Of Broken Things

Master Chef

Watching Master Chef the other night, a thought crystallized in my head.  To get to this point in the show, the chefs are very knowledgeable, talented, and they have that indefinable thing that makes their food so much better.
          So, here they are:  a room full of the best chefs I've ever seen.  They are being challenged, and stretched.  They have to create beautiful dishes with impossible ingredients in a 20-minute window.  As they worked, sweat dripping off their brow, Chef Ramsey walked around the room.  His commentary was not encouraging.  He didn't lift anyone up, he didn't offer kind suggestions, or tell someone that they were making the right choices.  No, he was belittling.  He tasted their work-in-progress and he frowned, spit it out, and made awful sounds.  He used words like "ruined" and "ugh."
          In watching the show, I saw what Chef Ramsey was doing.
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Cowboys

If you are not familiar with horses, the breaking process is imperative.  It is visceral, and connects the rider to the horse in ways that could not happen otherwise.  In breaking, the cowboy introduces the horse to a variety of stressful stimuli - a halter, a plastic bag, a crop.  The horse, a natural prey animal, learns to trust the cowboy.  The horse learns to accept new things, and to work with the cowboy towards a mutual goal.
          Each horse responds to this process differently.  Some horses readily hand over trust, and accept each challenge willingly.  Others are resistant.  They fight the control, and begrudge the trust.
          One of the first tensions between the cowboy and the horse is halter breaking.  Once the halter is in place, the cowboy tugs on the lead rope.  The horse responds to this pressure by a) giving in and stepping forward, or b) resisting by pulling back against the pressure.  A horse that steps forward is rewarded with a slack in the rope, petting, and encouraging words.  A horse that resists is met with more pressure, until they choose option "a."

Breaking

There's a reason cowboys call it breaking.  What happens in the process is not just physical, or even mental, it's spiritual.  The result is a bridge of trust.  The horse is malleable, and ready to learn.  For some horses, this process is breaking down the ego, stripping away the will, and opening the soft core.  Once the horse is there, blowing hard and covered in sweat, training can truly begin.

          That is what Chef Ramsey was doing with his chefs.  He was breaking them.  Once he breaks through the ego and false confidence, he can begin the work of a true master chef.

          When I am being pushed to grow, I go through the same process.  I have had riding lessons where we may have been working on a maneuver, but what we were really working on was breaking me.  My coach's tone gets hard and demanding.  I hear them tell me "do it again" and "I've told you five times..."

          My heart constricts and I am frustrated.  I get angry.  I engage my will, as if I can make my body obey.  I loathe myself and my inability to do this one.  Simple.  Thing.  I try again, and again, and again.

          Finally, finally I break.

          Now I am ready to work.  Now I am ready to listen, really listen to my coach and to my horse.  I can do what I need to without pride or willpower.  I soften.  It is exactly the same thing I see in a horse when he takes a step toward the cowboy at the end of the lead rope.

Living a Broken Life

I wish I could say that I was like the compliant horse, who feels the pressure of the halter and steps forward, into the release.  My first reaction is to lean against the pressure, as if the growing process is an act of willpower alone (specifically my will).
          I used to commute 50 miles to work one way.  I did this for seven years.  In the beginning, I was excited about my job and what I was learning.  When that wore off, I made the drive because it was going to make my next career move so much better.  My attitude was to make the drive because that's what I was asked to do.  Mentally, I kept testing the lead rope to see if the pressure was still there.  I was moving the the right direction, just at the end of a taut rope.
          Then one day, I heard about serving joyfully.  I began commuting to work excited about how I would be able to serve that day.  Surely I had something special to offer, since I had to come from miles away to deliver it!  My drive shifted from a drudgery to time spent in reflection and, yes, joy.  I was stepping towards the rope, allowing it to sag in the middle, as I followed where I was led.
          Very shortly after that, I was released from the burden of commuting.  I was able to land a good job in the same town as I lived, and I was home in time to eat dinner with my family.

          I have continued this pattern in my life:  pressure, resistance, pressure, softening, release.  I hope that the cycle gets shorter, as I learn to recognize the pressure and step into it.  This last round has resulted in a beautiful new home, and a place for our horses.  I am so very excited to joyfully serve, whatever the next challenge may be!

Not Good Enough

          Riding Sergio fills me with joy, and releases me from the distractions of a body at rest.  He doesn't care about what I accomplished today, or what achievements I have made.  He isn't distracted by the masks that I wear.  He only cares about the time we have together and that I am present and trusting.
          I, however, have higher expectations.  I struggle to ride him the way he should be ridden, to accept what he has to offer, and to bring my share to the team.  He is a such a beautiful, talented horse.  I tell myself that I should be able to show him successfully.
          I want to be in control of the ride, to dictate our speed and direction minutely.  I want to be able to execute every maneuver exactly according to plan.  Unfortunately, my efforts to control change the way I ride, and distort the cues I am giving to him.  Our ride ends up being tentative and discordant, and the judge can see it.  The score reflects the judge's opinion, and my confidence plunges.  When my score is announced, I hear "You are not good enough."
          The message is repeated as my coach gives me advice and feedback on the ride.  "You need to sit back when you stop him (you are not good enough)."
          As I go over my ride, I repeat the message again, "I think I turned him around better, but I got a penalty (I'm still not good enough)."
          This message has been haunting me for most of my life.  When I am in a good place, it's easy to tune out.  When times are difficult, like they are now, the words ring in my ears.  I offer up everything I do for review and approval.  If the response is critical, well, that's to be expected because I. Am. Not. Good. Enough.
Miss Goodie Two Shoes
          Maybe the message originated during my childhood, as a middle child.  My response to a house full of girls was to be the good girl, to get along.  If my older sister struggled with her grades, mine would be A's.  If my younger sister quit her miserable California job and moved back home, I would tough it out and work an awful job.  The problem is that even as I tried my best to do the right thing and to be good, what I longed for was attention.
          Naturally, no one worries about a good girl.  No one lectures her, or encourages her, or tells her she is tough enough to overcome obstacles.  No one rushes in to save her from a disaster, because she never risks having one.  Instead, they leave her alone, because she has it all figured out.  Right?  Although I was good, I was never good enough to receive the praise I craved.
          My older sister recently bought a bottle of wine for me - "Middle Sister Goodie Two Shoes."  She probably wouldn't have if she knew how much it hurt.  The description on the label pierced my heart, because it was true, every word.
The Fire
           One of my favorite quotes from the Wizard of Oz is "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!"  That's because I feel like everything I do is a mirage, a carefully constructed play to hide the fact that I am not good enough.
         Riding and showing Sergio is fearful business.  Not because riding him scares me, although sometimes it does.  What is really scary is the possibility of failing.  I am afraid that everyone can see right through the self-controlled masks, right through the good girl, and discover my secret:  I am not good enough for this beautiful horse.
          The whole purpose of showing is to be judged.  I am painfully aware that I am being watched by not only the paid judge, but also my coach (who I have a sinking suspicion already knows my flaws), my friends, and my family.  When I ride in the show pen, I feel as though I am being held up to the light.  As the bright light of my desire shines through me, it reveals all of my flaws.
          This scares the hell out of me.
Don't Give Up
          Showing horses is a hard business.  The rules keep changing, and there's always someone who rides better, has a better horse, or has more money.  The cold, hard truth is that I will never be good enough.  I will never have it all figured out.
          Nobody ever promised me that I would be good at showing horses.  Even so, no matter how sternly I address my heart, I cannot deny the love I have for riding.  To quit is to give up on myself.  Maybe my dreams don't tie to the reality of my ability (or funding).  Without horses, I am lost, and empty.  So for now, I will continue to slog it out, and hope that I can find peace from my good girl, and acceptance that not good enough is still Enough.

Can you see that person dancing in the flames on Sergio?  That's me - dirty, grubby, imperfect me.

I would like to thank Emily Freeman and her book, Grace for the Good Girl, for the inspiration and for the words I just couldn't find.

Saying Goodbye

          I will never forget the look on his face, peering through the stall bars at the National Western Stock Show grounds.  He was always eager to see me, always ready to say “hello” and ready for that day’s adventure.  Today, however, my heart was heavy.  I had just finished giving him a final hug (his forehead pressed against my heart, my arms wrapped around his head).  I turned away, this image of my Squishy burned in my mind.  His ears were perked, his eyes bright and curious.  From his posture, I could tell he was leaning forward, pressed against the stall door.  Perhaps he knew that something was different about this parting.  This time was our forever good-bye.

          Riding a horse for me is more than recreation, more than sport.  It is forging a team, whose communication is through intimate physical contact.  Signals are sent and received in a constant stream, most of them imperceptible to the observer (really, many of them are imperceptible to me as the rider).  In a contract of trust, the rider provides confidence and direction while the horse becomes an extension of the rider.  It takes time to build the relationship, time for the horse and rider to learn to read each other. 

          I originally purchased Squishy in a partnership, as a business venture.  Our goal was to buy a young horse, who would be trained and shown by a professional, and then sell him as a fine derby horse.  When Shane Brown brought him home from Texas, where we had purchased him sight unseen, I admit I was disappointed.  As I led him out of his stall, all I could see was an ordinary brown horse.  I’d been warned that he wasn’t beautiful.  My reply was “beauty is as beauty does.”  But still.  Did he have to be so plain?  Even the name he came with was common to his bloodlines:  Tejon.

          As Shane worked with him, building up his confidence and teaching him how to learn and use his body, Tejon began to bloom.  He was a talented stopper and pretty mover.  He did have a white star and four white socks.  His coat was a reddish sort of bay, so maybe not plain brown.  I stood on the fence, watching him ride, evaluating his strengths and weaknesses from a distance, strictly reminding myself that this was a business venture.

          One day, Shane let me ride him.  Shane had warned me that the horse was short-necked, but from the ground, Tejon was a nicely-formed, balanced horse.  After I settled in the saddle, however, I realized what Shane meant.  Riding him was like riding a cab-over truck, where it felt like the saddle was perched right behind his head.  During that first ride, Tejon kept checking in, wanting to know what I expected of him.  We were both tentative.  My stern reminders of the business side of this were weakening.

          After a time, we (my partner, Shane, and I) came to realize that Tejon just wasn’t cut out to be an open rider-level horse.  Since we had entered him in the big Futurity in Oklahoma, we decided that I would show him in the Nonpro class.  That fall, I rode Tejon as much as possible, in an effort to build our trust contract before we were under the pressure of a show pen.  I threw the business facade out the window and embraced a new relationship.

          For Tejon, having a Nonpro for a rider meant that there were treats, rub downs, long baths, walks in the grass, and time spent exploring the world together.   During that time, Tejon grew into an expressive, interactive horse with a compact build.  Plain ole Tejon just didn’t seem to fit anymore.  So he became Squishy.

          Squishy and I worked hard on our partnership together.  We showed at the Futurity, where we didn’t place, but we didn’t shame ourselves either.  I continued to show him during the following two show seasons.  We had some good classes, and we had some bad ones (one in particular comes to mind where he jumped sideways at the end of every stop).  In the end, we had a great friendship, but we weren’t a team.  Squishy needed someone with confidence and an ability to dominate the ride.  I needed a horse that would forgive my indecision and heal my broken trust from a prior horse.  Like a bad romance, we were both too needy.

          No matter how much fun we had when I was out of the saddle, it was time for each of us to find a new partner.  Very rarely is there a horse and rider team that can grow together, from Rookie to Intermediate and beyond.  More often, a competitor has to be prepared to bring in and let go of several horses during their show career.  Intellectually, I know this.  Emotionally, I have yet to let go of a horse.

          So it came to that fall day in Denver.  His expression on that day is crystal clear in my mind.  He had this way of getting hugs from me by butting his head against my chest.  The hugs always turned to rubs, where he rewarded my efforts with sighs and a blissful expression.  On that day, with my own sigh, I backed out of the stall, pushed his seeking nose back in, and slid the door shut.  At the end of the alley, I looked back, and there he stood.  Both his expression and body reached out to me.

          He trusted me.  In leaving him there, I was breaking that trust, and breaking our bond.  That still hurts my heart and brings tears to my eyes.  Even so, I know that I made the right decision for Squishy and for me.  Squishy found a new vocation with less precision and pressure.  I found a horse exceeding my competitive abilities, but who could wait patiently for my trust.

The Day I Fell Off (A Story about Trust)

          Anyone who has spent any amount of time knows what I’m talking about – falling off.  When I first learned to ride, that’s pretty much what I thought riding was – climbing on, clinging as long as possible, falling off, rinse and repeat.  Literally:  rinse the dirt out of my mouth, climb back on and do it again.  Eventually, falling off got to hurting more, and staying on got to be a goal.  Now that I’m older, falling off hurts A LOT more, and I spend quite a bit of time thinking about staying on. 

          Last spring, I fell off in a big way.  We were riding in the outdoor arena, working on our stops.  If you’ve watched reining, or ridden reining, you know what that’s about.  It’s about running the length of the arena at top speed, and then asking your horse to stop.  If all is right in the world, the horse will tuck his hind legs under and slide to a stop.  Really cool if it’s right.  Really scary if it’s not. 

          On this particular day, we were taking our game to the next level.  I had been going to shows and getting scores of 69.  I wanted 72’s.  To get there, we had to take a risk.  We had to push our maneuvers to the next level, which means going faster, running harder, and trusting more.  That’s what we were doing on that Saturday morning.  I was running him harder to his stops, and he was trying harder in his stops.  Unfortunately, I mistook trying harder for doing more.  I thought that I needed to push more with my body, to sit back farther, to steer with my hand.  Inadvertently, I took away the trust I had with Sergio.  Going slow, I trusted that he could perform the maneuver with me aboard as a passenger.  Going faster, suddenly I was grabbing the steering wheel, pushing the gas pedal and working the clutch.  Sergio was confused.  In fact, he looked back at me a couple of times as if to say, “What are you doing?  I don’t understand this new language you are speaking.”

          The ultimate result was that he came into the ground crooked, his back end slaloming off to the right, his front end jarring into the ground.  I popped up out of the saddle and off to the right.  I had a moment to clutch at the saddle, but all I saw below was dirt.  So I fell off.  It was not pretty.  I left my own slide tracks with my butt and hip.  As I crawled around, alternately pressing my forehead into the dirt in pain and fumbling for my glasses, I wanted to quit.  I was pushed beyond my limit, and scared.  Truly scared, and this is not something I enjoyed one bit.  But I knew that I had to get back on, to try the stop again, and do it quickly before the fear really set in.  I didn’t need to worry about Sergio’s fear, he understands forgiveness, and offers it up most of the time.

          As I climbed back on, knowing I was going to have a beautiful bruise and maybe some swelling, my hands were shaking.  My heart was pounding, my thoughts were racing.  Even as I readied myself to do it again, I was coming up with excuses not to.  Instead, I pointed him to the other end of the pen and kissed.  Or at least I pursed my dry lips together and squeezed my shaking legs.  Sergio took off for the other end of the arena.  As we loped, I told myself that I absolutely had to trust Sergio to do his job.  I had to let go of driving and be the passenger (or I would die).  It worked; we stopped bigger than we had all day.  We quit on that one, but the lesson was learned.

          The tricky thing about trust is that it is easy to give when I am in control.  When Sergio is providing the impulsion, locked in and doing his job, it’s a lot harder to trust.  I noticed, too, that the trust can quietly erode away when we don’t challenge ourselves as a team.  If I get in the habit of riding the maneuvers at home at a medium pace, I lose the trust I have in pushing ourselves to go faster.  Then we are right back in the same situation, I’m trying to drive and he’s sitting in the driver’s seat. 

         The thing about the stop is that you absolutely cannot Flinch.  As you are flying down the length of the arena, you must remain calm.  Your middle must be supple, your legs relaxed, your hand down.  I repeat the words of my coach – your hand down.  No really, you must put your hand down.  If you pick your hand up, it is equivalent to putting your foot on the clutch.  The engine revs but the car slows down.  If you are focused on the end of the arena and your jaw is set, your eyes are up, your body is flowing with the horse, and the pounding of his hooves fill your head … then, whoa.  The horse (who is now one with you) drops out from under you, your body rocks from side to side as he powers to hold on to the ground.  You can hear the friction of his sliders on the arena base, and it is a deep moan that echoes in your chest.  There is no thought at this time, no worry or wonder, and no doubt.  It is simply, “Whoa.”