He’s fourteen now.  My beautiful godson.  I have not seen him for nearly six months.  Too long, too long.  What is an autistic fourteen year old like?  Like an adolescent?  Like an autistic person?  I don’t honestly know.  I can only tell you about this fourteen year old, this precious Jacob.

Every day is different.  Every day has its own map.  In the maddening sameness of the “isms,” if you look, if you listen, if you are willing to be present, are the differences.  If you can see beyond the swing spinning, the ball juggling, the repeating topographic form of the surface behaviors, there are the differences.

Jacob is not the “isms.”  He is not the behaviors.  He is not the absence of language. He is, in part, to be found in the differences:  the little shadings of movement, engagement, sound and play that form the underscore of his day, and ours.  But really, he is not defined by those either.

Maybe this is why I love him and my times with him.  His cannot be captured by any definition or category, not even autism.  He is pure being, and to be with him, really with him, that is what we have to become as well.

Is it exhausting?  You bet. Humbling? Absolutely.  It is like sitting in meditation ALL DAY.  Rigorous, demanding, sometimes painful.  Because WE DON’T UNDERSTAND, not really, but we have to keep practicing, keep our bottoms on the cushion, so to speak.  Breathe in, breathe out.  This is his gift to us, and yes, ours to him.

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the view from here is changing

the view from here is opening

the view from here

contains the near and the far

the crests and the valleys

fence lines and the fields between.

it is a breathing, moving landscape

perspectives unfolding

moment by moment.

I remind myself

to taste the sweet grass

right here, right now

to step into the view

one foot at a time

to let myself be led by the

opening horizon.

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Still sitting even in the snow, or maybe especially in the snow.  Sitting requires more rigor and devotion when it is cold and windy.

There are days when I do not want to do the work, when I feel that it will take too much from me, or that I do not have enough to give to it. The work could be anything:  the writing, the riding, the dancing.

I went to the barn early today to ride because a snowstorm was coming.  For me, riding is sitting.  Riding is practice.  Riding is that combination of rigor and devotion.  Today was one of those days when I did not think I had enough to give.  My body felt sore and stiff after several days of riding the big, powerful Friesian, Sanne.

At one point in the ride, I wanted to stop and say, “Wait, this is too hard, I cannot do it, I do not know how.”  In fact, I think I did stop and say something like that.  I could feel how the muscles in my arms were braced, how the pieces of my riding were not flowing together, felt I was coming apart, both mentally and physically.

Here is the thing.  It was less my body than my mind.  It was that old doubting, questioning, fearful part of my noisy mind, the part that has gotten up and left the meditation hall even when my body is still sitting there (in the saddle, holding the reins.)

Somehow I did recover myself.  Here is what I did.  I stopped trying the same old thing, and began to improvise my ride.  A circle here, a softening there, a change of direction:  change, change, change.  I shifted my attention to the stiff, unyielding parts of my body and invited suppleness there.

I think this is what it means to be a spiritual athlete.  Nurturing an athleticism that is not about big muscles or marathon sitting, but the kind of athleticism that is about endurance and steadfastness.  About finding a way in, every day.  Offering the best, every day.

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Guinevere and Jules are waiting for us to finish tea and make their breakfast.  They are moderately patient.  They are confident that breakfast will arrive.

I am waiting for inspiration.  I am impatient.  I am not confident that inspiration will come. For the past couple days I have been feeling a lull, like a surfer out on a flat sea, no wave in sight.

But I am keeping in mind something that Stephen Nachmanovitch said:  Attempts to conquer inertia are by definition, futile.  Start instead from the inertia as a focal point, develop it into a meditation, an exaggerated stillness.  Let heat and momentum arise as a natural reverberation from the stillness.

I know that in dance, stillness is the canvas on which the movement appears.  With my writing have lost some sense of stillness being the place to begin.  I am filling the moment with too much effort, too many gestures, too little breath.  There is also this:

To the mind that is still
the whole universe surrenders.
                                       Buddha

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Tamara Lempicka

I have been writing about the landscape of the body and its relationship to the body of the earth and the bodies of other creatures.  About the sense of our own bodies as landscape, to be discovered, explored, savored.

These two paintings are by two of my most favorite painters.  I met Laura Von Rosk many years ago during a residency at Yaddo.  Her landscapes were the most sensuous I had ever seen.  I bought one she had done in Minnesota.  It had a perspective of gazing up the hilly thighs of a woman, across the fields of belly and breasts and into the sky beyond.   I recently reconnected with her work at a show in Hudson at the Carrie Haddad Gallery.

Lempicka’s work invites us into the contours, the hills, valleys, the hidden caves of the body.

If you lie on the floor and roll very slowly from back to side to front, how do you feel the landscape of your own body?  How effortless can you make that movement?  Continue on, rolling to your side and then ending on your back.

Imagine this as a little meditation, a way of calling the earth of your body into awareness.

If you are a rider, can you feel a deepening harmony of your body and your horse’s body as you ride?

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Today was a strangely, deliciously balmy December day in the Hudson Valley.  I went to see Nelson (the formerly wild Mustang) with some holiday carrots. He was very cuddly from the beginning, seeming to echo the softness and quiet of the day. Have I mentioned that I love this horse?

I have been asking him to move around me in a small circle, while staying calm and responding to the “go” signal from my hand and the “whoa” signal from my movement and my voice.  Today he was flawless when circling to the right, still uncertain to the left.

So I played with that by asking him to stay with the hard side, to keep trying.  And here’s the lovely part:  he allowed me to improvise more freely with changes of direction and with different kinds of cues than ever before.  My hand, my body, the lead rope, the wand, nothing seemed to really phase him.  It was as if there had been a quantum shift in his tolerance for new information – his ability to take it in without being frightened.

Even after I opened the gate of his catch pen out into the six-acre field, he stayed with me – no halter, no lead rope – moving smoothly around me to the right, and doing his best in the other direction. No running off, no spooking.  He wanted to continue the dance.

Everything about my work with Nelson during the past eight months has been an improvisation.  But the movement vocabulary was very small, very careful.  Now, our language is suddenly expanding:  new options, different choices, greater flexibility. A reservoir of trust. This new softness is deepening, penetrating, lasting from week-to-week.

This expanding relationship reminds me of the comparison of meditating to dipping a cloth into dye. For the first 100 times, the color will rinse away, but slowly, surely, the color starts to take and deepen.

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Riding is the hardest thing that I do.  Physically.  Mentally.  Spiritually.

I am a dancer.  Riding is harder.  The intricacy, the communication, the balance, the nuance, the subtlety required in the riding arena are beyond anything I have experienced in a dance studio.  Martha Graham said that it takes ten years to make a dancer.  One of my first trainers, Beach Bennett, said that it takes at least two lifetimes to become a rider. She is right.

I have had to accept that despite my physical skills, my training and my understanding, I am going to need that second lifetime to become all that I want as a rider.  It is humbling. I welcome it.

I wrote yesterday about touching horses, and the way that brings me to my knees.  How I love it.  Riding is that way too.  Sitting in the saddle (my zafu) and finding the first rhythmic harmonics with my horse’s walk is like breathing. Or like stepping into the water, readying for a swim.  Being challenged to seek harmony, softness, clarity and balance throughout a riding lesson is like sitting with a tough Zen master.  Or like my yoga classes with Patricia Walden.  No tuning out, not ever, not for a moment.

The horse, you see, deserves nothing less than my very best.

Rigor and ecstasy.  Could there be anything better?

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The horses are where I practice.  They are my yoga, my sitting.

I love them for their clarity, their honesty, their generosity.  I discover – again and again – what is elemental and essential through the horses.  It is something I want to share.

I wonder though, if because my blog is called Horse Dancing, people who don’t know or care about horses dismiss it automatically. Or does horse yoga resonate in a wider way?

Tell me what you think?  What would you like to see more of?

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There are certain sensations, certain sensory memories that are so deep and detailed that I can summon them up effortlessly, feel the whole sensuous shape of them here and now. They are touchstones, places of delight and grounding.

Recently, I have been playing with them in a more intentional way.  Not just thinking about them in passing, but diving in, relishing, savoring.  A kind of sensuous meditation.

Capprichio’s nose is the softest, sweetest place I know.

What is delicious to you?

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