Cheryl L. Eriksen's Blog, page 4

The gift of the non-ridden horse

Fall 2007, when we were just getting started. Farletta, age 4.

That part of our lives together is over. Indeed a difficult realization. Farletta had reached the point where she was physically unable to be ridden and it was time to retire her. Recent years had passed where I rode her infrequently, either due to and ongoing battle with fear or my ridiculous work schedule, or both. I worried back then that the day would come when the choice would be made for me and I’d regret all the time I’d wasted. Now that day had arrived, and the regret is real, although not as debilitating as I thought it would be.

I’ve struggled hard with not knowing what our relationship was supposed to look like now. In my life with horses I’d always been a rider, or at least thought that is what I was supposed to be doing. I’d trained and shown horses for a number of years, ridden lots of trails, had some adventures–there was a time when going to the barn and not riding felt like I was doing something wrong–like I was somehow not “horse owning” right.

Lots of riders retire their horse and get a new one so that they can continue riding. But I didn’t want a new horse. Still, as Farletta’s months of official retirement stretched into a year and beyond, I found myself wondering what to do. In all my decades with horses, I’d never had an aged horse, let alone a retiree.

The pampered life of a retiree

It’s perplexing. I m ean, we’re “supposed” to ride horses, right?

If you’ve ever been a non-rider in a barn full of riders, you know what I’m getting at. Horse society views the non-rider as an oddity. Surely there is something wrong with her–fear, lack of skill, general weirdness–she doesn’t ride so there has to be something. Horses were never meant to be just horses, right? They’re here to do something for us, aren’t they?

For me, finally, the answer is no. Farletta doesn’t owe me anything. But it was the natural progression of Farletta’s physical aging that helped me finally arrive at this understanding. It took a while to separate this truth from that internal “how to be with horses” tape I’ve had playing in my head since forever. Riding doesn’t have to be the be-all end-all goal of horse ownership. I think it’s time we start normalizing other ways to be with our horses.

Now when I go to visit Farletta, I call her to the gate, bring her in, and brush her. Some days I’ll give her some bodywork or Reiki, or perhaps take her for a walk. Other days, she doesn’t want to come when I call her. There was a time this would have really frustrated me or even hurt my feelings. But that was back when I always wanted something from Farletta, when she was my horse to ride and show and do what I wished with. Besides, as Farletta so eloquently points out on those days, I can see her just fine from over the fence. I can also walk into her field and be with her in her own space. It doesn’t always have to be on my terms.

Big yawn after receiving some body work

Perhaps she feels a loss like I do, that we can’t do those things anymore–I do believe she enjoyed our trail rides and dressage competitions. But most importantly for both of us is existing in the knowledge that our relationship isn’t based on what she can physically do, but the love and respect for who she is in my life and who I am in hers. And she does still have a job, one she takes very seriously, that of teacher. Farletta continues to teach me how to observe and communicate, how to be aware of my energy and stay present in my body–such valuable lessons.

Watching Farletta from over the fence

So now when I drive out to the barn, I grab a couple treats and Farletta’s lead rope and walk out to the field. If she comes up and wants to go in, we do that. If she doesn’t, I watch her over the fence or go in and spend time in her space. After all, time with her is what I’m looking for. It is also the only thing we have remaining. And what a gift that is. To finally give myself permission to just be with my horse. No agenda, no show to prepare for, no “proper” use of our time together. Just be. Be in each other’s presence, take a deep breath, and just be.

Peace, my friends. Carry on.

———————–

**What do you do with your non-ridden horse? Please share in the comments below!**

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Celebration! I have good news to share!

Hi friends! A new blog post will be finished soon but I just wanted to share some exciting news. My book, Follow Me, Friend, has been recognized as a finalist in the Feathered Quill Book Awards! I’m beyond thrilled to receive this honor!

“The author’s emotions, inspiration and calmness found with the horses and her own family throughout kept this reader’s attention … the author offers a lovely story filled with very real and sometimes heartbreaking emotion. As a debut, the author did an outstanding job.” –Feathered Quill Book Awards Judge’s Comments

Follow Me, Friend can be found on Amazon and is also temporarily available to borrow from Kindle Unlimited

Thank you for celebrating with me! Have a great weekend! Peace.

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Do you love horses? Do you enjoy learning about famous horses? Are you by chance a collector of Breyer horses? If you answered yes to any of these, you should check out my other blog, Sputter Moo Breyers. Click the picture below!

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Seeding encouragement

I would like to be that blogger that always has something encouraging to say–some story or quip about how I turned my lemons into lemonade (I don’t even like lemonade). The truth is, sometimes it’s damn near impossible to keep my head above water. I’ve been struggling for weeks attempting to write a new post, trying to express something meaningful and helpful but all I’ve come up with is a ton of days I can’t bring myself to write, half a dozen crappy drafts and a lot of feelings of inadequacy.

Reality check. Writing is hard. Depression is real. Life’s not always beautiful.

Today I decided perhaps you could help me by seeding some encouragement. Post something positive in the comments. Something you want to celebrate, some words of encouragement, a favorite quote, something that makes your heart sing. Then we can turn this post into a place for people to come and find hope, love, and good energy.

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I hope you’ll help me in seeding encouragement today. But if you’re unable to, that’s OK, please partake of the words and kindness of the people who commented below, and know that you are loved, you are valued, you are amazing. Peace.

(please scroll way down to comment, they seem to like to hide it down there)

P.S. Don’t worry, I’m OK

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Why horses don’t make New Year’s resolutions

Starting January 1, 2022, I will eat only low sugar hay. I will not bolt my feed. I will gratefully accept low sugar treats from my mom because I know she has my best interest at heart. I will stop harassing that little upstart of a filly and mentor her instead. I will walk 22 times around my field every day and drink more water. Signed, Farletta

Yeah, right. Horses don’t make New Year’s resolutions.

I STOPPED MAKING NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS years ago, mostly because the idea of making a change (often a dramatic behavior change) literally overnight is ridiculous. Add to that the fact that most resolutions are broken within the first few days of the New Year (because of aforementioned ridiculousness) and you have a recipe for failure with a side of disappointment, drizzled with a sauce of bitter shame. Not very appetizing.

Not until I wrote that little paragraph from Farletta did I truly realize how unrealistic the kind of “cold turkey” style New Year’s resolution I used to subject myself to, is. Behavior change takes time, lots of it. If you’ve trained a horse before, you likely understand this. Training a horse (aka behavior change) is all about laying a solid foundation–ensuring the horse has all the pieces she needs before asking for the more complicated maneuver. If you don’t have the horse physically and mentally prepared to learn a new maneuver (behavior), you will not be successful. The same is true for us.

IN LIEU OF THE “COLD TURKEY/SUCCEED OR DIE trying” type of resolution, I prefer to set some goals for the year–a list of things I’d like to accomplish. The goals on the list fall into two types: 1) something I’ve already started laying the ground work for (such as my 2021 goal of publishing my book, previous years’ goals were some of the steps to make that ultimate goal), or 2) things that are the ground work for a future, bigger goal. This list becomes a sort of treasure hunt for the year.

There is no punishment if I don’t meet a goal, only celebration when I do. Throughout the year, I refer back to my list to see how I’m doing on my goals and where I need to adjust my path to reach them. Sometimes this means breaking the goal down into smaller steps.

When I reach a goal, I mark the date next to it. The trick is to make each goal something I can realistically accomplish. If you are totally out of shape and completely sedentary on 12/31, setting a goal to win a marathon in the new year is probably not your best choice. Break your goal down into manageable bites. Maybe winning the marathon is a better goal for 2024 and entering a 5k is more realistic for 2022. Or break it down more than that–whatever it takes to make it so you can accomplish it.

THIS HAS WORKED fairly well for me. It allows me to have lots of little victories which motivates me to keep going. Have I made any huge life-altering changes? Actually, yes, but you wouldn’t know by looking at an individual list. Instead each year I chip away at the larger goals, challenging myself a little more each year, and laying the ground work for greater changes down the line. The change between 2020 and 2021…not so noticeable, but between 2015 and 2021…pretty darn impressive.

If you have that nagging voice in your head (like me) you might be thinking I’m being too soft and squishy making little goals that are easy to achieve instead of big, dramatic changes. But, just as you wouldn’t try to teach your horse a leg yield without laying the groundwork needed to build the strength, balance, and suppleness to do the maneuver correctly, wouldn’t it be great to give ourselves the same time, shaping, and care in reaching our own goals?

BELOW IS A PICTURE from my journal of my 2021 list. These goals center around personal growth, developing my equine bodywork skills, and the next steps to becoming a successful author. Yay! I reached many of my goals.

The book signing/reading didn’t look quite like I’d planned. I sold/signed books at a tack sale earlier this month so I’m calling that a win (that’s breaking it down, making it smaller). As for the reading, it’s not the 11:59 pm on 12/31 yet–I am breaking this down to a smaller scale so I can reach it (stay tuned!).

Regarding the second to last goal, that one is not so easy to measure. By working on myself, I am more available to help others. While I haven’t discovered anything specifically that I’ve done to meet this goal, I remind myself that often we never learn how the things we do and decisions we make affect others–so there’s hope. There is always hope.

Wishing you much peace, love, and every happiness in the year to come. You are amazing! Thank you for joining me on this journey, I’m glad you’re here.

How about you? How do you approach the idea of New Year’s resolutions? Any tips, goals, successes you’d like to share? I’d love to read your comments below!

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The Meditation That Changed My Life

Skeptical. There was a time not so long ago when I would have read that title, rolled my eyes, and kept on scrolling. But I’d come to Dr. Martin because I didn’t know what else to do. I was struggling hard with depression and anxiety, my life felt a mess, shiftless, confused–like I’d somehow forgotten who I was, or how to be me.

Dr. Martin listened as I unpacked my life, spreading it out in words and tears in the space between us. I talked of past abuse, of the fear I still felt when I went to mount my horse, of my distrust of others, of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and how I felt like I’d lost myself somewhere along the way.

Dr. Martin sat silent for a moment. I watched her gentle face and wondered what she thought of me and the mess of a life I’d brought to her. I’d seen plenty of therapists but I knew she was different–although I didn’t know how she differed. I hoped I was ready for different.

“In each of us, there is an inner child and an inner animal,” Dr. Martin’s soft voice filled the room. “What you feel, the fear, worry, anxiety, that is your inner child trying to get your attention. She says you don’t listen to her and she does not trust you.”

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This was not what I’d expected, my skepticism rose but I was also intrigued, and respected the person who had recommended I see Dr. Martin. I nodded and she continued.

“Your inner animal is very angry. She is also tired, she wants to lay on the porch and take a nap.” My brown furrowed and my BS meter went up a notch. “We each have this inner child and animal within us. The animal is your anger, it lashes out when the child is afraid.”

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Wait, what? There was something familiar in what she was saying.

“Your inner animal has been protecting your inner child for a long time. It reacts with rage, in most people it is directed outward, towards others, but in some, it is directed inward, with anger toward the self.”

My BS meter went offline and the skepticism slouched to the floor like a child’s forgotten rag doll. It was like she’d seen right into my mind. This analogy I understood as I’d lived it for most of my life. Such anger and hatred directed at myself was nothing new. Self-love was something I’d never understood, a concept I could not grasp.

“How …” I paused, not sure how to ask the question. I took a breath. Dr. Martin smiled and nodded. “How do I let the animal sleep?” I felt a little silly but Dr. Martin looked pleased–I’d asked the right question.

“You must tell your inner child you are strong enough to protect her. You are an adult now. You can keep her safe.”

Unexpected tears filled my eyes.

“Three minutes, twice a day. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, picture yourself at the age of six or seven.”

I closed my eyes, picturing the little girl still hiding inside me. She looked up at me, unsure, skepticism etched her face. She’d been here before, teetering on the edge of being heard or being ignored.

“Can you see her?” I nodded and Dr. Martin continued. “Now, tell her you love her. She is safe. And you will protect her.”

The tears spilled down my cheeks. I took a deep, shuddering breath and spoke, my voice quivering with emotion. “I love you. You are safe. I will protect you.”

“Yes.” Dr. Martin smiled, “Do this, for three minutes, two times a day.”

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Sitting quietly later that night, I decided I would try. I’d never really meditated before but what Dr. Martin said made so much sense to me. I had to try. I breathed deeply, bringing an image of Little Cheryl into my mind, I spoke to her.

“I love you. You are safe. I will protect you.” Ten simple words, repeated over and over–I love you. You are safe. I will protect you.

I did as Dr. Martin instructed, meditating those ten words while focusing on an image of me as a little girl. After many days, I felt a shift within me. After a few weeks I felt lighter, taller, and more within the world–more alive. Something even more significant happened though–I finally, for the first time in my life, understood what it felt like to love myself. Despite years of counseling and different types of therapy, the act of self-love was one concept I’d never been able to grasp. But now, I finally understood what it felt like. It felt amazing, liberating, and I brimmed with hope.

It took days and weeks of repetition, three minutes, twice a day, just as Dr. Martin instructed, but my inner animal finally took her long awaited nap. She is resting in the sunshine, finally able to let her guard down, now that she knows the little girl is safe, loved, and protected.

Peace to you, gentle friends. Light and love to your inner child, and may your inner animal spend glorious hours napping in the warmth of the sun.

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The gift that keeps on giving

I had a counselor once, and that is how she described PTSD, as the gift that keeps on giving. I say this too now, usually with a half-smirk, furrowed brow, and a wry tone. Followed by a subtle eye roll, a sharp inward breath, and a low growl through gritted teeth.

I’ve lived most of my life with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) from a trauma I didn’t remember. I never spoke to anyone about the trauma, and eventually repressed the memories. I was not diagnosed with PTSD until over 30 years after the events that caused it. For the past eight years, I’ve been working on a memoir, telling my story–a cathartic exercise in healing and hope. The book is filled with things I never told anyone–the main secret being a negative inner voice bent on my own self-destruction. She (the voice) went so far as to almost become another person residing in my head, never focusing her anger outward, only inward, in the form emotional and physical self-harm. This extra “person” and all of the accompanying behaviors, thoughts, and feelings I struggled so hard to hide from everyone were symptoms of my PTSD. Except I didn’t know I had it, I just thought I was crazy.

With the release of my memoir, my last line of defense to protect myself from the world and indeed, protect the world from discovering my secrets, is gone. I shed it willingly, with the belief that in telling my story, others can be helped. Perhaps they will see a piece of themselves (or someone they love) in my story and realize that they are not alone. That there is help, and there is hope.

The thing with a memoir is, it’s a snapshot in time. It is a picture of me, my life, and my relationship with my PTSD in that particular period. But PTSD is the gift that keeps giving. Just when you’ve learned to recognize and manage a trigger, something new will blindside you, seemingly out of no where. When that happens it can feel like nothing has changed, like you’ve not made any improvement, like the healing you thought you’d accomplished was imagined. When it happens to me, I fill with doubt. I devalue myself, dismiss everything I’ve accomplished, and view any healing I thought I’d done as a complete fallacy.

I’ve had some printing issues with my book (a story for another time). The other day, I received a box of 32 misprints to go with the 50 other misprints I already had. I called immediately to resolve this problem and the ensuing conversation was a blatant reminder that I held none of the power in that relationship. I felt unheard, invalidated, and utterly hopeless. Like a little kid being mercilessly bullied, or the little girl that suffered unimaginable acts all those years ago.

That’s the “gift” PTSD keeps on giving–triggers, reminders of that time you were helpless, terrified, unable to protect yourself. You return to that exact moment, and you relive it, every fear, every terrifying “I’m going to die” emotion dumps onto you all at once. Your mind may (or may not) be aware that you are actually in the present moment, but your body receives a chemical dump that tells it you are absolutely going to die. That phone conversation triggered the response me, and it pushed me right over the edge again–fear-driven anger, self-destruction, it all came flooding back.

I went to a pretty dark place, one filled with self-hatred and hopelessness. I was ready to give up on the book forever. Grabbing a copy from the box, I ripped it to shreds. I screamed, I cried, I told myself I was an idiot for thinking I could do anything worthwhile, that I was a useless fraud, that I’d written this book that was supposed to help people but I’m still broken. I’m not fixed, I’m not all better, I still have the same problems as before. NOTHING HAS CHANGED! I screamed to the empty room.

But something had changed.

After shredding that first book, I reached into the box to destroy another one–a just punishment for being a useless fraud, destroy the one thing I’ve poured my life into for the past eight years–my biggest achievement in my life so far. I held the book in my hand for a moment, turned it over, looked at my author picture on the back, and dropped it on the floor. I stared at it there for a moment, nudged it with my foot, and bent to pick it up, intent on tearing it to shreds. But I stopped short, straightened, and walked away.

I took a hot shower, tears mixing with water, circling the drain. When the water finally ran cold, I turned it off, wrapped myself in a big, fluffy towel, went to bed and cried some more.

It wasn’t until the next day that I finally processed what had happened, and realized I was wrong. Something had changed. The first realization was that, while the misprints are aggravating and costly (and not my fault), that is not what shattered me. It was the response from customer service, the feeling of powerlessness it evoked, the realization that they held all the cards, and I had nothing. It was the same relational dynamic I had with the person who harmed me all those years ago. The second realization was that I had managed to flip my response switch from self-destruct to self-care–from destroy my work, scream, and emotional self-harm to pause, hot shower and warm bed. I was ready to destroy that whole box of books, to reduce the physical representation of my healing to shreds of paper on the living room floor. But I stopped. I moved away from self-hate and turned toward self-care.

I realized I wasn’t a fraud, I truly had healed, my life was better now than the one within the pages of my memoir. I remembered the words of my former counselor, that PTSD is the gift that keeps on giving, a gift you don’t want but it keeps coming anyway. It specializes in crappy surprises, preferring to blast in from nowhere, without warning, a sneak attack designed to send you reeling, crushing you in a fragile moment. That is the nature of mental health issues–not only are they an invisible malady, the triggers can hide in plain sight, not making themselves known until it’s too late to protect yourself. But there is hope, I’d proven that to myself.

The human mind is a funny thing, it can fool itself into thinking it’s unaffected by past experiences or trauma, it can even forget the most horrific things. But the body, the heart, the soul–they remember. I don’t know that I will ever reach an end point, a moment when my PTSD file can be stamped CURED. I don’t think it works that way. There is hope though, we can learn to manage our trauma responses, to recognize when we’re triggered and find ways to bring ourselves back from the edge. There is a lot of help out there, counselors, therapists, and a variety of treatments (EMDR tapping and meditation have helped me a ton, along with talking about it in safe places, and writing about it). Please don’t give up, you’ve come so far, you’re so strong, you’re amazing–repeat after me–don’t give up, I’ve come so far, I’m so strong, I am amazing.

Peace my friend, carry on.

Post script: I was encouraged by another indie author to reach out to Amazon/KDP again, telling me my experience was not their normal policy. The executive customer relations director has reached out to me regarding my terrible customer service experience and the printing errors. He worked with his team to resolve my problem. They went above and beyond my expectations and have proven that they do in fact care about their authors, even the little ones, like me. I am very grateful. Thank you, Amazon/KDP.

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A Memoir of Undiagnosed PTSD, and the Healing Power of the Horse-Human Relationship

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Holding Space for your Horse (pt.2)

In Part 1, I talked about holding space — the idea of being present during someone else’s difficult situation without making it about your own discomfort (avoid bringing the “fix it” energy to another person’s emotional pain). This is something we often do subconsciously, without realizing we’re trying to relieve our own discomfort by stopping the others outward expressions of emotional pain.

As I discussed in Part 1, my horse, Farletta has been struggling with anxiety as she adjusts to her new farm. This anxiety is exacerbated when she is in heat. When she is anxious, particularly when she is in a stall, she paces and worries, sometimes getting frantic. I couldn’t change her situation, she would do the same thing outside, since all her friends are also in the barn. She wanted what I couldn’t give her in that moment. I knew she would settle, she needed more time to adjust. Still, I hated to see her in distress, it hurt my heart and I worried about the harm stress can cause to her overall health.

(Sometimes Farletta is quite content in her stall. She always has 24/7 access to hay and is never in the barn alone)

My important realization in that last post was that my worrying energy was making her anxiety worse. She didn’t need me to stew about her and worry and stress, she didn’t need me adding that negative energy to her already anxious state. She needed me to “hold space,” to recognize she is struggling (she is seen, she is heard) but not get upset and try to stop her outward expression of what she is feeling (behavior is communication).

There is an important distinction here: this is not ignoring her discomfort or not trying to address whatever is making her unhappy. We need to be aware of our role in what is happening and fix what we can. What I am saying, is I need to not add to her problem by being uncomfortable with her expressing her discomfort. Remember, behavior is communication. Don’t shut down what your horse is trying to say (especially if you can’t offer a viable solution), anymore than you should try to stop your friend from outward expressions of grief over the loss of a loved one.

How am I putting this into practice?

The other night I drove out to see Farletta. The new farm is about 35 minutes away, a much longer drive than I prefer but Farletta is happy there and that is what counts. Walking out to the field, I could see Farletta was away from the other mares, grazing by herself. I whistled to her and called her name, she picked up her head for a moment, and even took a few steps toward me, then turned away and went to talk to the geldings she shares a fence line with. I could now see she was strong in heat. I whistled again, and walked toward her. She stayed with the geldings, then took a few more steps my direction before turning away again.

I kept walking toward her, calling her. She turned and walked away, back toward the other mares. I followed her, and she walked faster. She finally stopped and allowed me to catch up to her. I offered her a treat, which she accepted. Then I offered to scratch her neck, and just be with her, she walked away. The message was clear…not today, Mom.

(Not today, Mom)

I admit, sometimes those old tapes still play in my head, the ones that tell me the horse should do what I say, that I’m the alpha, the leader, yada yada yada. Frustrated, I was thinking about driving all that distance to see Farletta, and the time and gas it cost. It’s not like I’m asking anything much of her, since her retirement, all I do anymore is bring her in and groom her, maybe take her for a walk…what’s the big deal? I come all this way and she doesn’t even want to see me.

Pause. Light bulb moment: Why does it have to be on my terms? I can see Farletta, she’s grazing right over there. Isn’t that what I’m here to do, to see her? Well, there she is.

At this point, I walked over to the back fence of the field, sat and leaned against a post, and just existed with Farletta and her friends. I observed the horses, the field, and how I felt in that space. I watched Farletta without judgement (without trying to assign meaning to her actions) and then I closed my eyes and meditated.

We spent about 25 minutes together in this way. Farletta stayed near enough that I could see her the whole time, but she never came very close to me. She also stayed away from the other mares (a behavior change vs. when she was not in heat) which made me wonder about her past heat cycles, where she would at times chase her paddock mate away, even though she was obviously bonded to her. She was in a smaller space then, perhaps the energy of closeness to other females is uncomfortable for her while cycling? It is a question, a curiosity, but I let it fall short of a judgement.

Farletta walked over to the boys’ fence a few times, but didn’t linger for long. I could feel that she appreciated the ability to physically distance herself and the freedom of choice. I marveled at the difference in how she handled her heat cycle when she had these options available to her (space, options to be close to males or females, or away from everyone).

(After a while, two of the other mares notice me and come on over to inspect)(The alpha mare stands quite close, having a good sniff of my shoe)

After a while, two of the other mares walked over to inspect me. They seemed surprised to see me but not unhappy. Farletta watched them interact with me, but didsn’t move from her grazing position. It was interesting to see them seemingly ignoring her, staying much farther away from her than in previous weeks before she went into this first heat cycle on the new farm. It was even more interesting when I considered she is the low horse in the pecking order (and therefore, generally not entitled to many choices). But there seemed to be a respectful communication going between her and the mares. The same thing she tried to communicate to me several times before it finally sank in: I see you, I acknowledge you, I’m glad you’re here, but I want to be left alone today.

I can accept that, and I’m grateful I was open to receiving her message.

Carry on.

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Holding Space – Lessons from the Journey (pt.1)

Do you ever have an extraordinary “a-ha” moment followed by a giant facepalm–as in “A-ha! I get it!” and then “UGH. How could I have been so unbelievably blind for so long?”

That was me the other day. Like, oh wow, seriously, how could I miss that? HOW?

Holding space is something I’ve learned about (through my social work education and work as an equine assisted therapy facilitator), thought about, and tried to put into my daily interactions for years. “Holding space” is a way of being, a way of interacting with others when they are suffering, grieving, or struggling in some way.

In western cultures, we humans are “emotional fixers,” we are extremely uncomfortable seeing those we love in emotional pain. However, when dealing with emotional pain, we sometimes give our own discomfort priority, which is pretty much the opposite of holding space. Let me try to explain…

For physical pain, we know what to do, take the person to a doctor, give them an aspirin, slap a Scooby-Doo Band-aid on their head — this stuff is helpful. For emotional pain, it’s not so easy, what we tend to do to make the person feel better often causes more harm than good. The things we often say (It could have been worse or he’s in a better place now or think of all the nice things you have, lots of people would be so happy to have what you have) often have the opposite effect by making the person feel invalidated, unheard, or as if they are doing something wrong (I should be over this by now).

[image error]Pexels.com" data-medium-file="https://peacehorsejourney.files.wordp..." data-large-file="https://peacehorsejourney.files.wordp..." src="https://peacehorsejourney.files.wordp..." alt="" class="wp-image-782" />(Holding space can be as simple as being together in silence, listening without offering anything except to have the person feel heard, or saying something that acknowledges their pain without trying to stop them from feeling it). Photo by Saeid Anvar on Pexels.com

Further, when we engage in “emotional fixing,” we are actually (albeit often subconsciously) trying to assuage our own discomfort–which is where I experienced my big a-ha moment the other day–that moment I realized that my discomfort with something my horse was experiencing, was actually making her feel worse. A-ha! This problem is about me, not her.

Farletta hates her stall most of the time. This is not a secret to anyone that knows her. It’s a little more complicated than that though. Sometimes she likes her stall. Sometimes she’d rather be in than out, but always she likes this to be on her terms. That I have the audacity to attempt to schedule her stall time is an atrocity to her. Farletta’s perfect world would have no fences, no gates, no boundaries. She would like to have the option to go in and out 57 times a day on the first Tuesday of every month with an “R” in it if that is what suited her fancy. But, that’s not practical.

If you’ve been reading this blog from the beginning, you know that Farletta has had some struggles with her heat cycles, and also with separation anxiety since she lost her eye. The separation anxiety doesn’t always follow a predictable pattern, at least not one I’ve been able to identify yet. Although I have observed that her anxiety becomes very intense during her heat cycles.

A couple weeks ago, Farletta moved to a new farm. She can be out many more hours a day than her previous farm and she also has three new friends. She is very happy turned out with her new friends, but, because of the lush grass (risk of laminitis), I need her to spend at least part of her time in a stall and off the grass. She has been really struggling with this. She wants to be outside with her new friends, not in her stall. So, while she is in the stall, she paces back and forth, calls to other horses, shoves her door, and overall gets pretty agitated.

I hate to see her like this. I hate to see her unhappy. I hate to see her in distress. I hate that the only thing I can do to help her feel better in these moments is to put her out with her friends–the one thing I can’t do.

I took this problem to a recent online group discussion with Kerri Lake the other day. As I told the story, and Kerri asked the kinds of questions that she is so good at, the kind that help me uncover what is really going on. As we talked, I found myself talking about how much I hated seeing her upset and in distress, how much I worried about her being so unsettled, and how I have not been able to find a solution. After hearing myself use all those “I” words, I realized Farletta’s problem was separate from a larger problem — me. I wanted to fix Farletta, to make her feel better, to stop her behavior because I was uncomfortable with her discomfort.

We’ve been taught for decades to stop horses from feeling their feelings. Behavior is communication. Read that again: behavior is communication. When a horse bucks, paws, spooks, rears, bolts, bites, cribs, paces, etc. they are trying to communicate. How do we respond? Yelling, hitting, bigger bits, “training” gadgets, cribbing collars, restraints, etc. Of course these things don’t actually help because they address the symptom of the problem, not the problem itself. I don’t want to take this post into a whole horse training philosophy rabbit hole but hopefully you get where I’m going with this–we respond in a way that will help assuage our own discomfort with what the horse is trying to communicate vs. holding space and listening.

Now, the situation with Farletta isn’t quite the same because I’m not yelling or hitting or trying to do something to stop her behavior. Or am I? What I am doing is bringing a lot of “please don’t do that you’re making me uncomfortable” energy to her when she’s already stressed. What she needs is time to work this out, a chance to feel and process her own feelings, and from me, she needs me to give her space to do it. Just like our grieving friend, Farletta needs me to just be there and not add my own anxiety and discomfort to hers. Not try to change her (she has the right to communicate her unhappiness), not send all kinds of “fix it” energy in her direction–just to be and to hear her. That is holding space–a wonderful gift we can give loved ones and our four-hoofed friends.

My next post will describe my ongoing experiments with “holding space” for Farletta. I hope you’ll join us on that part of our journey. If you’d like to receive new posts directly in your email (usually 1-2 times a month), please subscribe by entering your email address in the box below.

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Until next time, peace to all of you and thank you for joining me on this journey. Cheryl

Follow Me, Friend Coming October 29th! Available for print pre-order special here or ebook preorder here

No One Has Forgotten 9/11

September 11, 2001

I wrote this short piece on 9/10/2021, a day before the twentieth anniversary of an event that, as a nation, affected us so deeply, it can never be forgotten. The scar runs deep into the fiber of our very being. We will not forget, because we cannot forget. Be gentle with yourself, and everyone around you. Peace.

We all remember, respect, and honor differently. No one has forgotten 9/11. No one. If someone’s feed isn’t filled with images of the Twin Towers, the American flag, planes crashing into buildings, people covered in dust and debris, the twisted metal and rubble that remained at ground zero, the man jumping from the tower because he chose falling to his death rather than being burned alive, people holding each other, people waving American flags, people crying, people so distraught that all they could do is sit and hold their head in their hands while they waited to learn if by some miracle their loved one survived, it doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten. It doesn’t mean they don’t care. It doesn’t mean they don’t still ache inside and hear and feel the terrible silent scream that rose within them that day 20 years ago.

It only means they remember, honor, and mourn differently than you. For some the images are still so strong, the pain, confusion, anger, and feelings of helplessness so readily accessible, even after all these years, that adding one more image to the mix is just a step more than they can bear. None of us have forgotten. Not one. It has become a part of our American identity. It is held within our very beings, we can no more forget than we could separate our blood from our body and continue to breathe.

So tomorrow, when you see a [social media] newsfeed absent of patriotic images, or a friend doesn’t mention 9/11, or someone gets a vacant look in their eye and turns off the television that is replaying the images from our American tragedy, don’t judge. They have not forgotten.

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A safe place to hide: Walter Farley’s Black Stallion series and the art of Ruth Sanderson

1986 – desperately seeking a safe place to hide, a timid, eight-year-old girl picked up a book, and tentatively stepped inside. That little girl was me, and the book was Walter Farley’s Man O’ War. It would be many years before I understood that the hours I’d spent reading and re-reading the twenty books in Farley’s famous Black Stallion series were a means of dissociation–of separating myself from a world that felt too terrifying for a child to deal with–and a way to quiet a confused and angry mind.

The stories drew me into a protective cove where horses ran free in my mind. However, the paintings that graced the front cover of each book were as special to me as the stories themselves. I spent hours staring into the cover art which brought Farley’s stories and characters to life with such exquisite detail. Tracing the outline of each horse with my finger, gently stroking the face or touching the muzzle, I could almost feel the horses themselves. I spent hours looking at each cover–what was beyond that distant horizon? Then I stepped into each painting, passing through the paper cover and into the world of the horses I’d grown to love.

Walter Farley’s story of Man O’ War was the first book of his that I read. It was a gift from a friend in fifth grade. I was not much of a reader then at all and it took me four months to work my way through the 300+ page book. But by the second reading, I’d already improved greatly, and soon developed what became a lifelong love of reading!

Although partially fictionalized, Farley expertly weaves the the true story of the great race horse, with the life of the stable boy, Danny, a fictional character through which Farley shared the facts of Man O’ War’s life in a way that young his young readers could easily relate to. Set against the backdrop of America at the beginning of the twentieth century, the book touched on some important history–WWI, the Spanish flu pandemic–and gave a glimpse of the Thoroughbred industry at the beginning of what many consider the “golden age” of American Thoroughbred racing. This book piqued my interest not only in reading, but also horse racing, and history.

I read this copy (pictured) of Man O’ War so many times, it finally fell apart. I carefully taped it together and put it away for safe keeping, replacing it with a new copy to read. This is the painting I spent the most time gazing into, dreaming about the historic Kentucky bluegrass, the greatest horse that ever set foot on a racetrack, and what it would be like if I could take the place of the boy in the picture.

After Man O’ War, I started at the beginning of the series when I discovered a copy of The Black Stallion on a shelf of giveaway books in my fifth grade classroom.

I read every word in each book, including the front matter, which is where I discovered the name of the artist who’d created the cover paintings for each book–Ruth Sanderson.

With no internet in those days, all I knew about Sanderson’s work was the book covers I loved so much. I had no idea how long she’d been painting, where she lived, or any other art she created.

Every few weeks I’d save up my chore allowance and buy the next book in the series. Each trip to the book store bringing such excitement, I couldn’t wait to see the next book’s cover.

The surprise of discovering the picture on the next cover was as exciting to me as reading a new story in the series. The book store had much of the series on the shelf, but I’d be careful to only look at the cover of the book I was purchasing that day, not wanting to spoil the surprise for next time.

Following the list printed inside each book, I knew the title I needed before I arrived at the store. The hardest part was when the store didn’t have the next book in stock. Seeing my disappointment, the clerk would encourage me to select a different book that day.

“We have a bunch of these books back there,” she’d offer. But I never took her up on it. I had to wait for the next one in the series.

Even on those days I had to order and wait for the book I wanted, I was still excited to go to the shelf and look at the books I’d already purchased. Their covers so pristine, colors still so sharp, no creases or wear of any kind. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep my books looking brand new.

Over thirty years later, when it was time to find an artist to create a cover for my memoir, Follow Me, Friend, I thought about Ruth Sanderson and those wonderful paintings she’d created. I had no idea how old she’d been in the 1980s…was she at the beginning of her career then? Or was she near the end? I looked online and found not only was she very much alive, but still painting book covers!

Would she paint the cover for Follow Me, Friend? A famous and successful artist like her surely would be too expensive or simply not have time to take on a project for an unknown indie author. But my best friend encouraged me to ask anyway. What did I have to lose?

I sent Ruth an email explaining my project and why I wanted her to do the cover. She agreed, we struck a deal, and the rest is history!

Imagine if that little girl all those years ago gazing at the covers of her favorite books had only known that someday, things would get better, someday she would understand why her world felt so terrifying, someday she would be able to heal from her trauma–and someday she would write a book and on the cover would be a horse, painted by the same artist who created those beautiful, magical paintings she’d lived in as a child.

I can see her face beaming at the thought of it.

Today, I celebrate the healing that has come to me and the child I once was. I honor the little girl who felt the need to escape all those years ago, and together we celebrate with a book cover made just for her.

Here it is, the official cover reveal for my upcoming memoir, Follow Me, Friend. Cover art by Ruth Sanderson. Thank you, Ruth!

Original cover art by Ruth Sanderson http://www.ruthsandersonart.com
Cover design by Mallory Rock – Rock Solid Book Design http://www.rocksolidbookdesign.com

I hope you love the cover as much as I do. And I hope the young child that still lives inside you looks at this painting and can feel the warmth of the horse’s gaze, and wonders what adventures lie beyond the fence, beyond the hills, beyond the trees where a little girl has found a safe place to come out of hiding, grow, and heal.

Thank you for sharing in this important moment with me! Follow Me, Friend will be released in late October 29. Special limited time deal pre-orders are sold out. For other special promotions, click HERE. The print and ebook are available from Amazon HERE

Peace to you, gentle friend. Thank you for supporting this indie author, your reading and sharing my work means the world to me.

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