Anna Blake's Blog, page 6

Travelblog: How I Stole Paris

I woke up introspective on my last full day in Paris. It’s the same way I wake up at home. I got ready to leave for the day and wrapped a scarf around my neck. I started doing that after my first Paris haircut forty years ago, and have been doing it ever since. Fashion has finally caught up with me. 

I started walking with no destination in mind, bittersweet that my time was nearly up. I tried to memorize the air, the streets, the skyline. When my feet began to hurt, I stopped for petit-déjeuner. That’s what generations of my dogs call it. They’re bilingual like I am. I had omelette aux champignons et café crème and as always, lost myself watching people, which is just the same thing as thinking about life.

Some people think I’m brave to travel solo, but I think it gives me a clearer view. I’m more prone to talk to people. Solo travel means no bickering or trying to placate anyone. No one telling me to slow down or speed up, no one handling me. Besides, I’ve never felt in danger on this trip, or the 22k miles Mister and I have traveled for work since Covid. My father once blurted out that I walked like Eleanor Roosevelt. His tone made it clear it was not a compliment. Maybe that’s my secret.

Strolling on a few more hours, crossing the Seine, browsing bookstores and vintage shops until I had to use a toilette et repose mes pieds again. I found another sidewalk cafe and ordered Du vin rouge, s’il vous plaît, in my ever-consistent lousy French. I will savor this day, savor each of these days, which will never happen again. The memories of Scotland, England, and now Paris will live on much longer than the time it takes to pay off the trip. Besides, I’ll get to smile when I send that monthly payment. It’s been lovely to have time away, but I don’t see trips like this in my future. At this moment, I fell in love with my life all over again for the first time. Of all the things we should say yes to, this! I lifted my glass in a toast to, well, me.

(See video at https://vimeo.com/954454423?share=copy)

Okay, that was a little thick. Now let me share the other part. My “family farm” has some tough days ahead. Sebastian is my last llama standing. He is so old he feels like steel wool to the touch. He walks on fallen fetlocks and is losing sight. But he runs to the sound of the hose. No one likes a shower more.

Arthur, the goat, has a bad limp. He has over-used this leg to compensate for the leg my Grandfather Horse broke years ago. We have no goat vets nearby, so I bandaged it like I would a horse. Even before, he had the gait of an eggbeater, and this won’t help. He likes to have his horn nubbins scratched, lays in the sun most of the day, and hardly butts me at all anymore.

Two of our horses are past twenty years old. Doing the math, at ten tons of manure per horse/per year, I’ve mucked 320 tons of their manure. I’d do it all over if it meant they could be youngsters again.

My eldest dog is wobbly on his hind half, sliding into a sit when he slows down. But he never misses a trip to the bathroom with me. His eyes are clouded and he’s nearly worn out his voice, we’ve lived inside of each other for so long. There will never be anything sweeter than an old dog. 

Just last week, while I was in England, I got a text that Edgar Rice Burro couldn’t put weight on one of his legs and was lying down a lot. This isn’t my first emergency text like this. When the soundman at Equidays in New Zealand was attaching my microphone for my presentation, I got a text from home that a different donkey was on the ground and couldn’t get up. Being helpless and 8000 miles away, all I could do was breathe and send a quick reply. And I tried to bargain with the Universe. If I do my job well, could my animals at home be spared, please?

Then, I walked into the arena as Juan Manuel Muñoz Diaz exited. Is the name familiar? He was a crowd favorite, riding an Andalusian named Fuego in the 2012 Olympics. He shook my hand, using both of his, kindly, as he always did. This yin-yang life, I thought. 

Now it was Edgar, who brays and runs raggedly to me every time he sees me. Edgar, who keeps time and manages my herd. He is my moral compass, but he is losing confidence. He wears his years like an oversized winter coat. I texted back, saw a couple of painful strides on video, and got a second set of eyes on him. I worried, gave hopeful instructions, and waited. And waited. They told me he was mostly better the next day. Edgar isn’t better, though. He has a degenerative disease, something I had been watching. I knew it was a flair-up of the thing that would kill him. This was a warning shot over the bow. 

I’ve been so ridiculously fortunate to travel the world working with people and their horses. I’ve learned more than I could have ever dreamed of from my little farm on the flat windy prairie of Colorado. Those horses graze through my mind every day. But it hasn’t been free. It’s taken a toll on me and my animals.

Selfishly, I wanted to slip this decadent vacation in, to fortify myself for the years ahead. I know I’m needed at home. I am the one with the eyes. I am the one who knows what to do. 

You see, it’s not my death I’m concerned about. I’ve had to make friends with death, it’s been such a constant in my life. It’s just that death is so ordinary. Not a thing special about it. It can feel like the world is a bottomless pit of grief after someone passes over. It’s natural to howl at the moon, burn the eggs, and cry in the feed store, but we need to be careful not to worship death. To not let loss eclipse the wonder of life. Now more than ever.

I’m walking again, crossing the Seine, past Cathédrale Notre Dame. It’s covered with scaffolding to repair the damage caused by a fire that threatened to collapse the whole medieval structure. The span of one life is pretty insignificant in this neighborhood.

I decided to eat in my room. I had a sweet melancholy and an early flight. There were lots of restaurants, but I asked my GPS for a food store. I changed my search a couple of times and finally located something that might be like a Quick Stop. When I got there, it was a tiny door on a corner of a back street. Only GPS could have found it. But this is Paris after all and I came out with chocolat noir, abricots frais et une petite bouteille de champagne.

Entering my hotel, I had a sentence ready for the concierge. “Bon soir, Monsieur. Je pars demain.” He handed me the key with a smile and said, “Oui, Madame.”

My room had the usual tall windows that open wide, with no screen, to an inner courtyard. On my first trip, my room was on a lower floor and stray cats climbed up to visit and share my cheese. This trip I’m in a tiny room on the 5th floor. I’ve seen larger bathrooms in travel trailers. But the view was entrancing because I was in the kind of mood where everything felt like an allegory for life. Even a fire escape.

I have already over-shared, why stop? I got rid of my shoes and underwear, in that order, and put on a cotton thing that passed for pajamas. I wedged a chair between the bed and window and pulled the tiny bedside table close. There was no plate, so I arranged my dinner on a hand towel. Then I poured some champagne into the glass from the bathroom and pulled my computer to my lap. Whatever comes, there will always be words. 

The arc of a life is like a teeter-totter. When we’re young, it’s hard to push off the ground. In the middle years, we have the time and leverage to have ups and downs. Life happens. We decide to live with possible regret, or pick ourselves up and take another risk. At this ripe age, some choices are limited. It’s a little harder to get into the air, but I’m nearly impossible to embarrass, so it balances out.

Resolution: I’ll plant some flowers and paint the house trim. Eat dessert every day. Hold steady for my loved ones. Pull my baggy-skinned and half-lame body to full height. (It annually shrinks in equal proportion to the growth of tar and grit added.) I will not, as they say, “go gently” anywhere. Not while I have a bad accent and a spark of joie de vivre left in this bruised and lumpy heart.

…

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

The post Travelblog: How I Stole Paris appeared first on Anna Blake.

Travelblog: Paris is Like Visiting an Old Lover

Paris is a city full of statues of horses. They’re everywhere, I noticed on my first visit. The statues are still there now, but stands are being built for the upcoming Olympics. No, that isn’t why I went.

Paris and I have history. It isn’t just my love for Collette. This is the teen angst part. My sister took Spanish, an exchange student came to stay with us, and my sister then went to Mexico. My parents promised me the same. I took French in high school, but by the time I was the right age, the family was unraveling, and the offer was withdrawn. I moved to Colorado as soon as possible, but the dream of Paris didn’t fade.

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. ~Oscar Wilde

Long story short, I finally made it to Paris for my thirtieth birthday. I worked a miracle with the help of my friends to do it, and I had an entire month there. After two weeks, I took the TGV train (train à grande vitesse) to Marseille, was disappointed, turned around, and came right back to Paris. I only wanted to be there. I had given myself permission to move there if I wanted. It wasn’t a stretch. By then I was showing in art galleries in Manhattan, Los Angeles, and a scattering of other cities. A friend and I had written a screenplay that was produced, but it ended up being a heartbreaking experience. And I was divorced. I had a talent to take along and nothing to lose.

Now it’s forty years later. My life took turns I would never have imagined, and I’m touchy about turning seventy. I needed to go back. For all the changes I’d seen, I wanted to go where things didn’t change. My hotel was a mansion built in the 18th century, in the center of the Left Bank, the heart of old Paris. I unpacked and went to find dinner, not wearing my usual horse trainer clothes. I am someone else here.

I walked down the street to a sidewalk restaurant near the Parthenon and ordered the Suprême de Poulet and wine. Dinner lasted an hour and forty-five minutes. No reason to rush, even eating is an art in Paris.

Back at the hotel, the concierge asked for my room number, and I said fifty-two. He tilted his head and said, “En français, madame?” I was befuddled, but then I remembered and blurted out, “Cinq deux!” I wasn’t strictly correct, but he smiled and handed me the key. After not understanding half of what people said to me from Glasgow to London, at least now it isn’t my birth language. “Bon soir,” I chirp, lousy accent and all. I totally slaughter the French language, but I flounder on to let them know I’m shameless.

Paris is a city of art. That is a rare thing. In Colorado, sports are our priority. More than that, Paris is a city of love. The love embraces you, regardless of the details of your life, if you allow yourself the vulnerability. I came to soak my tired heart in it.

The next morning, I took a long walk through the backstreets to the Musee d’Orsay. During my previous visit, this hundred-year-old train station was being restored. Now it’s where the Impressionists are. I had a long walk inside the museum, but you don’t want to get me started. You never want to go to an art museum with me. Let’s leave it at that.

Then I crossed the Seine and walked in the Jardin des Tuileries, beautiful straight lines of mature trees. I thought there would be a toilette there. (I was corrected when I asked for the “salle de bain.“) None by any name, and I ended up walking almost to the Arc de Triomphe before I found one. On the way back, I stopped for lunch, which is a shorter meal and clocked in at an hour and a half. I continued the trek to my hotel. Two people stopped me and asked en français for directions. “Je suis Américain,” I said, a little proud for their mistake. The police sirens brayed hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw.

Strolling back went slower. Forty-years ago, I skipped the whole way. Today had been more than seven miles over cobblestones and cement. I got to my hotel and yes, there was someone else behind the desk and another pop quiz. This time I confidently said, “Cinq deux.” This concierge shook her head. “Madame, tu veux dire cinquante-deux?” I repeated the number back and thanked her. This pard always cracks me up.

I gingerly lowered myself onto the bed and kicked off my all-terrain Crocs. There is an end of day ritual I do on clinic days, when I finally surrender. I lie down and take stock, a kind of body-part roll call. I took a fall on my right hip recently and it was sore when I started that day. It felt like broken glass now. The foot that had the surgery was swollen and my shins ached. You’ll be spared the rest of the list. I always think of myself as healthy as I was at thirty. But last year I broke my wrist and I watch my step more closely now. I have hearing aids and glasses. My hands have frozen joints and barbed wire tears still show on the top of my hands next to bulging dark veins. And my nose is almost healed where the carcinoma was cut off. Who is this vieille femme?

In quiet moments like this, he still comes to me. My Grandfather Horse travels easier since his death. I think about his last years. One health concern after another. Each one could be doctored and he recuperated to about 80% of his former strength. Until the next issue, which he survived again, but only back to 80% of himself. Diminished, always less than before. Until he gradually became decrepit. Other horses died younger, quicker. The Grandfather Horse died in slow motion.

Is that what’s happening to me? Is that why I was so desperate to come to Paris now? I tried to think of a more positive way to say that I know my best years weren’t ahead. I can feel big changes happening. I’ll need courage to face them, a softer heart to hold the inevitable losses, and I’m not a fan of denial. I think about death, not that I’m afraid, but that I want to live this part of life well. I want to please myself. Here’s what I came up with: These years are my swansong.

It was a beautiful bittersweet week. Rain fell as soft as tears and each day started with strong coffee and petit-déjeuner. I did tourist things, drank champagne on the bateau mouche, ate dinner in La Tour Eiffel, always my favorite building. There were small galleries that might have been mine if I had stayed. I spent hours and hours in sidewalk cafes, writing and sipping. And writing some more. Then I used their toilette, and walked on. When my feet got tired, I called an Uber to take me back, because it’s not 1984. I can do that now.

Of course, I needed to get a haircut. Who could come to Paris and not? Besides, I’ve been cutting my own hair practically since my last trip here. I tried for an online appointment and was halfway through, but the form wouldn’t take my phone number. Uncertain whether I had the appointment, I walked over the next day. It’s the ultimate game of charades to get your haircut in a foreign country without a shared language. I think we all try harder. I walked in and you can imagine my baffling explanation.

Deux coiffeurs were working, and they welcomed me. The coiffeur masculin volunteered, I agreed, and he asked his assistant to wash my hair. She is young. I had forgotten what someone else shampooing my hair felt like. Merci beaucoup. She asked if I spoke more languages. Of course, I don’t understand. Finally, I figure it out and say, “Non, et vous?” She has Portuguese. She is that cool.

And then I’m in the chair. The coiffeur and I have no words in common. We particularly and especially don’t understand each other. We practically raise it to an artform. He’s probably asking what I’d like, so I point at his bald head and nod. Now others in the room act nervous and I wonder if I’ve offended him.

“Même chose?” he asks. We repeat it to back and forth a few times but I can’t call the meaning up. I make a buzzing sound and run my fingers through my hair. And he nods, goes silent, and begins cutting in a way I’ve never seen. Think Edward Scissorhands. He gives me little sissy bangs on one side and leaves the other side long. Well, comparatively. The clippers come out for the back.

Apparently, there is a universal hand signal for hair product, and I smile my answer. He artistically fluffs the crown. Adjusts the sissy bangs. Then the cape comes off and my glasses are back on. Standing up, I declare, “I look wonderful.” I laugh and my wattle wiggles. The coiffeur gives me a toothy grin. A woman with a towel around her head applauds. The other coiffeur half shook her head, maybe a relieved smile.

The coiffeur and I continue our ongoing stumbling conversation, as unintelligible as ever. Not only is he having me repeat things back in French, but then he says something in what might be another language and it’s clear I should repeat it, but it takes me a few tries. “Are you Italian?” I finally ask. He nods. And just like that, I’m slaughtering a whole new language.

…to be continued.

…

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

…

The post Travelblog: Paris is Like Visiting an Old Lover appeared first on Anna Blake.

Travelblog: Late for the Funeral. By Three Years.

Words about friendship and death ahead. There, you’re warned. I’m still on vacation, but I’m going to talk about grieving and my human friend Elaine. I label her that way because I usually write about horses. Please smile now. This isn’t a sad essay.

Friendship has always felt complicated to me. I keep the necessary boundaries to be fair and balanced while working. At the same time, part of being a clinician is being entertaining. Otherwise, people would not listen, and horses need us to listen. So, if I’m doing my job well, hopefully, people will enjoy my company.

However, I have learned not all acquaintances are trustworthy. True friends are hard to find as we age, and the feeling must bloom naturally and be mutual. It helps if one isn’t paying the other one. Ironically, Elaine and I met when I was reeling from being trashed on social media by a “friend” who was offended by a blog I wrote about death.

Elaine used to quote a poem, “People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.” Boy howdy. Now if I could learn to tell the difference.

So, I’d been leapfrogging my way across England on my way to visit Elaine. Here is the odd thing. Elaine isn’t there, but I’ll get to that part.

Elaine always said the least interesting thing about her was that she had cancer. The best thing was her wit. So smart, and wicked funny. I fell for her writing first. We’d both been self-employed forever, and we had horses in common.

Elaine had a unique voice, and I suggested she write a memoir. It isn’t an unusual thing for me to do. I think we should all write one. But Elaine took me up on it, writing it in what would be her last year. By September she said I might have to help finish it and I said I would.

We had planned our next visit for 2020 while I worked in the EU, but the pandemic happened. Elaine died in January 2021. I couldn’t make the funeral and it all felt unfinished. As if it was a cloud that followed me.

It wasn’t not logical to feel this way. I had encouraged Mark, Elaine’s husband, as he wrote about her last days, seen from his side. Then, I edited her writing into book form. A Horse A Husband and Cancer is an amazing, humorous, and honest read. Yes, she dies at the end. Just like every single one of us will. But isn’t our real story always about life?

Mark and I did not become friends during the editing process, because we were already friends from the start, too. Now I needed to come back finally for a proper hug from Mark. And a proper goodbye to Elaine.

The first stop in Wimborne was to visit Elaine’s friend and horse trainer. She also has a goat enterprise and during visits, we’d spent hours in that pen. Being there was a balm, then and now.

Afterward, I checked in to the hotel and prepared to meet Mark. I’d told him I wanted to go for a walk. That felt safer. I’ve been so looking forward to being here, but now I was anxious. So much so that I wasn’t sure I’d even recognize him. But silly me, I saw him a long block away.

His face was shining as we hurried toward each other and into a tearful hug that lasted a very long time. Then we walked and talked as intimately as ever. We laughed and cried, and we walked some more. Then I said I could use a pint.

We went into the Oddfellows Pub, where a friend of Mark’s has worked off and on for 47 years! I kind of envied her. To say the pub is small is an understatement. My house is small, and the pub could probably fit in my living room.

There were only two people when we got there. The bartender who I was told is 19 but doesn’t look a day over 16, and another big burly man Mark knows. Wimborne is a small town where people know each other. I was introduced and soon an older man wandered in and joined the conversation. Eventually, another couple sat at the far end of the bar, which wasn’t so far that they weren’t in the conversation as well.

They all want to know how Trump ever got elected. Mind you, many of the people I speak with are conservatives. Policies aren’t their concern. The second question everybody asks has to do with guns.

If you’re feeling a little dread about talking politics in a pub, well don’t. The big guy was articulate and engaging. Not to mention Brits swear better than anyone. The older man had perceptive ideas and the man at the far end of the bar had worked in the US. If you travel, you know there’s going to be a conversation about politics, but here you can talk about politics without killing each other. It’s refreshing.

I have no answers to either question and somehow this ends up being playful conversation with lots of laughter and stories. I did told them now isn’t a great time to visit the US. Then it was time to go. The burly man offered me his hand to shake. I swear I have no idea how this happened but I pulled him close and hugged him, and then wondered about myself for the rest of the night. I am not a natural hugger.

Over the next day, I reconnected with old friends and met some new ones. Mark planned a luncheon, and we ate Sunday roast. Life here is different now, because as permanent as death is, as much as we miss Elaine, life still goes on. Time swirls the parts of our life together, those who pass on become part of us now, and we continue.

Then Mark and I picked flowers from the garden and went to visit Elaine’s grave. She’s buried in a wicker coffin at the Poole & Wimborne Woodland Burial grounds. There were lots of young trees and flowers. The place had a wild feel that Elaine would like. There were no huge tombstones. Everyone was equal; just small markers and benches. Predictably, we cried some more. We always will, but that feels different now, too.

There was a quiet relief in being there. Is this the reason for open caskets? I knew she was gone. Elaine hadn’t been looking over our shoulders, haunting our meals. Mark and I like to think she would be happy to see us together there, but she was well and truly some other place now. What was unfinished before shifted. I laid her to rest differently. It made loving Elaine easier again.

Monday morning, Mark took me to the train station. He’s the sort of man who opens doors and carries bags as a rule. It’s been a while, and I felt special, but I think it’s just who he is. Mark waited with me on the platform and then carried my bag onto the train and helped find my seat. Getting off at the last moment, he blew kisses as the train moved. I could feel myself curling up inside, my arms barely holding me together. I hate saying goodbye. Another thing Elaine and I had in common.

In parting, everyone said that we would meet again, and I hope we will all live that long. Elaine didn’t. I knew our friendship was for life. I just didn’t know how much I would be living without her. And I hope to be here to say goodbye to others I love. Is that my future?

Somehow everybody in Scotland and England seemed a little bit like a slightly weird relative that you have known but not met. The men were twinkly eyed sweet, as if they were not quite sober. The women laugh out loud and are welcoming to strangers they meet at bus stops and toilets. Like we are all in on the joke.

My UK friends are royalty. Here’s a grateful wave and I’m off to Paris, carrying a lot less baggage.

…

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

The post Travelblog: Late for the Funeral. By Three Years. appeared first on Anna Blake.

Travelblog: Thinking About Aging in Ancient Surroundings

I was in Newcastle Upon Tyne. I had finished ripping around Scotland and arrived at my hotel, where a group in the lobby might have been meeting up for prom night. It’s only a guess because, as we know, I cannot understand my birth language and it’s been fifty-four years since my last prom. But they are wearing long dresses and tuxedos. The girls are huddled together whispering, and the boys are preening their feathers for each other.

Seeing teenagers always makes me feel light in my Crocs. I found my room and fell into the dreamless sleep of a woman relieved to be of a sane post-prom age and in bed before dark. I cluck at them, at myself, lucky as an old hen. The next morning, I’m back at the train station with a vague idea of where my departure platform is and still time for breakfast.

I smile at the young man behind the counter and ask for a bap and a flat white, as I point at a flyer for their daily special. He asks me a question, and I cannot hear any spaces between letters. I can’t pull out a sound that I can use to decipher his question. Excuse me? I say, squinting my eyes to help me hear better.

He repeats the same sounds, quicker and a bit louder. I watch his lips as I roll the sound in my ears. Check to see if my hearing aids are in as if it was a volume problem which it is not. Pardon me, I plead. What did you say?

This third time he nearly shouts, but the same quick discordant sounds come out. Is he speed-mumbling? Is he speaking English with a British accent, but with an extra accent thrown in that disguises the first? I finally shrug and hope he’ll give me my order, anyway.

This happens with us and horses. We substitute volume for understanding. As if shouting is the same as explaining. And we’re supposed to be the smart ones. I flick an ear.

A few hours later, I’m at a friend’s farm having tea and scones and laughing with her family. I’m still listening hard but it’s light-hearted. Her dogs lean against my knee, and I feel welcome. Relieved and safe. Same as working with horses again.

My friend asked what I wanted to do during my visit and it’s always a hard question when you are in a strange place. How would I know?  She says she has an idea, something different that I don’t usually do.

She suggests sightseeing. What a lark! It may sound obvious to you, but when you travel for work, it just doesn’t happen. By the time the clinic is complete, it’s time to head to the next stop. This trip I’m a tourist.  Not to mention, I have a driver. I notice I like myself this way.

In the morning after barn chores, we took the dogs for a walk in the woods. The ground was carpeted with wildflowers, the air was moist and sweet. It was good to be in the trees rather than watching them from a train window. The woods are a sacred place, a church without human interference.

Then we changed clothes and headed into town to the Lincoln Cathedral. We had a ladies’ lunch, another rare event, at the Cathedral cafe and then went inside. It was like a manmade stone forest, with stained glass windows in the branches above. Construction on the cathedral began in 1072, for crying out loud. It was an immense undertaking, and for over two hundred years, the cathedral was the tallest building in the world. So huge that I had to stand a block away to get it all in one frame. Beyond religion or politics, it is a marvel. And here’s me having an attitude about coming up on seventy years. Aren’t humans arrogant little bugs?

Then we walked through the neighborhood, where the buildings were newer. Meaning only dating back to the 1600s, Shakespeare’s time. We wandered the narrow, steep cobblestone lanes lined with shops and galleries. Their high ceilings had massive rough-hewn wooden beams hacked from hundred-year-old trees. History rolls us back in time. It is palpable in every stone, and yet it feels almost like a movie set. Real as rock and as translucent as fantasy.

The act of traveling can provide a perspective of who we are from another vantage point. Home is what we compare with what we see. The United States is so young in light of the history that has passed through these lanes. We are like an unruly schoolboy country with an awkward mix of silly misunderstandings and immortal dreams. If we took care of our heirlooms like this, maybe we could have nice things.

From Lincolnshire, I leapfrogged to other friends who took me to meet the New Forest Ponies, a native UK breed. They live in the 140,000-acre national park area they are named for. The herds have welfare management, but they roam freely on unfenced acres. Not entirely tame and not fully wild. Just like the horses in our barns.

It’s foaling season now, so there were very rotund mares biding their time and foals braced on new legs with wide eyes. Their calming signals are subtle, their heads down grazing, telling us they are no threat while watching our every movement. They are subtle communicators, not showing the glaring calming signals our “domestic” horses do. The earliest record of horses in the New Forest dates back to 1016. New Forest ponies are surefooted and agile. Older than cathedrals and just as mystical.

It’s a job of work to make sense of all these bits and pieces of experience. I always know horses are the through-line. For now, I will collect the bits all in a pile, to be examined for their weight and texture, then turned over in the light. A paradise for an overthinking tourist like me.

I notice I continue to have a lot of attitude for a puny little human life, a speck of dust floating in the air somewhere between birth and death. Aren’t all of us just passing fads in our own minds?

I will wait for these pieces to make sense, so I can eventually eat my birthday cake in peace this fall. Meanwhile, my mind returns to a certain bit of advice that asks more questions than it answers. It’s a synthetic voice in the recorded announcement that is repeated every time the train stops. The first step to the platform is sometimes not as close or even as it could be.

I think I heard it right. The unearthly voice warns, “Mind the gap.” That I can do.

And PS. They are right about the sticky toffee pudding.

…

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

…

The post Travelblog: Thinking About Aging in Ancient Surroundings appeared first on Anna Blake.

England: Thinking About Aging in Ancient Surroundings

I was in Newcastle Upon Tyne. I had finished ripping around Scotland and arrived at my hotel, where a group in the lobby might have been meeting up for prom night. It’s only a guess because, as we know, I cannot understand my birth language and it’s been fifty-four years since my last prom. But they are wearing long dresses and tuxedos. The girls are huddled together whispering, and the boys are preening their feathers for each other.

Seeing teenagers always makes me feel light in my Crocs. I found my room and fell into the dreamless sleep of a woman relieved to be of a sane post-prom age and in bed before dark. I cluck at them, at myself, lucky as an old hen. The next morning, I’m back at the train station with a vague idea of where my departure platform is and still time for breakfast.

I smile at the young man behind the counter and ask for a bap and a flat white, as I point at a flyer for their daily special. He asks me a question, and I cannot hear any spaces between letters. I can’t pull out a sound that I can use to decipher his question. Excuse me? I say, squinting my eyes to help me hear better.

He repeats the same sounds, quicker and a bit louder. I watch his lips as I roll the sound in my ears. Check to see if my hearing aids are in as if it was a volume problem which it is not. Pardon me, I plead. What did you say?

This third time he nearly shouts, but the same quick discordant sounds come out. Is he speed-mumbling? Is he speaking English with a British accent, but with an extra accent thrown in that disguises the first? I finally shrug and hope he’ll give me my order, anyway.

This happens with us and horses. We substitute volume for understanding. As if shouting is the same as explaining. And we’re supposed to be the smart ones. I flick an ear.

A few hours later, I’m at a friend’s farm having tea and scones and laughing with her family. I’m still listening hard but it’s light-hearted. Her dogs lean against my knee, and I feel welcome. Relieved and safe. Same as working with horses again.

My friend asked what I wanted to do during my visit and it’s always a hard question when you are in a strange place. How would I know?  She says she has an idea, something different that I don’t usually do.

She suggests sightseeing. What a lark! It may sound obvious to you, but when you travel for work, it just doesn’t happen. By the time the clinic is complete, it’s time to head to the next stop. This trip I’m a tourist.  Not to mention, I have a driver. I notice I like myself this way.

In the morning after barn chores, we took the dogs for a walk in the woods. The ground was carpeted with wildflowers, the air was moist and sweet. It was good to be in the trees rather than watching them from a train window. The woods are a sacred place, a church without human interference.

Then we changed clothes and headed into town to the Lincoln Cathedral. We had a ladies’ lunch, another rare event, at the Cathedral cafe and then went inside. It was like a manmade stone forest, with stained glass windows in the branches above. Construction on the cathedral began in 1072, for crying out loud. It was an immense undertaking, and for over two hundred years, the cathedral was the tallest building in the world. So huge that I had to stand a block away to get it all in one frame. Beyond religion or politics, it is a marvel. And here’s me having an attitude about coming up on seventy years. Aren’t humans arrogant little bugs?

Then we walked through the neighborhood, where the buildings were newer. Meaning only dating back to the 1600s, Shakespeare’s time. We wandered the narrow, steep cobblestone lanes lined with shops and galleries. Their high ceilings had massive rough-hewn wooden beams hacked from hundred-year-old trees. History rolls us back in time. It is palpable in every stone, and yet it feels almost like a movie set. Real as rock and as translucent as fantasy.

The act of traveling can provide a perspective of who we are from another vantage point. Home is what we compare with what we see. The United States is so young in light of the history that has passed through these lanes. We are like an unruly schoolboy country with an awkward mix of silly misunderstandings and immortal dreams. If we took care of our heirlooms like this, maybe we could have nice things.

From Lincolnshire, I leapfrogged to other friends who took me to meet the New Forest Ponies, a native UK breed. They live in the 140,000-acre national park area they are named for. The herds have welfare management, but they roam freely on unfenced acres. Not entirely tame and not fully wild. Just like the horses in our barns.

It’s foaling season now, so there were very rotund mares biding their time and foals braced on new legs with wide eyes. Their calming signals are subtle, their heads down grazing, telling us they are no threat while watching our every movement. They are subtle communicators, not showing the glaring calming signals our “domestic” horses do. The earliest record of horses in the New Forest dates back to 1016. New Forest ponies are surefooted and agile. Older than cathedrals and just as mystical.

It’s a job of work to make sense of all these bits and pieces of experience. I always know horses are the through-line. For now, I will collect the bits all in a pile, to be examined for their weight and texture, then turned over in the light. A paradise for an overthinking tourist like me.

I notice I continue to have a lot of attitude for a puny little human life, a speck of dust floating in the air somewhere between birth and death. Aren’t all of us just passing fads in our own minds?

I will wait for these pieces to make sense, so I can eventually eat my birthday cake in peace this fall. Meanwhile, my mind returns to a certain bit of advice that asks more questions than it answers. It’s a synthetic voice in the recorded announcement that is repeated every time the train stops. The first step to the platform is sometimes not as close or even as it could be.

I think I heard it right. The unearthly voice warns, “Mind the gap.” That I can do.

And PS. They are right about the sticky toffee pudding.

…

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

…

The post England: Thinking About Aging in Ancient Surroundings appeared first on Anna Blake.

Travelblog: It’s a Vacation. Not a Work Trip.

My first vacation in a donkey’s years started with a van ride to Denver International Airport, with the obligatory drop-off two hours early. We finally boarded and had a two-and-a-half-hour wait on the runway. All that parking meant we were hours late to Chicago. I ran and barely made the London flight, but only because it was also late. By the time we landed in London, I’d already missed my flight to Glasgow, but I was able to have a delightful cheese and pickle sandwich. Small blessings.

After 38 hours of waiting, being strapped in seat belts, knees pressed into the seat in front of me, or sprinting through terminals while pondering what might be going on with my right leg, I was finally in Glasgow. I just had one more transfer. It was a bus to my hotel. Knowing my limits, I took a taxi. The other word for that is Towanda!

After two naps and a shower, I made it downstairs for dinner in the hotel bar. I’ll get to the horse part soon because there’s always a horse part.

People here are friendly and eager to talk. They speak a language I don’t understand, although it’s my birth tongue.

After dinner, I was on the elevator back up with two women roughly my age. One said something to me that I couldn’t sound out. I’ve always been hard of hearing and taught myself to replay the sounds in my head until I can make them into a sentence. No luck. Why don’t my hearing aids come with translation?

I apologized for not speaking English. For not the first time. She spoke slowly and told me she lived in North Carolina and had come to see where her parents grew up. Her accent is as strong as the locals. And of course, my grandparents were immigrants.

When they asked what I was doing I blurted out that my 70th birthday was coming up and I noticed I had a bit of an attitude about it. The elevator door opened at my floor and they both chimed in a merry unplanned cheer, “Here’s to having an attitude!” And now we’re all related.

I know some of you readers are past 70. Forgive me if I’m more interested in how I feel about it.

In the morning, I went downstairs for breakfast, determined to call this the first day of vacation. I ate like a bird, meaning only a fraction of the things in the full English breakfast. I’m not afraid of a rank stallion, but this breakfast is terrifying.

Then off on foot to the train station. GPS talked me there, just off George Square where there is a statue of Queen Victoria (above). I have to love Scotland. A place where women ride sidesaddle on what looks suspiciously like an Arabian horse. It’s a strong bit, but the reins are broken. Is that a neck ring I see? And just like that, I’m fine. Because I happen to be a queen of a vast kingdom (in my own mind.) I even had a side saddle because I thought it was fun to ride like a girl.

Once I have my bearings in the train station, I head to the basement for the bathroom because my bladder isn’t the woman she used to be. Pay turnstiles? So, I went back to the lost and found desk to ask for change, but the man wouldn’t break my bill. Instead, he lets me in for free, walking me over and telling me I’ll love the train to Mallaig. He can’t help but try to teach me how to pronounce it. I swear, Scottish (which I obviously refer to as another language) is the most musical yet unintelligible language ever. No silly I-before-E rules. No rules at all.

This would have been enough of a welcome, but a fewf hours later on the train, I got the bladder call again. The bathroom was at the front of the car. It’s like a little spaceship, round with a pocket door that slides shut with the push of a button. I had already pulled down my pants and sat down when I noticed the lighted sign telling me the door was not locked. A tough call, but it’s pretty hard to embarrass me. I finished as quickly as I could, washed my hands, and opened the door. A man was standing outside, who immediately explained how to lock the door, which he’d apparently been guarding for me.

The kindness of the Scottish people was almost disorienting after my recent cruel trip to Texas, but what kind of country has men who are so weirdly helpful with bathrooms? Surely it doesn’t say anything about me.

The West Highland Train runs between Glasgow and Mallaig. The route is 146 miles and takes just under five and a half hours, which is not nearly long enough. I don’t even want to read. I’m besotted. This legendary landscape looks just like you’d expect. No grouping of letters on paper will do it justice but if I squint my eyes, I think I see ancestors behind the rocks.

It’s full Scotch broom season, the yellow flowers at odds with the sky. The Highland cattle look right at home. A few draft horses stand in fields but the country belongs to its sheep. Sheep everywhere, the ewes all dowdy gray and the lambies brilliant white, ricocheting off rocks. I still remember the names of the breeds from our farm when I was little, in that way that worlds collide as the idea of time falls away.

Hours pass. The last leg of the trip had the most beautiful scenery, and I was busy videoing out the window like any self-respecting tourist when a man sat down next to me. He introduced himself as Ian and immediately told me I was on the side of the train with the best view. We were backing out of the station so I asked, “Backward the whole way?” He nods yes.

He had flaming ginger hair with a formidable matching beard with sunstroke-fair skin, clear as the sky if only it hadn’t been so foggy and rainy. I could tell he was used to talking to strangers on the train because he modulated his voice volume to the rattle of the rails. Meaning, I could hear him even if I didn’t understand him.

I had pages of notes in front of me and he asked if I was a writer. Yes, I said. Pleasure or profit, he asked. Both I answered. He wanted to trade writing tips for history lessons. Deal. How you can tell I’m on vacation is that I agreed.

As we crossed the Glenfinian Viaduct, famous for its twenty-one arches, Ian told me about its history. There’s an ancient monument to the Battle of the Shirts, a clan battle that took place in 1544 when the Clan McDonald fought an epic battle the Clan Frazier. It feels like it happened yesterday.

The viaduct was built in the late 1800s, by Robert McAlpine, nicknamed “Concrete Bob” for his innovative use of mass concrete. There was a story horse who fell inside of a pylon dragging the cart with him. The decision was made to just fill it all in with cement.

Ironically, this is a place mostly known for a movie that I haven’t seen about a magician.

To visit Scotland is to understand that history is always present, so we talked about how horses helped us build the world and civilize our culture, but now there is little need for them. Some are still used hard, sometimes abused, with no traditional jobs to do. They are underappreciated, almost unnecessary. It’s the good news and the bad.

I told him my first trip to Scotland for work was on the solstice and we had vegetarian haggis. Just when I thought I’d never meet someone else who’d had it, he agreed it was the best thing ever. He claimed that some Scots had evolved past eating entrails.

He asked me about writing, apologizing that millennials like him were hooked to technology as if my paper tablet was sacred. As if writing had never evolved since cave paintings. Just to show off, I told him that soon I’d read these pages of notes to a dictation app and then email them to myself where it would be easier to edit them (I have apps) into submission.

Ian plays shinty, an ancient animal-skin ball game where the players are armed with sticks, and he has a damaged knee to prove it. A bit of a local hero, (that movie was shot here, too) but he had to move away and come back again. Don’t we always return home, or a place that feels that way?

Once I was settled into my hotel room, I took a walk in the rain. Maybe it was just fog, it’s hard to tell. Mallaig is a fishing village of 660 souls. At the end of a dock when I met a seagull the size of a capon. Huge and loud and healthy, probably from begging tourists for snacks. Leading from behind is an exercise I do with horses but I have a habit of finding birds to practice with when I travel. Leading from behind is easy. You just say yes and stop being a predator. Let the bird take you for a walk.

Then dinner. Jolene was playing, as I ordered fish and chips which come with peas. Most meals here do, and pickled cauliflower. The fish was so flaky it fell apart before getting to my mouth. Ambrosia fish but no food photos. I’ve never been a fan of delayed gratification. The sun eventually sets on day one.

And so, intrepid readers, this isn’t my usual blog, and it’s not just that I’m in the Scottish Highlands.

Since being hacked and then deleted by Facebook, the number of blog reads has dropped by 96%. Think about it. There was a time I would have killed for that many reads but it feels depressing now. I can see it in my income, trickle-down economics working as well as it ever has. I thought I’d never retire but it seems I don’t have to make that decision. Facebook did it for me and now I’m looking for the high side. It’s like I’ve lost half my body weight and I don’t miss the bickering.

I’m very grateful to you die-hards for sticking with me. I’ll keep writing as long as I continue to think because writing has become how I think. But readers beware, there’s no telling what I’ll stomach for breakfast or what trains I’ll catch. I do promise horses will be part of it because horses are life.

I’ll lob this essay over the ocean now, not that I know what day it is. If you were hoping for training information, go to my blog page where over 1400 essays waiting. Did I mention, I’m on vacation?

…

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

The post Travelblog: It’s a Vacation. Not a Work Trip. appeared first on Anna Blake.

It’s a Vacation. Not a Work Trip.

My first vacation in a donkey’s years started with a van ride to Denver International Airport, with the obligatory drop-off two hours early. We finally boarded and had a two-and-a-half-hour wait on the runway. All that parking meant we were hours late to Chicago. I ran and barely made the London flight, but only because it was also late. By the time we landed in London, I’d already missed my flight to Glasgow, but I was able to have a delightful cheese and pickle sandwich. Small blessings.

After 38 hours of waiting, being strapped in seat belts, knees pressed into the seat in front of me, or sprinting through terminals while pondering what might be going on with my right leg, I was finally in Glasgow. I just had one more transfer. It was a bus to my hotel. Knowing my limits, I took a taxi. The other word for that is Towanda!

After two naps and a shower, I made it downstairs for dinner in the hotel bar. I’ll get to the horse part soon because there’s always a horse part.

People here are friendly and eager to talk. They speak a language I don’t understand, although it’s my birth tongue.

After dinner, I was on the elevator back up with two women roughly my age. One said something to me that I couldn’t sound out. I’ve always been hard of hearing and taught myself to replay the sounds in my head until I can make them into a sentence. No luck. Why don’t my hearing aids come with translation?

I apologized for not speaking English. For not the first time. She spoke slowly and told me she lived in North Carolina and had come to see where her parents grew up. Her accent is as strong as the locals. And of course, my grandparents were immigrants.

When they asked what I was doing I blurted out that my 70th birthday was coming up and I noticed I had a bit of an attitude about it. The elevator door opened at my floor and they both chimed in a merry unplanned cheer, “Here’s to having an attitude!” And now we’re all related.

I know some of you readers are past 70. Forgive me if I’m more interested in how I feel about it.

In the morning, I went downstairs for breakfast, determined to call this the first day of vacation. I ate like a bird, meaning only a fraction of the things in the full English breakfast. I’m not afraid of a rank stallion, but this breakfast is terrifying.

Then off on foot to the train station. GPS talked me there, just off George Square where there is a statue of Queen Victoria (above). I have to love Scotland. A place where women ride sidesaddle on what looks suspiciously like an Arabian horse. It’s a strong bit, but the reins are broken. Is that a neck ring I see? And just like that, I’m fine. Because I happen to be a queen of a vast kingdom (in my own mind.) I even had a side saddle because I thought it was fun to ride like a girl.

Once I have my bearings in the train station, I head to the basement for the bathroom because my bladder isn’t the woman she used to be. Pay turnstiles? So, I went back to the lost and found desk to ask for change, but the man wouldn’t break my bill. Instead, he lets me in for free, walking me over and telling me I’ll love the train to Mallaig. He can’t help but try to teach me how to pronounce it. I swear, Scottish (which I obviously refer to as another language) is the most musical yet unintelligible language ever. No silly I-before-E rules. No rules at all.

This would have been enough of a welcome, but a fewf hours later on the train, I got the bladder call again. The bathroom was at the front of the car. It’s like a little spaceship, round with a pocket door that slides shut with the push of a button. I had already pulled down my pants and sat down when I noticed the lighted sign telling me the door was not locked. A tough call, but it’s pretty hard to embarrass me. I finished as quickly as I could, washed my hands, and opened the door. A man was standing outside, who immediately explained how to lock the door, which he’d apparently been guarding for me.

The kindness of the Scottish people was almost disorienting after my recent cruel trip to Texas, but what kind of country has men who are so weirdly helpful with bathrooms? Surely it doesn’t say anything about me.

The West Highland Train runs between Glasgow and Mallaig. The route is 146 miles and takes just under five and a half hours, which is not nearly long enough. I don’t even want to read. I’m besotted. This legendary landscape looks just like you’d expect. No grouping of letters on paper will do it justice but if I squint my eyes, I think I see ancestors behind the rocks.

It’s full Scotch broom season, the yellow flowers at odds with the sky. The Highland cattle look right at home. A few draft horses stand in fields but the country belongs to its sheep. Sheep everywhere, the ewes all dowdy gray and the lambies brilliant white, ricocheting off rocks. I still remember the names of the breeds from our farm when I was little, in that way that worlds collide as the idea of time falls away.

Hours pass. The last leg of the trip had the most beautiful scenery, and I was busy videoing out the window like any self-respecting tourist when a man sat down next to me. He introduced himself as Ian and immediately told me I was on the side of the train with the best view. We were backing out of the station so I asked, “Backward the whole way?” He nods yes.

He had flaming ginger hair with a formidable matching beard with sunstroke-fair skin, clear as the sky if only it hadn’t been so foggy and rainy. I could tell he was used to talking to strangers on the train because he modulated his voice volume to the rattle of the rails. Meaning, I could hear him even if I didn’t understand him.

I had pages of notes in front of me and he asked if I was a writer. Yes, I said. Pleasure or profit, he asked. Both I answered. He wanted to trade writing tips for history lessons. Deal. How you can tell I’m on vacation is that I agreed.

As we crossed the Glenfinian Viaduct, famous for its twenty-one arches, Ian told me about its history. There’s an ancient monument to the Battle of the Shirts, a clan battle that took place in 1544 when the Clan McDonald fought an epic battle the Clan Frazier. It feels like it happened yesterday.

The viaduct was built in the late 1800s, by Robert McAlpine, nicknamed “Concrete Bob” for his innovative use of mass concrete. There was a story horse who fell inside of a pylon dragging the cart with him. The decision was made to just fill it all in with cement.

Ironically, this is a place mostly known for a movie that I haven’t seen about a magician.

To visit Scotland is to understand that history is always present, so we talked about how horses helped us build the world and civilize our culture, but now there is little need for them. Some are still used hard, sometimes abused, with no traditional jobs to do. They are underappreciated, almost unnecessary. It’s the good news and the bad.

I told him my first trip to Scotland for work was on the solstice and we had vegetarian haggis. Just when I thought I’d never meet someone else who’d had it, he agreed it was the best thing ever. He claimed that some Scots had evolved past eating entrails.

He asked me about writing, apologizing that millennials like him were hooked to technology as if my paper tablet was sacred. As if writing had never evolved since cave paintings. Just to show off, I told him that soon I’d read these pages of notes to a dictation app and then email them to myself where it would be easier to edit them (I have apps) into submission.

Ian plays shinty, an ancient animal-skin ball game where the players are armed with sticks, and he has a damaged knee to prove it. A bit of a local hero, (that movie was shot here, too) but he had to move away and come back again. Don’t we always return home, or a place that feels that way?

Once I was settled into my hotel room, I took a walk in the rain. Maybe it was just fog, it’s hard to tell. Mallaig is a fishing village of 660 souls. At the end of a dock when I met a seagull the size of a capon. Huge and loud and healthy, probably from begging tourists for snacks. Leading from behind is an exercise I do with horses but I have a habit of finding birds to practice with when I travel. Leading from behind is easy. You just say yes and stop being a predator. Let the bird take you for a walk.

Then dinner. Jolene was playing, as I ordered fish and chips which come with peas. Most meals here do, and pickled cauliflower. The fish was so flaky it fell apart before getting to my mouth. Ambrosia fish but no food photos. I’ve never been a fan of delayed gratification. The sun eventually sets on day one.

And so, intrepid readers, this isn’t my usual blog, and it’s not just that I’m in the Scottish Highlands.

Since being hacked and then deleted by Facebook, the number of blog reads has dropped by 96%. Think about it. There was a time I would have killed for that many reads but it feels depressing now. I can see it in my income, trickle-down economics working as well as it ever has. I thought I’d never retire but it seems I don’t have to make that decision. Facebook did it for me and now I’m looking for the high side. It’s like I’ve lost half my body weight and I don’t miss the bickering.

I’m very grateful to you die-hards for sticking with me. I’ll keep writing as long as I continue to think because writing has become how I think. But readers beware, there’s no telling what I’ll stomach for breakfast or what trains I’ll catch. I do promise horses will be part of it because horses are life.

I’ll lob this essay over the ocean now, not that I know what day it is. If you were hoping for training information, go to my blog page where over 1400 essays waiting. Did I mention, I’m on vacation?

…

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

The post It’s a Vacation. Not a Work Trip. appeared first on Anna Blake.

Growing Up: Self-Consciousness vs Self-Awareness

My teen years were pretty normal, meaning total angst and torture. There was that summer that I used my babysitting money to buy yards and yards of polyester double-knit fabric. I knew homemade wasn’t as good as store-bought, but I sewed a whole new school wardrobe, designed by yours truly. One outfit was lime green culottes with a matching v-neck vest. I wore a navy-blue blouse with one of those disco collars practically as wide as my shoulders. Explain to me why someone as horribly self-conscious as me would go to those lengths to embarrass myself even further. By then I’d already stopped wearing my cat-eye glasses. There was only so much punishment I could stand.

It was as if feeling awkward and unattractive was the law of the land. We were insecure about our hair, skin, weight, shoes, boyfriends or lack of, and the list goes on, but I’m dizzy with time travel. We thought pretty girls didn’t worry, rich girls didn’t have problems, and any other girl was luckier than we were. We were so distracted by our self-criticism that we didn’t see how beautiful we were, if you just looked past the bad haircuts. Under those bangs, we were smart and funny and so much more than we let show.

My saving grace was a strawberry roan (teens with poor self-image always have horses with special colors, never just a sorrel.) King was one of those backyard horses who were stubborn, rebellious, and hardheaded in equal parts. Or maybe that was me. It could be hard to tell us apart. There was an old photo of me leaning too far forward in the saddle, wearing cutoffs with a wave of dark hair blown over one eye. My shoulders curved around my sunken chest, knowing right then I would never be good enough. For everything else I remember about how I felt back then, I was proud to be on that horse.

Then we graduated and life happened. Some of us left for college and some of us just left. We found work, and some of us started families. Those pressures we felt as teens matured with us. There were days when our greatest potential was to mess it all up and sometimes, we did. But we pushed on in our busy lives. We withdrew into martyrdom or we acted out with false bravado. Most days we did both while doing the dishes because we were multi-taskers. We needed to lighten the load, we didn’t want to quit, but we couldn’t go on.

The best part about overthinking and self-judging as if the whole world cared was that eventually, we buckled under the weight of our own good intentions.

“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” Carl R. Rogers

The changes started small. No more ironing. We cared less about our hair, not that anyone noticed. We vacuumed less and read more. We learned to say no, without an excuse, and our jobs and homes didn’t collapse into chaos. Boundaries began to replace our need to be everything, everywhere, all at once. We lifted a tiny flame of self-esteem over our heads, asking for an encore while mud-wrestling with our mental health.

After polite years of false humility and talking ourselves down, we believed passive self-loathing was not just normal but required. The world has a habit of seeing women as less than men. We didn’t make that part up but it wasn’t like anyone else was going to do the laundry. Self-love has been defined both as a basic human necessity but as a moral flaw, no different than egotism, or even narcissism. It was confusing.

But we had a place we could be us. Some of us managed to keep horses and the rest of us found our way back to them. We weren’t as young or fearless, but horses are the place we were always accepted and never judged. The truth was they liked us better this way. We settled a bit and dismissed our inner rail birds. It wasn’t easy, we had to see them out. We had to focus on what we wanted rather than over-thinking how it had always been.

The self-consciousness worries took up precious time and got in the way. Horses require us to have self-awareness. We need to pay attention to the environment, what our bodies are saying, most of all, we listen more, rather than chatter on. Soon, we fell in love with the earth all over again. Only too aware that the our mental attitude impacted our horses, we wanted to be our best selves around them. Slowly, we become our best selves.

We’ve outgrown shame, and we let go of past regrets a bit more every day. We do it for horses and for our sanity. We aren’t perfect, no surprise there, but that hasn’t mattered for a while. Our mistakes are honest and we learn from them. We have become almost as wise as donkeys.

As for my sewing, I pretty much gave it up. The world is probably safe from my lime green culottes. But I have hidden skills and you can’t always buy what you need off the rack.

 

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Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

The post Growing Up: Self-Consciousness vs Self-Awareness appeared first on Anna Blake.

Stay in Your Own Lane

I don’t mind getting stuck in traffic. It practically makes me un-American to say so. I don’t love it but I don’t get hair-tearing frustrated. I’m lucky to be an introvert who likes her own company. Perhaps a bit too much.

As the youngest child, my mother expected me to go outside to play and not come back before dinner. It felt like a get-out-of-jail-free card and I’ve been amusing myself ever since. Besides, horses taught me that getting frustrated was never the right answer.

And I’m fully cognizant that complaining about traffic is just about the most lowbrow, whiny small talk possible, but why let that stop me? I promise I’ll get to horses.

In my travel memoir, Undomesticated Women, Ft. Worth is notorious for the worst eternally under-construction freeway/agility course anywhere. Also the scene of the infamous road rage incident. Don’t let the fun I had writing about Ft. Worth traffic fool you. My dog and sanity coach, Mister, had to cover his eyes.

During that trip, I stayed over at the ranch after the clinic and then drove south through town in Monday morning rush hour traffic. We managed to score $96 in express tolls. GPS can’t distinguish between a freeway off-ramp and an express toll lane. Not even with dozens of opportunities. The hilarity continues by putting off-ramps on the left because it increases the number of wild last-minute lane changes. It’s genius.

The locals have a “T” sticker for toll discounts but wayward tourists get lost for hours like fat hens who can’t hear the cash register dinging with each wrong turn in the endless circle of express lanes. We cluck profanity but we are only tourist hens and easy prey.

I was back for a clinic on the north side of Ft. Worth this week. Afterward, Mister and I headed to the south end of town again to visit his family. Mister wants to be the sort who visits family, but like a lot of us, he doesn’t get along with all of them so well. He does like the ones who share their cheese.

This time I prepared what I needed like I do tacking up my horses. They shouldn’t have to wait while I wander off to find my best rubber curry, neck ring, or helmet. Horses appreciate common courtesy. And I prepared for the traffic in Fort Worth in the same way.

This time I didn’t wait for Monday rush hour and left Sunday night, a hindsight choice in hopes of less traffic. I had my mail-order “T” sticker and my GPS was primed and ready. There was a cool bottle of water in the console, a protein bar to guard against low blood sugar-induced fits, and some sunflower seeds for stress-eating. And Mister strapped into the passenger seat, a dog who just doesn’t care. Drama is not his thing.

Long story short, no one died. I escaped all of a thousand hellish off-ramps to toll roads. They did not induct me into the Two-time Debtors Prison. But I can report that the Texas road rage numbers were at an all-time high. I got shoved deep onto the shoulder at the end of the merge lane no less than three times in the hour-long drive. Really? Is Sunday night game night?

We travel in a truck and trailer. We need more distance to stop and can never forget our real length at a tight gas station or a grocery store parking lot. From Seattle to Philadelphia, urban drivers were capable of doing the math and letting us merge in without incident. Letting us have the forty-four feet needed to slide into traffic didn’t destroy their day or set off a rage. I thanked them with the coveted index finger salute. Sometimes a full five-finger wave. But not Texas. Here it’s like everyone was screaming “Stay in your lane!” even if it isn’t a real lane.

A tiny BMW missed my front bumper by a fraction and then hit the brakes in front of me. Followed by the black Lexus chasing it. An F-150 in the right lane came wheel-to-wheel with me, making eye contact, and not speeding up or slowing down until I had to skid to a stop on the shoulder. And not that size matters, but I drive a big dog F250 Super Duty. With a big dog chrome grill on the front that I’m not afraid to use.

But instead, I gave way. The traffic word is yield. Playing chicken is a stupid dominance game and I am just barely smart enough to understand no one wins. If shoving a gray mare with an RV onto the gravel makes their day, I hope they don’t have pets.

There is a word for these angry animals. Anthropocentrism is the concept of human supremacy or exceptionalism. It’s the idea that we are separate from and superior to nature and have intrinsic value while other lower lives may justifiably be exploited for our benefit. Whether they are human or non-human lives.

Do you know who does stay in their lane? Horses. Yes, I equate everything to horses because they are better than us.

Picture a herd of horses galloping over the landscape. Notice how they don’t crash into each other? Or run each other off a cliff? They keep a safe space between themselves to preserve their safety while moving with the herd. It’s the same thing birds and fish do.

We might be the only animals that have temper tantrums and slam into each other. Why call it playing chicken when chickens don’t do it?

Non-collision is a fundamental survival skill of horses. Running is their primary defense against predators, but more than that, space gives them some security around us predators.

At the same time, the first thing we do is crowd them, intruding on their space. Humans are face talkers. We put our nose an inch from theirs, so close they can only see a blur. We run them off the road with affection or training aids, we think our desires about space are more important than theirs.

Now I am a gray mare, tired of watching horses cringe in their calming signals when we shove into them. Tired of watching them ask for their space while yielding, always yielding to us. Horses close their eyes or look away as we take the predator position. Then we get louder thinking they are distracted.

We could stand peacefully at their shoulder but even then, we crowd into their space, whether we do it for reasons of domination or our need for affection, it’s intrusive. It’s our will over theirs, rather than a respect for mutual rules for each other’s safety.

What constitutes a traffic jam for a horse? Humans.

…

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

The post Stay in Your Own Lane appeared first on Anna Blake.

Nube: Undiagnosable

I hope I’m not going to end up writing some kind of justification for harsh training. Usually, it’s easier than the alternative. But here goes. It’s important to be clear about how we got here with horses. How, with all I know, I got here with my personal horse, Nube.

Please understand that in all things, horses are complicated and fragile. They are the opposite of how they look and what we dream of in a horse. When we get lost in that counterintuitive swamp of horse ownership, we become love-blind and do some crazy things.

Start here. Why would we think that all horses are born perfect? That all horses are suited, either physically or mentally, to be riding horses? You know, just like all humans are born marathon runners and gymnasts. What? Not you?

Instead, we see potential and cuteness and our own big dreams. Then we choose youngsters over adult, trained horses, in the way you might buy an adorable engine block and expect to have a whole car one day.

Common sense should tell us horses are not all born equal. Some may have straight legs but also a conformation flaw serious enough that they will never be able to carry weight. Some horses are born with internal abnormalities that don’t show up until they are seven or so. A few horses were sound before going under saddle but carrying weight makes them feel unstable, making them anxious. Always being anxious isn’t “normal.”

We want the best, so we start with our local vet. Maybe we get lucky and there is an easy answer. But some horses are not as easy to help. Then we’re off to the specialist, then the vet college, then anyone online that might listen. Some answers seem to work for a while, but some only uncover another condition under the first one, like peeling an onion. It becomes an expensive education.

A good vet will tell you it’s rarely a single issue, but more like a perfect storm of interlocking and obscuring symptoms. We want an easier, less nebulous answer. It’s preferable to believe the horse is faking it to get out of work, spoiled, or just plain stupid. Any of a dozen dirty names used to describe the worst traits in people, none of which apply to horses.

We desperately want to believe our horse is okay. Some vets seem to play on that desire, other vets are doomsday predictors, and in the end, they are sometimes guessing, trying get closer to an answer. And doing their very best. We’re grateful, knowing horses are complicated and fragile. The level of veterinary science we have is not as advanced as any of us wish it was.

In the meantime, owners flounder. What to do when the horse says they aren’t okay but the vet says, “Nothing that I can find.” Pause and do the math: an eight-year-old horse is equal to a thirty-five-year-old human. Horses go from babies to middle age in a blink.

That was the age I noticed I wasn’t as agile as I used to be. I was well on my way to a metabolic condition that would half kill me before it was finally diagnosed. And me, still a teenager and all. Forty years later, many horses are getting similar diagnoses.

Add one more complication. Not only do horses speak a different language, but it’s also their instinct to hide pain. They aren’t being deceptive; it’s a survival instinct. We famously see ourselves in our horses. Anthropomorphism. Add to that, our language skills aren’t that good. When we finally hear the horse over our internal chatter, the horse has become more withdrawn or frantic.

When I ask equine professionals what percentage of horses are sound, they usually say under 10%. Not good, but then we aren’t sound either. The problem is knowing that percentage makes us paranoid. I can’t remember the last time I was convinced a resistant horse was sound. We just don’t know enough.

The lucky horses are owned by people who believe their horse’s reluctance is true and go down a long road of veterinary guessing. We hope within a few thousand dollars, there is an answer that resolves the issue. Lucky horses have owners who rise above their frustration and emotions.

The unlucky and undiagnosable horses don’t have it as good. They get misunderstanding and punishment. Their owners sell them off or send them to rescue, where the horses must convince their next owner that they aren’t okay. Then they get passed around until someone lets them stay without paying rent or they are lost to slaughter.

But all the horses are the same. They do their best to tell us how they feel, and we listen to the degree we are willing to hear, or able to understand.

If the condition continues in our horses, some of us become undiagnosable. There’s something wrong with them and somehow we become unsound inside ourselves either. Research. Tests. Waiting. More research. Because the unknowing has taken such a mammoth proportion of our hearts, we become undone and un-consolable. Eventually, we would love to find a horrible disease just for some peace.

Maybe years later, the answer might become clear in hindsight when we hear of a recent development and immediately do a post-mortem amateur diagnosis. Then it feels like we lose the horse again, helplessly and forever.

For all of our years of living with horses, we still resist listening to what we don’t want to hear. Who would want to? Even when we find the reason, it does not bring the horse back, and it does not give us any satisfaction.

These days we do more full necropsies and the results are stunning. Sometimes the list of abnormalities makes me wonder how they could even pretend to be rideable.

In the end, I couldn’t help Nube. My love couldn’t make him sound. My money couldn’t make an answer appear. Some horses just aren’t born okay. Love them as much as we do, but it does not change the fact that they were never our horses. They always belonged to themselves, sharing their secrets with the moon and the sky.

Recently, I was working with a client. In the past, her horse wouldn’t take a step. He was kind, not the most confident, and definitely not able to tell us where it hurt. We wanted to do better than using a whip, even when frustration made the idea tempting. Months of tests followed, and I was proud of my client for sticking it out for an answer. They were lucky.

As we talked, I watched her good horse close up for ten minutes. There were no wrinkles around his eye, his ears were soft and his poll relaxed. He was a different horse. He was joyously unrecognizable.

…

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you or your horse appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

The Barn School, is a social and educational site, along with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Anna teaches courses like Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. Everyone’s welcome.

Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online training group with affirmative demonstration videos, audio blogs, daily quotes, free participation in “group lessons”, and live chats with Anna. Become part of the most supportive group of like-minded horsepeople anywhere.

Visit annablake.com to find archived blogs, purchase signed books, schedule a live consultation, subscribe for email delivery of this blog, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Ride for a new brand, find our Relaxed and Forward swag at Zazzle.

Affirmative training is the fine art of saying yes.

The post Nube: Undiagnosable appeared first on Anna Blake.