore, because I know that we all sin.  I’ve done some pretty rotten things, but that doesn’t make me a rotten person—it just makes me human.  So, if that’s what human is, well, then we all sin.  And, we can’t help it.  We can avoid it, confront it, feel bad about it, make amends for it—all kinds of things to help us do it less and to help it hurt others less.  But, we still do it.

And, it’s OK that we do it, because Jesus saved us.  And, according to Robert Capon’s view of the mystery of Christ (as I understand it), Christ had always saved us and was always with us.  We just didn’t know it and people were busy trying to be religious and follow gods and such.  Then, Jesus took mortal form to get us a message and show us through example.  Some people caught on, but many didn’t.  So, he took the most crazy way out—he let us kill him.  He used what Capon says is “left-handed power” and gave in to us.  But, we didn’t win.  He woke up again and started walking around and telling us how we don’t have to die either.  He showed us that he had already saved us—us and everyone else in the world before and after, forever—saved us from ourselves and made us whole.

As I write this, I believe it. But, I can’t quite believe I believe it.  I was so afraid of this.  I was afraid of being “saved”, because I didn’t understand what it meant to “take Christ into my heart”.  I remember having an image of a man inside of me and that was scary.  I was afraid to “confess and be saved” because I didn’t understand how I would be different and why I wasn’t already saved.  Now, I realize that not all Christians are hung up on this idea.  Capon says that Jesus is the light of the world, not the lighting company.  He says he shines like the sun, on everyone, and we don’t need some special “hook-up” to get him.  We don’t need baptism, confession, sacraments, communion or being “saved”, because we already are.

So why bother with the communion and all that stuff?  Why do I suddenly hunger for the Lord’s Prayer, communion and singing the Doxology?  It's because I feel like there's a party going on somewhere that I'm invited to and I finally want to join.  If I can buy into this incredible story, then I want to celebrate it.  I want to be knocked down by it, made quiet by it, brought to tears by it.  I want the whole extravaganza.  And, I am incredibly surprised that I want it.

The Maze--Thoughts on the Journey of Horsemanship

I am not a visual thinking person most of the time.  My mind works in numbers and letters.  I see schedules and calendars, words and number lines.  But one of the most persistent images that appears to me regarding the pursuit of horsemanship is a maze.  I see a large labyrinth, green and bushy with twists and turns and no clear path.  Some paths lead to the center—the goal, which is pure harmony of horse and rider—and some are false starts.  The farther one travels down a dead end, the closer the briary bushes come to the skin.  Eventually, the horseman on the wrong path finds himself closed off, backed into a corner.  There are two ways out, he can push through the thorns and undergrowth, through the very wood of the trees and risk ruining himself and the horse in the process or he can backtrack—carefully retracing his steps until the path clears and another way opens up. 

            Many of the false starts are appealing in the beginning.  Disguised as easy fixes or mechanical devices, the dead-end paths lure many trainers.  With every thorny cut, or hopefully before blood is drawn, the horseman learns to recognize the wrong path.  Eventually, he can identify wrong turns quickly after, or even before, they are made.  I think of this as following a feel.  When riding and searching for lightness or harmony with the horse, a creative rider adapts.  He may add more of one leg or rein, use more seat or change the tempo of the gait.  If he listens, the horse will instruct him which change works and lead the rider to the correct path.  Wrong paths are often identified by increases in the horse’s tension.  We all know the signs of grinding teeth or wringing tails but it may be more subtle, such as leaning on one rein or becoming lazy on one leg.  The more a trainer attunes to his horse, the quicker the right path or the right feel will become natural.

            As a horseman progresses down a path, if his work is studious and correct, the labyrinth behind him straightens into a wide boulevard.  He can easily see the false starts for what they are and he can follow that right path again and again.  A generous person also learns to instruct others in the correct way.  A good teacher of horsemanship shares his mistakes and protects his students from making them as well.  He lights the way ahead for those who follow.

            For the student following his mentor, the lighted way varies.  Sometimes it beams like a spotlight.  Every student experiences those “lightbulb moments” when the right way becomes blindingly obvious.  The follower wonders how he could have missed it originally.  Those spotlights are easy to follow and illuminate both what came before and future lessons.  For example, once a rider is aware of the timing of a horse’s feet and how to influence the movement, many paths are open.  Application of that knowledge is broad and lights the way down difficult portions of the labyrinth.

            No matter how far a student progresses, there are times when the way ahead is obscure.  Sometimes a trainer recognizes the false starts surrounding him but is unsure of the right path.  He continues to retrace his steps in a confusing circle, avoiding the obvious dark paths but still not approaching the light.  A conscientious horseman may keep his horse out of the thorny bushes but not progress any further.  Here is where the mentor leads the student out of his never-ending circle.

            In these moments, there is no spotlight.  Instead, I envision the teacher leading the student through the maze by a lamp that flickers and is hard to see.  The student must follow closely, feeling the way and surrendering his thoughts until the path opens to him.  Trust must be implicit between leader and follower, as often the path goes against the student’s initial idea.  But as they progress, the student finds and recognizes the purity of the right way.

            These lessons are often difficult for both teacher and student.  If a rider was busy circling around, avoiding pitfalls, and is guided ahead by his mentor, learning takes time.  The student wonders if the way will remain open behind him or block the return path.  I think of these as the “mindblowing” moments; the student knows something remarkable just happened but much processing is required.  These are the lessons one goes home and “chews on”, mulling over and over.  I think that as skills progress, a student has more difficult lessons than easy.  The details become finer and harder to see and the expectations rise.  Here is where real horsemen are tested; many faint-hearted riders take a false path and burst through with force or give up altogether the pursuit of harmony.

            In my mind, a student of horsemanship lives in this maze every day.  The path behind him is clear and he is confident of what he has learned.  By listening to his horse, he can identify wrong paths more and more quickly.  The lightbulb moments keep him coming back to the maze.  He loves the euphoria of a clear, open path when moments before it was thorny bushes.  But the real learning between master and student occurs by lamplight.  A good teacher leads a student by shaping the way slowly, opening each branch before him and allowing him to touch it.  The student surrenders to the teacher, feeling his way behind him and remembering the path.

            I am so grateful for the horsemen who have lit my path.  I am lucky to have worked with a few good trainers and maybe even a great one.  Through their painstaking explanations and exercises, I have progressed into the labyrinth, leaving an open road behind me.  I hope to repay those who helped me by illuminating others not as far down the road as myself.  I am hopeful that I can navigate the maze successfully, landing on a wide plain of harmony between horse and rider.

            This wide plain is a horseman’s nirvana, where all becomes clear and the barriers between man and horse melt.  During every journey, the rider glimpses rare moments of clarity when the horse follows his very thoughts.  This is what keeps so many of us coming back to the maze.  I wish every traveler good luck on his or her journey. My advice is to stay true to your instincts and listen to your horse.  Just as importantly, one must find the right master and follow him closely through the sticky parts.

Lessons Learned from Training Horses

In his book, Mastery, aikido instructor, George Leonard describes how the path to mastery can help attain a higher level of excellence and a deeper sense of fulfillment in a person’s life.  The master’s journey begins with a special pursuit or skill.  But, as the journey progresses, the discipline and lessons learned on the journey spill over into the other areas of a person’s life.  On the path to mastery, life itself can become the practice.

In his book, Leonard says:  “Learning any new skill involves relatively brief spurts of progress, each of which is followed by a slight decline to a plateau somewhat higher … than that which preceded it.” (p. 14).  “To take the master’s journey, you have to practice diligently, striving to hone your skills, to attain new levels of competence.  But while doing so—and this is the inexorable fact of the journey—you also have to be willing to spend most of your time on a plateau, to keep practicing even when you seem to be getting nowhere.”  (p. 15).  “Rather than be frustrated while on the plateau, you learn to appreciate and enjoy it just as much as you do the upward surges.” (p. 17).  You learn to LOVE the PLATEAU.  “And despite our society’s urgent and effective war against mastery, there are still millions of people who, while achieving great things in their work, are dedicated to the process as well as to the product—people who love the plateau.  Life for these people is especially vivid and satisfying.”  (p. 44)

There was once a Zen archery instructor, a master in his craft, who came to the United States from Japan to teach.  If you know much about Zen archery (and I know just a little) you might know that the purpose of the pursuit is perfect practice.  The point is to develop the perfect stance, technique and rhythm, so that hitting the target is a product of perfect form.

He had been teaching here for 10 years or so when a reporter came to interview him.  When the interviewer asked, “How is your instruction going here in the U.S?”, the master answered, “It’s terrible!  These Americans will NEVER understand the concept of not aiming for the target.  You see, Zen archery is about best practice, without attachment to the result; it’s about discipline and repetition until a bulls-eye is just a byproduct of the perfect preparation.  Americans just do not GET this.”  The reporter asked, “What will you do?  Will you abandon your teaching to go back to Japan?”  The old man replied, “Of course not—this is my PRACTICE.”

So, why is this story important to me? Well, for one, it reminds me that when I am learning a skill--whether the skill is riding horses, playing music, yoga or teaching children--the important thing is to get up every day and PRACTICE—do my scales, my warm-ups, my strengthening exercises, learn new skills and struggle with them—not only so I can win a prize (although most of us enjoy winning) but so I can just get better.

Secondly, this story helps me when I’m frustrated or angry, when I stop loving the plateau.  Things don’t always go the way I wish they would.  Practice isn’t always easy.  When I wish that something would just hurry up and get better, already, I become impatient and I lose focus.  If remind myself of the Zen instructor, those difficult situations aren’t frustrations anymore, THEY are the practice.  And like the instructor, I have to get up every day and do it.

        The pursuit in my life that became a spiritual path is training horses, specifically in the discipline of dressage. Dressage was developed during ancient times as a way to ready horses for hand-to-hand combat, but it quickly became an art form, especially during the Baroque period.  Great masters are able to dance with their horses, to effortlessly move with the horse forwards, sideways, trotting in place, and even performing great choreographed leaps, called “airs above the ground”.  The study of dressage can be compared to ballet, martial arts, or music.  Serious dressage riders are very serious about their sport, indeed.  As a matter of fact, when I’m asked if I play golf, I usually reply, “I have one impossible pursuit of perfection in my life—dressage—and that is enough for me.”

        I studied dressage with single-minded passion; my undergraduate degree was in Equestrian Science (yes there really is such a thing), and I worked for several years as an apprentice just for the chance to ride with experienced trainers.  During my twenties, I sacrificed my time, effort and money on the altar of classical horsemanship.  There have been many lessons on this path, but if I had to describe a time when I truly learned to love the plateau, it would be while I was working with a horse named Chloe.

        Chloe was a project horse assigned to me in college.  She wasn’t particularly pretty or athletic.  She wasn’t what we call “a good mover”.  The only thing very special about her was her stubborn nature. She met nearly every request with an argument, kicking at my leg, bucking, rearing, and just having temper tantrums whenever given the chance. Although she wasn’t really dangerous, because she didn’t put too much effort into her fits, she certainly was frustrating. Most budding professionals would not have wasted their time with her, but she was MY PROJECT.

        Every day, I would “gird my loins” to go and ride Chloe.  With her, I had to put away all grand ideas of competition, accolades, or even just looking good to my peers.  I had to deal with the moment, exactly as it arose, with my entire mind, body and determination.  I had to focus on the process, of helping this contrary mare become a useful citizen of horse society, of finding just the right amount of pressure to apply, so she didn’t react explosively, but she didn’t ignore me, either.  It was really fun!

Because there wasn’t much chance of winning anything with her, I could focus on the small successes—the PRACTICE.  Any time I got ahead of myself, she would remind me to take a step back—remind me pretty forcefully sometimes! Before long, I began to love the practice and the horse.  I even tried to buy her when the school put her up for sale.  My dad came up to take a look at her, and just shook his head.  He said, “Linda, I could walk into any barn and pick out the most over-sensitive, fractious, reactive, stubborn horse there and that one would be the one YOU want to take home.”  I replied, “Of course, because that one needs me the most.”  Dad wasn’t surprised 10 years later, when I told him I was going to become a special education teacher.  I guess I had always been doing it.

       

Through ten years of making my living with horses, most of them were quite a bit easier than Chloe.  Most of them were willing partners, giving their strength, agility and grace over to my aids and requests.  Through the years, I’ve collected a few pieces of wisdom, proverbs if you will, that have served me both in the saddle and in my daily life.  Allow me to share a few of them with you.

(I did not write these—I just collected them from masters I met along the way.)

1.     Ask for much, be happy with little, reward often.  It’s important to have high expectations, but just as important to notice any movement towards your goal.  When starting a young colt under saddle for the first time, any ride that ends with the rider on top should be counted a success.  When teaching 7th graders with disabilities, any lesson that spurs thinking, discussion and questions (even of a surprising variety), should be counted as a success.  And the horse or the students need to feel that success, too.   Also, I try to go easy on myself, too, when I’m starting something new.  That is sometimes the most difficult thing to do.

2.     "You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but you can make a pretty good sow’s ear purse." (this is a quote from the great Ray Hunt, I believe.) Maybe that horse will not win a national competition, but he can be a great partner for someone.  Maybe that struggling reader will never be a literature professor, but he could be a great graphic artist.  Maybe my husband won’t take me for a romantic dinner, but he’ll build me a new bathroom.  Maybe my vision of what things should be isn’t so important, after all.  Sometimes, it’s better to help (or to just allow) things to be the best version of themselves that they possibly could be, regardless of what I think they might become.  And, if I can truly VALUE that best, then I can see the beauty and purpose in all the pieces that make up the whole.

3.     Perspective IS reality.  It doesn’t matter that I understand that the plastic bag in the tree is not a horse-eating monster—my horse is terrified and won’t go anywhere near it.  It doesn’t matter that my student has practiced his part in the play 3 times and I know he can read all the words—he’s still terrified to read aloud to the class.  It doesn’t matter that I can see my friend is in a dead-end relationship and needs to make a change—she believes she cannot live without her partner.  When faced with a different perspective, I have to meet others where THEY are, not where I wish they were.  I have to honor their view and support them before any change can happen.

4.     Leave your ego at the door—it’s not about you, anyway.  Horses don’t care who you think you are, they don’t care who you need to impress or how famous the judge is who’s judging the competition today.  They care that you treat them with respect and fairness and do not put your agenda above their needs that day.  It’s similar with young people, they don’t care how hard you worked on that lesson, or that your boss is observing you today.  They only care how respectful you are to them, how meaningful the lesson is, and how patiently you teach it.  The more I try to push an agenda, the harder it becomes, no matter what it is.  When I can remember that it is NEVER about me (no matter what it is—it’s really NEVER about me), then I can put pride on the shelf and get to work.

5.     Sometimes you’ve got to get better at what you can already do. On a good day, I’m energetic, full of ideas, ready to make change and take charge.  I face challenges with enthusiasm and determination.  But, not all days are good days.  Some days, it’s enough to get up, go to work and do the best I can.  Some days, it’s my practice to just get better at what I can already do.  And that is ENOUGH.

Lastly, I leave you with a thought from my beloved father, who was a great horseman in his own right.  “To have any REAL success with horses, everything you do must have a REAL MEANING to the horse.”  I would add that, in order to have success in life, everything you do must have a REAL meaning to yourself.

For the Horses

I just watched American Pharoah achieve what we thought was impossible, winning the Triple Crown, and I am reminded of the incredible greatness of horses. There is nothing so satisfying as a great horse story.  A great character drama, with an underdog, an insurmountable challenge and a determined, intrepid partner, and most of all—with a horse.

Other animal stories are good, but not like a horse story.  Dog stories are all about unconditional love, loyalty and usually grief (when the dog inevitably dies).  Dogs serve their masters with undying bravery, wait by their masters’ graves, save their masters from harm (and themselves).  They are tender and tear-jerking.

But, horses, oh, horse stories are about the potential for greatness within each being on earth, the potential for achieving more than anyone thought possible, the potential for surpassing one’s circumstances, parentage and upbringing and becoming truly great.  Horse stories are about transcendance.

Maybe it is an archetype, or something like that.  Maybe it goes back to when people depended on horses to be their transportation, their livelihood, their future and, even their food.  Maybe it is because horses are innately wild, prey animals that should not trust a hunter.  But, they do the unthinkable—they allow a predator to get on their back (the most vulnerable of places, the place where a big cat would attack them).  Then, they submit themselves to the will of that predator wholeheartedly.  But, horses don’t just follow us like our loveable dogs—no, they make us taller, faster, stronger and (I believe) smarter.  They give us their power and (possibly?) gain some of ours.

I don’t think horses care for our dreams and our glory. They would just as soon be grazing in a sunny pasture as working for human ambition.  But, they allow us to bend them to their will, they “fill us up” with their strength, grace and nobility.  They make us believe in our potential.  And, most of all, they gentle us, ennoble us, and teach us.

There is not much on earth that is as exciting or fulfilling as a great-looking, well-tempered horse. There is potential energy under that skin and I can’t help but want to join with it.  There is possibility for greatness between the ears, the mane, the hooves and the tail.  The lines of their body are waiting for direction, for purpose, for challenge.  There is that feeling of exhilaration when you mount a horse, take up the reins, and he gives you his back, coils his loins and gets ready to go.  At that moment, anything is possible.  Shakespeare’s Richard III was right when he called out, “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!”

One doesn’t really, truly OWN a horse.  One just partners with a horse for a period of time.  Horses posses themselves and allow us to share their world.

Here is to the great horses I’ve had the privilege to know (in more or less chronological order, to be fair).  Bendigo, Madja, Dynasty, Fiostro, Favory IV Brenna, Conversano II Grandiosa, Grabina, Ziggy, Waly, Nite Life, Profeta, Niquel, Numenor, Umberto.  Thank you for lending me your essence.

Not THAT type of Christian

        I have a confession to make, a “coming out”, if you will:  I am a Christian.  A full-fledged, honest-to-God (excuse the pun) Christian.  I long for church every Sunday and wish Sunday School and church lasted longer.  I read theology books at night, instead of watching t.v.  I download hymns on my iPod and play them almost all the time while I’m driving or while I’m alone in the house.  Good for me, you say, right?

        But, I don’t broadcast this very often.  I might mention church as something I do, or a place where I have met people, or something I do with my kids.  I certainly don’t let other people hear my iPod playing hymns and when company comes over, I put the Jesus books I’m reading on the shelf.  Those who are close to me know I’ve found new meaning and vigor in my life from attending the Episcopal Church.  But, I keep it on the down-low to those I meet casually.  There is NO way I would put a Jesus fish on my car or ask my hairdresser if she is “saved”.  Why can’t I broadcast the startling Good News that I’ve heard recently to everyone I meet?  Why am I a “closet-Christian”?

        The sad truth is that we Christians are a diverse lot and do not agree on very many things.  We tend to let our differences define us, rather than our similarities.  And, our differences are kind of a big deal.  The difference between believing that a person who is gay is going to hell because his or her entire lifestyle is a sin, and believing that God created all people just as they are, gay, straight, bisexual, transgender, etc, AND that we are all valuable and should be loved is a HUGE DIFFERENCE.

        When I tell someone I am a Christian, I want to preface it with, “I’m not THAT kind of Christian.  You know, the kind who is judgmental, strident, hateful, self-righteous.  The kind of person who told my sister (months after losing our dad), “It’s too bad your dad wasn’t ‘saved’, because he was a nice man and now he is in hell.”  I do NOT want to be lumped in with that type of person.  I do NOT want to share a distinction with the haters.

        The ironic thing is, I don’t really know any of THAT type of Christian, not really.  The Christians I knew growing up in the Mennonite Church were kind, loving and served people with a grateful heart. When I say I’m a Christian, I also share that distinction with the people who give up their time to can meat to send to needy families across the world, the people who bring refugees from Russia and Laos to their community, find them jobs and homes and become great friend with them, the people who work tirelessly at a church music program and give every penny of their compensation for it back to the church.  I also share that distinction with people of other faith traditions, the man who gave the funerals for my grandmother, grandfather, and father and who serves as a pastor of an Apostolic church.  I also share it with my Episcopalian family members who work tirelessly for social justice within the church and within their own careers.  And, I share it with the Methodists, Episcopalians, Lutherans and Catholics (and many others) who I know and love every day who live out a loving, ethical, Christian life.

        So, why isn’t it that MY type of Christian is the OTHER and the hate-filled, self-righteous stereotype is the main type of Christian that people think of?  And, when I say stereotype, I mean it seriously.  Because I do not believe that any person can truly be wholly bad.  Even those hateful, self-righteous people that I can’t stand probably give money to the poor, or stand up against capital punishment, or volunteer in some relief organization or something.  Even they need to be loved.  And that is the challenge, right?

        Please understand that I’m not defending the position that homosexuality is a sin.  Personally, I find that idea indefensible.  It seems so hateful and ridiculous to me that I can barely discuss it rationally.  Maybe that is the problem with the issue—most of us feel so strongly that we can’t settle down to figure it out.  Here is my effort at rational discussion of it.

        When I started going to the Episcopalian Church, after attending a Unitarian Universalist church for a few years, someone within the E.C. warned me.  He said, “Pay attention, because we are a tolerant people, which means that we have to tolerate the intolerant, too.”  Ahh, there’s the rub.  How does one sit in community with those one disagrees with so fundamentally?  How do we find the similarities in the midst of some differences?  I am sure there are people that I worship with each Sunday who are not as affirming of the LGBT community as I wish they would be.  What should I do when we discuss this?  Should I try to evangelize them into my way of thinking?  Should I judge them for their intolerance (which could stem from many, many different places)?  Or should I listen to their views, question them and try to understand how they could think so differently?  As an outspoken liberal, I want to do the first and I often fall into the judgment trap of the second.  Then, I wonder, is it as bad to judge a “judger” as to be the “judger” myself?  Liberals can be self-righteous too—every human is good at that.

I think the right choice is probably the last one—to sit in community with people you disagree with--because that is the most difficult thing to do.  And, I’m learning that Christianity, though simple, is hardly ever easy and that although Jesus’s yoke is light, it is not without sacrifice.