• When you are tense, let me teach you to relax.
• When you are short sighted, let me teach you to see.
• When you are short tempered, let me teach you to be patient.
• When you are quick to react, let me teach you to be thoughtful.
• When you are angry, let me teach you to be serene.
• When you feel superior, let me teach you to be respectful.
• When you are self-absorbed, let me teach you to think of greater things.
• When you are arrogant, let me teach you humility.
• When you are lonely, let me be your companion.
• When you are tired, let me carry the load.
• When you need to learn, let me teach you.
• After all, I am your horse.

And now for the TRUE story……

• When you are tense, let me teach you that there are dragons in the forest and we need to leave NOW!
• When you are short-sighted, let me teach you to figure out where exactly in the 40 acres I am hiding.
• When you are short-tempered, let me teach you how to slog around the pasture for an hour before you can catch me.
• When you are quick to react, let me teach you that herbivores kick MUCH faster than omnivores.
• When you are angry, let me teach you how well I can stand on my hind feet, because I don’t FEEL like cantering on my right lead today, that’s why.
• When you are worried, let me entertain you with my mystery lameness, GI complaint and skin disease.
• When you feel superior, let me teach you that, mostly, you are the maid service.
• When you are self-absorbed, let me teach you to PAY ATTENTION. I told you about those dragons in the forest.
• When you are arrogant, let me teach you what 1000 lbs. of yipee-yahoo-gotta-go horse can do when suitably inspired.
• When you are lonely, let me be your companion. Let’s do lunch. Breakfast and dinner sound good, too.
• When you are tired, don’t forget about the 300 lbs of grain that needs to be unloaded.
• When you are feeling financially secure, let me teach you the meaning of “veterinary services”.

- Author unknown

Not long after Baron’s retirement, I had the opportunity to live in Sedona, Arizona. So, Baron, my dog and I moved out west.  One of the great things about Sedona is the magnificent hiking and riding trails.  While living there, Baron and I had the pleasure of taking part in many magnificent trails rides. I always carried my old dressage whip along, just because.

One early spring day, several of my friends and I decided to take a 2+ hour ride around some of the prettiest rock formations you’ve ever seen. It was a gorgeous day, and we enjoyed one of the best rides any of us could remember. The ride was approximately 7-8 miles of semi-rugged terrain and stunning scenery. It wasn’t until we arrived back at the ranch that I looked down and realized that I had *lost* my treasured memento dressage whip somewhere on that long trail.  There was no point looking for it either … the whip was dark in color, and the trail had been lined almost continuously by dark-colored branches and brush. “Oh Well,” I thought, “it must finally be time to completely put this part of my life behind me.” I moved on and didn’t think about the whip again.

About 2 weeks later, I was hiking with my dog early one morning. The trail we were traversing was about 2 miles long, and over-lapped the horse trail at one point for about 100 yards. My dog and I were climbing a steep grade and were about 15 minutes into the walk. At the time my mind was obsessing about the latest drama stories from the horse ranch. (The ranch could be drama-central on any given week.) I recall thinking about this drama non-stop, over and over again, until about halfway up the hill.  That’s when it hit me — “their drama” had become “my drama!”  The thought struck me so suddenly that my mimd literally stopped.  Then I became aware of the fact that even though I had been hiking for over 15 minutes already, I could not remember any of the trail – had not even seen it in fact. My mind had been too busy.

I recalled Eckhart Tolle’s book, “The Power of Now,” and took several deep breaths. I turned my attention inward and focused on the moment: “ … left foot forward … right foot forward … gaze at the scenery on the right … gaze at the scenery on the left.”  As I looked left, my gaze lowered to the bushes near the ground.  And there – sticking up out of the middle of the first bush that my gaze fell upon, was the dressage whip that I had lost on the horse trail two weeks earlier!!!

I’ve lost count of how many “Ah-ha” moments this fun little story has initiated for me.  Though I not longer have horses, and currently reside in Ohio, I still have the dressage whip.  It is a nice reminder of what can happen during “moments of presence.”  Of course, when it’s time for the whip to leave again, that’s okay too…  :-)

One of the most memorable and valuable lessons I’ve learned in life was imparted to me by Rambler. Now, you might be thinking this is a story about a countryside vagrant, or perhaps an incessant talker. It is nothing of the kind.

Just another muddy horse

You see, Rambler was a horse. And I feel must give you some background before proceeding to tell you more about Rambler’s gift to me.

As a young girl, I could have been described as overweight and decidedly not athletic. I was one of those kids who dreaded going to school on Phys Ed days, as those days were filled with the emotional pain of ridicule. The fact that I got good grades in other classes only made the situation worse.

Sometime during my pre-teen years, my sister let me go trail riding with her. It was to be my first horseback ride. A typical horse-crazy girl, I had anticipated the day with both trepidation and excitement. I did not know what was involved in riding a horse, I only knew that I wanted to try. Though I also knew that I had failed at most other sports which didn’t involve a swimming pool!

It took only on hour aboard that magnificent creature to reveal to me my newfound life path: I would become a rider of horses! Finally – something that I could do that involved both coordination and balance. Something I loved. This was my calling, and I embarked eagerly on a learning journey.

To facilitate this newfound passion, I begged my parents to let me sign up for Horse Camp the next summer. Fortunately for me they agreed. (Hey – it was one whole week of peace and quiet for them – not hearing my non-stop horse chatter. “A small price to pay,” they thought.) Horse Camp was a week long camp for girls, and each camper would spend 6 hours a day on a horse.

Now the owners of this Horse Camp had decided that the best way for young riders to learn to stay on a horse was to learn balance. And their idea of teaching this balance was to make the first day of camp a sans-saddle event. Six hours on a horse, in three 2-hour rides, bareback. We were to learn how to ride the walk, trot and canter before we ever saw as much as a saddle pad.

Needless to say, when I heard this announcement (Mom and Dad’s car had already pulled out of the drive) I began to have serious second thoughts about my newfound life direction. My fear only deepened when I saw the horse to which I had been assigned for the next day: Teaberry.

Teaberry was the tallest horse in the stable. And while he had a quiet and gentle disposition, word spread quickly that he also had the bounciest trot of all the horses. And Teaberry really liked to trot.  In fact, he much preferred it to cantering. To make matters worse, actually getting Teaberry to canter required a rather pronounced acceleration through the trot.

It probably goes without saying that my first day at camp was a disaster. I fell off more times than I could count. I never did learn to canter bareback, though I did win an award at the end of camp for “The most unusual positions before falling off the horse.” This was due to the fact that I had tried everything imaginable to hang on. At one point during the week, I was under the horse’s neck, praying for a whoa before hitting the ground.

Years went by, and I continued to ride at this establishment, albeit always with a saddle. I became rather accomplished (emphasis on with a saddle) and was ultimately hired as a trail guide on weekends.

One weekend day, a couple of riders were late to arrive back at the stable. Mr. N, the owner, gave me stern instructions to “get on Rambler and go find them.” “But Rambler isn’t saddled!” I protested. Mr. N would have none of it, and bridled Rambler himself. Before I knew what had happened, I was given a leg up and was aboard Rambler … bareback.

Rambler was a cantankerous old sole, and happened be the owner’s horse. In fact, the stable had been named after him – Rambling Acres. This horse had a reputation for not liking male riders (he had unceremoniously dumped just about every man that attempted to ride him) and also for loving a good roll in the mud. Old and wise, Rambler liked things done his way, but he also knew his job.

That day his job was to go find lost riders. As soon as I was hoisted onto his back be began to walk off. Before I even had a chance to think of all the potentially terrible scenarios that were facing me (falling off right in front of the boss would have been #1), Rambler simply walked into the smoothest, most incredible canter one could imagine. The next thing I knew I was gliding up the hill. This seemed like the easiest thing I had ever done. I rode as if I had been doing it all of my life. That day, Rambler taught me to canter, he taught me how to truly ride.

I went on to ride him daily. We became partners so to speak, and my confidence grew and grew. Soon, I could ride nearly every horse in the barn bareback, even Teaberry. I was ecstatic. I was blissful. I was riding a high (no pun intended) that I had never felt. Conquering that fear, and achieving some sort of physical abilities, put me on top of the world. And my confidence grew more still. Soon I felt that there did not exist a horse that I could not ride.

In fact, my confidence grew to the point where I had a giant chip on my shoulder. The ground and I had long since parted as mis-matched friends, and I felt I would never meet it again in an unkind way. Nothing could bring me down again. Nothing that is, except Rambler himself.

One damp fall day, I was sent out as a guide for a family of four trail riders. There were two parents along with their two children. The kids were quite outgoing, and I found myself happily entertaining them along the ride. Of course I was aboard Rambler, as we had become the star couple.

I became quite full of myself. As we approached a very muddy area on the trail, I was turned 180 degrees in the saddle, chatting with the people behind me. One hand on the horn, and one hand on the cantle with the reins slack, I proceeded to gab away. Little attention was paid to where we were headed. (Did I mention that Rambler liked mud?)

What happened next was predictable, yet came as a complete surprise to me in my egoic-hotshot-rider state. I only recall that my hand which was resting on the front of the saddle suddenly dropped by several feet. “Hmmmm,” I thought.

By the time I righted myself and turned forward in the saddle it was too late. Rambler had already dropped to his knees in the middle of the 3′ deep mud trench and was listing right. I had no choice but to bail, and bail fast. I leaped off the saddle, landing in the middle of the mud pit. As I dragged myself to higher ground, there was little to do except watch as Rambler thoroughly enjoyed rolling both sides of his body, neck and head in the gunk. Meanwhile, the kids behind us screamed in glea. “Hey Lady – that was great! Make him do it again!” (No kidding – they thought my horse had done this on command!)

I returned with this group to the stable – disgraced … a cold, disgusting mess … and with Rambler smiling from ear to ear. Mr. & Mrs. N simply looked at me with polite grins – knowing that Rambler had taken his opportunity to chisel my ego back down to size.

The lesson I learned that day is this: The most glorious feelings in life exist in that middle place – somewhere between the fear of failure and the ego that wants to take up residence once the fear is conquered. Awareness is required to find the balance between these two poles, though most of us will still visit the poles from time to time. However, it is on Middle Trail (some horsey buddhism) where the bliss of a life fully lived, not life merely survived, can be found.

And still to this day I say, “Thank You Rambler…”