Tag Archives: the dance

what they teach

“The greatest language is that without words. Communicating with a single touch that which delivers the energy of a message is always understood, a vibration of the vocal chords to gestures of the body. The forgotten wisdom in this primitive relationship we share with animals is so important. We tend to take advantage of our ability to communicate verbally with each other and often ramble on aimlessly without purpose and thought in our words. “It’s okay to be quiet” I often hear myself say while others addictively babble on. I seek refuge in the company of my teacher, the spirit of the horse who quiets my mind down, for I have learned to communicate calmly with love and attentiveness.”   Ariana Waite

 

These words were written by a young woman who volunteers at Blue Star Equiculture, a loving sanctuary for retired or rescued carriage horses in Palmer, MA.

Today when I was with Nelson, I opened the gate to his catch pen so that we could continue our movement conversation in the big six-acre field where he lives.  He started to leave, and then I raised one hand, really just a shadow of a gesture, and he curved his path around and came back to me.

Then he did something surprising.  Without my asking, he walked into the big round pen that is in his field.  He stood there quietly while I untied and then closed the gate.  Understand that Nelson does not like any kind of confinement. I then began to signal him to move around me and then come back to me – a continuation of last week’s dance.  Today, my hand signal was subtle: a kind of light, curving whisper of a movement, which, brilliant decoder of movement that he is, he read perfectly.

We did a sequence of moving away, changing direction, coming back to me, moving away a number of times, each time, I could feel the dance between his body and my hands and body become more like a quiet, elegant, listening tai chi.

I remembered Anat Baniel’s words:  “More force is the definition of less differentiation.”  And Linda Tellington-Jones urging us to feel more by making our touch lighter, slower, more subtle.

And here is Nelson, telling me, “Yes, that is right.  Less is more. I understand you perfectly.  When I don’t, I will show you.”  And indeed that is true.  When I am unclear, he mirrors that.  When I am nervous, he mirrors that.  When I breathe, slow down and feel, so does he.

Who mirrors you so perfectly?

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softness inside, softness outside

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.