Category: The (almost kinda) Daily

At least ten summers ago, I had a lesson with someone whose name is one you’ll never hear and whose presence has not stamped the horse world in any way that shows up on social media or much less be rewarded financially.

I can’t tell you anything about that lesson. I can’t remember what we did or the specifics of what was told to me.

It’s like a clear space where I understood that something happened and yet what happened, I do not know.

The only thing I know is that lesson was transformative. And now, having spent a decade and a half teaching myself, I can tell you perhaps why.

There are teachers and coaches who attempt to bring you round to their way of thinking. The work is heady; it involves a lot of processing and thought.

And then, there are teaches and coaches whose work may not completely make sense in the moment, or perhaps you can’t recall what happened or what you worked on, or you felt yourself to be in the mid-zone between understanding and complete miscomprehension.

And then you leave, and you find that something’s changed.

This is the work that works *on* you. Below the level of conscious thought. Outside the realm of your awareness.

Your cells have changed, how you approach things have changed and you may not ever know why. You weren’t aware of the moment you crossed over.

This happens with our horses; what appears like a mess in the moment can be understanding working on and through them, only for clarity to appear, the answers to the questions known days or even weeks later.

Perhaps we refer to this as latent learning but I don’t think that’s quite right. The learning was always happening; it’s our awareness of it that is latent.

I wonder sometimes if, in our in-love-ness with questioning and analytical thought, that we don’t give enough credit to, enough celebration of, enough allowance for, the wisdom of the unconscious.

The reconfiguration of the energetic body that filters through to the physical.

Where we know that something happened, that we understood something to be true, but we can’t explain quite why.

Learning, after all, is more than a little bit magic.

There are two conversations that I want to share with you, that appear to be very different but then loop back together in a (somewhat) neat little bow in a way that I think (hope) will be interesting to you.

The first thread of the story involves a discussion I had with my fabulous Liz about Saffy. It had been a mixed bag day where she had never really found what us humans would call ‘a good spot’ and I left the session with a gnawing feeling of dissatisfaction in what I had offered her, and a healthy dose of consideration on what to do should the same situation come up again.

The second thread involves writing- specific women writers- and how in the last few decades, with women’s work being published more in combination with the rise of the internet, the entire fabric of the writing world has changed. I’m going to start with this point and then weave back to the first (I promise they relate).

Up until very recent times, there were very few female authors whose words ever made it to print. It wasn’t that women weren’t creative. They were, or are, as creative as they / we have ever been. But we know that the climate of our culture did not value nor deem women’s words important enough to share, and thus literature, for the most part, remained male dominated, and again, more often than not, the reserve of those with the means and time to devote to artistic practice.

Now, this is changing, and alongside it, the whole tone of the type of writing that you find available has changed with it.

Women’s roles have historically involved caregiving. Most female writers that I come into contact with- myself included- are juggling many different roles. And this is not to say this isn’t true of male writers also, but if we specifically talk about this through the role of caregiving, it’s women who are doing the lion’s share.

Because women are writing and creating in the edges and the seams; because time is so scarce and so often informed by caregiving roles, the form of writing has changed.

Instead of big tomes, we find writing offered in fragments. Snapshots. Essays and prose that is poetic, contemplative, involving stories we have not had access to before.

Writing that offers more questions than answers- something that was never acceptable previously.

The constraints of writing in a way where time is limited can be seen as restrictive on the one hand, but it has also created a whole new field of writing that didn’t exist before.

The constraints created the form.

The work exists in response to the conditions that created it, not separate to it.

Now back to Saffy. I thought about the different possibilities of options we could work through, and I listed four or five different trainers whose work I am familiar with, thinking out loud about what I thought that would do.

Person 1, I said, would let her find her flow. She would introduce limited interruption, let her move until she found some form of self-regulation.

Person 2 would not do this. They would be asking many things of her in quick succession to get her attention and look to ‘bring her back’ that way.

Person 3 would probably do some more structured in hand work with her to help her find her balance.

Person 4 would be concerned only with getting her focus, regardless of what her body was doing.

The list went on. How anyone new to the horse world makes decisions on who to follow is beyond me, but that remains a conversation for another day.

The point is: what was interesting was considering what applies to me and my horse, the context of each of these people’s training and how the reality of their lived experience shaped how they approached working with their horses has to be considered.

Person 1 is a mother to young children, a full-time trainer and takes horses for long periods of time before she goes anywhere near getting on.

Person 2 has a high turnover of horses and expected to have a horse ready for riding in a relatively narrow window. Incredibly skilled but how can this not inform style?

Person 3 has a more classical background; the onus is on managing the body as a way to influence the mind, in more structured ways that traditional horsemanship might present.

None of these people are wrong. They are all incredibly skilled and I would work with each of them any day of the week. But when you are considering what applies where, also consider the context that they are operating in.

Because you can’t separate form from function.

What we are seeing now is a rise of trainers that veer from traditional tenants of riding and horsemanship because the climate of how we are relating to our horses is changing. What we see as being different is actually responsive. Just like the arts and writing, training and the approaches offered is a living entity; we carry some things forward, we discard others, we shape-shift along the way.

But what this means is that we have an array of options that can be completely overwhelming and confusing. So, with that in mind:

1. Always consider the context of the work that’s being offered. How is their approach informed by the outcomes they are looking to create?
2. What does your horse need? What are their tendencies? What do they love? There are four people in my family, each of us very different. I would never assume there is the ‘right one thing’ to suit us all.
3. Do you trust yourself? Are you willing to play? Are you willing to stick with something long enough to really understand it, ensuring you do not abandon your own instincts and intuition along the way?
4. Does the context of your life currently mean that you need to be more creative in how you approach time with your horse? How can you do that without it becoming a shortcut? OR how do you need to change things to find the time that’s needed?

What we are presented with- the work that is on offer- has been shaped by the conditions that created it. It pays to learn more about it when making decisions for both you and your horse so you can find ways of working that feel possible and exist in service to you both.

I’m currently obsessed with considering, thinking about, musing on the subject of time. We’ve been having some bouncy discussions in the JoyRide group on the same subject; sharing our experiences, batting around ideas, sending out flares of solidarity as we do our best to tip toe, swim and wade through the braided river of our days.

Time, that illusive, winged creature that always manages to take flight, no matter how hard we try to wield her, control her or grasp onto her. Her bones collapse and then reform to make it impossible to hold her in your hands.

What does it mean to not hurry through life?

What does it mean to be free of the feeling of not always being busy?

How can we look to other things, beings, landscapes to embody, create a more sustainable relationship with time?

I’ve come to realise that our experience of and with time defines how available we are for connection; with our horses, with the land, with each other.

Time- her abundance or lack- shapes our expectations.

Time creates the energy that we embody and bring to our experiences. To have only a narrow window of opportunity and to be in a rush are two different beasts.

Time- her abundance or lack- defines what feels possible and what doesn’t.

And yet, time is perceptual. On the one hand, our experience is the same. We are all subject to the same hours in a day, the same days in a week.

But how we are IN time, how that expresses through our body is different. Tree time is different to horse time is different to human time.

How we embody time matters. How we currently embody it and how we wish to embody it matters. It informs everything that follows.

—–

In JoyRide, you can access many conversations about time; how we hold it, what our body can teach us about it, how we can resource ourselves to help shape the form of our days in ways that feels life-giving and sustainable. You can join us here.

In the southern hemisphere, we are making our way towards the year’s brightness. The globe is shifting and turning, and alongside her, we are shifting also. Stroking my horses, I’m left with a handful of hair, the sign of spring incoming.

I often think of this often when I am outside in the field with my ponies; how they stand all night under a moon I may have missed, a wind I have not felt whilst ensconced in the comfort of my bed.

That, on occasion, I wake up without being exactly sure why, only to look outside and see someone has taken a milky paintbrush and raised it with a single streak across the sky. To consider we are under, above, between and within galaxies splits time like torn paper and I stand in the space between the two sides waiting for them to join back together. For the minutes to continue on.

Incoming spring, with all her zest, has made a wildness of my insides. I wonder, know, my horses feel the same.

When I thought of writing this to you today, I wanted to begin with lightness and brightness. I wanted to speak to you in words that galloped across the page, that would please the social media fairies with their easy readability, rather than with the density of poetic musings which it seems these days I can’t extricate from my work. If posts are to be lost to the algorithm, I think to myself, let them at least be the posts I wish to write.

So here we are.

Let us pick up from this place by speaking of stomping (stomping, I have just realised, is a very satisfying word. It sounds exactly like it feels). This week there’s been a lot of stomping.

Stomping thoughts of the gremlin kind who barge their way in, who do their best to convince of the things you are busy trying to un-convince yourself about. Like you will manage to do all the things you know you need to do. Like you aren’t letting people down by perhaps NOT managing to do all those things in the time frame you expected. Little stomping trotters marching their way through the time you hoped would be for daydreaming, for art making, for rest.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

There’s only one thing to do when it comes to stomping and that’s to stomp your way outside. To explain out loud to the earth your situation and to let it catch you. The ground, the earth is beyond benevolent, incredibly understanding when it comes to stomping feet.

‘We understand,’ she says, ‘you can let it all go here.’

Movement as a muscle to work thoughts through.

I stomped my way out to the paddock with the intention of only sitting, but Saffy in her chestnut brightness (see, I am managing to include the brightness) was looking at me over the gate. She must have heard the stomp and came to see.

In the moments that followed, we had an invisible conversation. I grabbed a halter, placed it on her lovely head and led her out.

‘Let’s go,’ I said to her, the stomp already lightening.

‘Let’s,’ she replied enthusiastically, and I could have sworn out loud.

My stomping, it appeared, made for a certain brashness that my usual self would have been less inclined for.

‘I think,’ I told Saffy, ‘we should go on an adventure.’ I pointed to the back paddock, the steep forest of Macrocarpa that scuttled up the long hill to the side.

‘Let’s go there.’

Walking down the track, Saffy arched forward like a swan, her nose and whiskers leading. I spoke to her of the rounds of wood stacked satisfyingly on the edges of the stones, her nostrils opening and closing as if she were gently blowing bubbles.

‘Those are just trees,’ I told her, ‘albeit in a different stage of life. They came down in the winds we had last month.’

She nodded, delighted, understanding, continued on.

We took turns for who was leading, her looking with wide eyed curiosity, but feet that never hesitated, that always kept along.

When it came time for us to go through the dark wood, the track narrowed to single file. I considered how we should do the order, and decided to let Saffy go ahead.

‘You go,’ I encouraged her, ‘I’ll lead from behind.’

At this point, her moving trotters faltered. Unsure of the track, or perhaps the darkness of the forest, she stopped. To get in front, I had to clamber round. At one point, I realised my entire weight was resting on her as I made my way from the back end to the front. If she had moved, I would have fallen, but she didn’t. She understood the assignment and let me climb round by her side.

By the top of the hill, I noticed: no more stomping. No more stomping of the feet or of the thought based kind.

I write this because:

There are days where our aspirations are otherwise but all we’re left with is the stomp. Where the gremlins mess with the thoughts and tie knots of our insides. And so there are things I always seek to remind myself…

The earth can hold a stomp, and will gladly do so if for other days you hold her gently in return.

That there is little that is more enjoyable than shared movement with a horse. That they are not there to cure you but they will gladly accompany you.

That the outside is always a remedy for what the insides are finding hard to hold.

In solidarity for those who find this week in mostly stomp.

A couple of weeks back- over the weekend that marked the end of my trip in the UK- I went on a writing retreat in Cornwall. Truth be told, I had been steamrolling towards it in my mind. I was getting bored of saying ‘I’m tired’, of pushing to the side things that are important to me in favour of the ‘things that needed to get done’, of expending energy in ways that were making me feel slightly wonky.

I knew I wanted to make a book project I have been dreaming up to be the focus; there was lots of white space in our days there factored in, lots of opportunities for us to skip off and do our own thing.

But despite writing being the object of the weekend, I found there was so much ‘not writing’ that happened that felt equally important. As I headed down to breakfast the second day, I scribbled out this list:

Writing likes

pause, and

company, and

rest, and

reading, and

daydreaming, and

playing, and

being held lightly.

So much of writing happens when you are not seated at a desk, pen in hand and paper on the table. In fact, that’s a very old-school, capitalist stream of thought.

And why I share this with you is because I believe the same is true of playing and working with our horses- another creative art, whether we recognize it as such or not.

Riding (or playing, or being a horse person in general, and horses too of course)

likes

pause, and

company, and

rest, and

reading, and

daydreaming, and

playing, and

being held lightly.

The magic exists in the not doing, as much as it does anywhere else.

There was a moment at the end of our ride when I looked up, and as though on a timer, the pine trees released their pollen. The norwesterly wind too seductive an invitation, clouds of yellow released on the breeze.

‘Look Merc’, I said. ‘Even the trees are celebrating you.’

My patchy pony- all my ponies for that matter- have been enjoying a few months off, a combination of crazy workloads and family commitments causing a temporary halt to riding plans while I figured out a more sustainable way to do this thing we call life.

Everything had got a little too lifey for my liking and I was no longer willing to have my days roll out the same way– especially if what was falling off the edge was horse time.

With that in mind, I set my trip to the UK as my deadline, told my horsey crew to rest up and rally their resources. Once my feet landed back on Aotearoan soil, I would be present and back in the game.

Had it been possible to open the doors of the aircraft myself and ride back home from the airport, I can assure you I would have been here for it. As it happens, things worked out roughly close to that; after food, drink and sleep, I was happily ensconced out in the paddock the next day.

There is something glorious about being able to grab your halter and lead rope and pick up where you have left off. To be able to walk with a loose rope away from other horsey friends, down windy tracks, past rambunctious dogs and children and out to the arena.

It’s one of those small-big things I never take for granted.

‘You are so ridiculously clever, so, so kind,’ I said to Merc, and I really meant it.

It’s a marvel to me that by some grace of the universe it’s possible for this to happen.

That a human has the privilege of deciding she would like to play together with a horse and that she equally might have a horse that allows this to happen. That she suspects- in whatever way it’s possible to suspect- that this same horse might actually enjoy it too. That he seems to enjoy moving his body with her as much as she does so with him.

How did we get so lucky?

One thing I’ve always observed about Merc is that he thrives on blocks of rest. His body uses the time to untangle threads that previously made his body bound, his mind and heart are keen for the connection.

My previously reluctant pony was buoyant to the point of being frisky. If gaits could be captured in gesture, his trot would be a smile. I matched him stride for stride.

It’s fun when you get to this part; where the forward is more free flow, where the body starts to move as a coordinated whole, where the conversation starts to become one of directing energy rather than attempting to create it.

When your horse reminds you of how you want things to be and what else in life is possible.

We had an interesting discussion in Stable Hours this morning, which is a weekly live Q&A in JoyRide. It started with discussions about emotional relationships to different parts of the body and then meandered into a conversation on beliefs, in all their many, varied forms.

When I first got into the field of mindset and behaviour, I found information about beliefs- how they affect us, how we can go about shifting them- confusing, and in some instances intimidating. What if I had a limiting belief that I didn’t even know about that was somehow holding me back? What is it I could do then? How can I possibly change something if I’m unsure what it even is?

Us humans love to fear the unknown.

So much of who we are, of course, is formed by what it is we believe. It can restrict our possibility or expand it. Allow us to attempt something new or keep us in the confines of what it is we already know. Allow us to a fuller breadth of experience is all sense of the word, or keeping us running up and down on the same spot. We understand this. And we also know that so much of what we believe we have absorbed; osmotically, as a result of the people we hang out with, the circumstances of our growing up, the possibilities afforded to us. Not all of our beliefs have been the result of active choice.

It’s no wonder we are interested in learning more about it.

After years of wondering, learning and yet more wondering, I’ve arrived at something I think is relatively simple, at least in theory- it takes a little more work in practice (as all things of deep roots do).

In this video, I discuss what it is I believe is needed to shift a belief of any sort, in a way that does not require digging around, or worry, or deep lines of investigation. It simply this:

The willingness to be different at the end of an experience than you were at the beginning.

I’d love to hear your thoughts!

xx Jane

Back when I was a teenager- or at least on the cusp of teenage-ness, probably around 13 years old, my parents bought me a horse who was called Minnie. At that stage of my life, Minnie was beyond anything I had allowed myself to dream. She was beautiful, the colour of red burnished treacle. I used to run my hands over her coat, marvel at her sheen.

Despite her inherent and regal loveliness, the fact that she strutted round as though she was a Queen (side note: she was), Minnie was not without her quirks. She was sensitive and feisty. The charisma that she carried, the air of whatever it is that makes a horse stand out meant I had to work to harder, learn more, step up to be the kind of horseperson that really met her standard. But I was in love, had time and was up to the task. I got up to muck out early, cleaning paddocks before school, and as soon as the bus arrived at our corner, around 4:30 pm, my bag would be flung to the side, I would change out of my school uniform, and you’d find me in the paddock, in the arena, riding round the farm, always in the company of my beloved horse.

At this stage of my life, my family had started competing. It seems funny to look back on – my horsing adventures seem so removed from this kind of life now- but at the time I loved it, and it allowed us to travel round and have many experiences together as a family. When I think about my competition life, or if someone asks me to describe it, I would say I was a nervous competitor, yes (that anxiety was, in part, the reason that I have the business that I do now), but I was also fierce. The anxiety was less about a specific fear and more about the fact I took what I was doing very seriously. I took myself and my horse seriously. And I did so long before anyone else did.

There’s a part of me that loves and most definitely roots for the underdog. There was a showing class at the Sydney Royal Show where there were over 80 horses in my class (a thriving era in agricultural scenes which seems to have taken a tumble in the years of late). The showing world is known for being subjective and political. I was told: ‘you don’t have a chance. No-one knows you. But you know, you can at least go out there and have fun.’

This particular story has a fairy tale ending- lord knows, we know they so often don’t. But Minnie and I- we won that class. With the 80 something horses. All the words of “you can’t do it” ignited something within my head. I believed in my horse and beyond that, loved her with intensity. Maybe she felt that. Maybe we just got lucky. But it still stands regardless as one of the best moments of my life.

The actor, Ethan Hawke- one of the Patron Saints of creativity- talks about how moved he was listening to a speech by the wife of one of his recently passed away screen writing heroes. To quote the article speaking to the same in the New York Times:

“She looked out at the crowd and laughed. She said John Cassavetes was always disappointed because nobody would finance his movies; he’d always felt dismissed and disregarded. “‘And now here you guys are making a big deal out of him,’” he remembered her saying. She said that was nice, but that they shouldn’t miss the point. “‘Make a big deal of yourself.’ You know? Whatever indifference the world gives you, he felt it, too. So you’re just as good as he is. Like, go out and do it.”

I believe this to be true, not because I’ve read it, but I’ve lived it. I have no idea why the seed exists inside me, but I hope it exists within you too. And if it doesn’t, please make it your mission today to start to find it.

I took my riding seriously long before anyone else did. I took my business seriously years before it earned me a single dollar (and I continue to take it seriously through all the ups and downs). As a writer, who hopes to share experiences of wonder and is moved to write as part of her love letter to the world, I take my words seriously, regardless of the numbers who read them in return.

I take it all seriously- which is different to gruffly, or holding on too tightly, or being arrogant and not humble- because they are all important to me. They are part of my vitalis, my vitality, and the sharing of what it is I love.

Taking yourself seriously is important. It’s, in part, the curative for self-doubt. It is the thing that needs to happen, before and not after, someone else takes you seriously. And perhaps, most importantly, it’s what allows you to create a life that is lived on your terms. In developing self-trust.

Take yourself, the things you love seriously. But as a start point- not as a thing you get to at the end.

Taking yourself seriously is what allows you to devote time and to keep showing up for all the things you love.

Onwards,

❤️ Jane

I often joke about wanting to be Arwen from Lord of The Rings. I use the word ‘joke’ loosely, because potentially, if given the option, I would seriously consider it. I talk about her to my horse, Merc, so much that he’s really started to buy into the whole situation also, despite being slightly concerned over basic logistics, like if there’s hay or hard feed available in Elven Kingdoms. I tell him of course, and hope that I’m convincing, because the reality is I have no idea myself.

The thing is, if you were to question me about Arwen, tried to nail me down on all of the specifics, subjected me to a pop quiz, I would most likely fail the test. Because I don’t know that much about Arwen at all—what I love is my idea of her, the archetype of Arwen and all that she represents. I’ve seen her flash across my screen, bow and arrow in hand, horse with mane streaming, powerful, fast, determined. I see her and a jolt flashes across my adult, childlike heart that sings in universal recognition. She taps into a part of me that I wish to bring more to the surface. I want those things expressed in me.

Stories, mythologies, and archetypes have existed for millennia as portals for humans to express their fears, longings, and desires. As ways to shape and conjure what we experience as a collective. We have been influenced by them to negative effect- a long and extensive conversation for another day- but we have also been empowered, uplifted by them. We cannot separate ourselves out from our mythic imagination, from our dreams and hopes that express in the imaginative collective.

I see imagination devalued generally as a tool- and there have been times when I’ve rejected it myself- but now I strongly rally against this. For better or worse, we are where we are because of our imagination. Understanding the power of symbolism, of images, of our ‘first thought, best thought’ that lies just under the surface of our skin, is an important piece in understanding our creative potential, of how we can use our imagination as a way in to deal with things that feel challenging, hopeless, or cause us to be overwhelmed.

I recently read a post that wasn’t horse related from someone who had been in a tough situation and had instantly fallen into self-blame. My intuitive self felt the limpness of her spirit in that moment. A common situation that I’m witness too more than I would like. There was much to say from a logistical position that may or may not have been helpful, and plenty were offering that advice. But my heart suspected they needed something more. They needed the spark back that makes someone entranced by Wonder Woman as a child, that leads us to believe in fairies, that sees an Astronaut shoot off into space—the part of us that believes it’s possible to do the same.

I said to her: I think we need to go a little bit women who run with the wolves on this.

My point: Imagination, archetypal imagery may not be the entire story to bring the help you need, but it IS part of the story. Often a big part. Do not be talked out of the magic and mystery of your imagination. If you feel you have lost that side of you, conjure it back. Invite yourself to read stories, look at art and imagery that uplift and inspire you. Let yourself be Arwen. And don’t let anyone tell you it should be any different.

Onwards.

❤️ Jane

Pictured is Merc, starting to tune out after I tell him for the 1,000,000th time how we need to be like Arwen.

There’s a small mound that lies a few meters down from our top paddock that’s one of my favourite places to sit. Maybe you would like to sit there with me too. It’s covered by long grass which makes it a little hard to see, but if you go through the gate and head left towards the arena, you’ll see me sitting there. There’s absolutely space for you.

The horses, most likely- if this is a normal day- are there in front of me. Eating each a pile of hay. Elvis, my husband’s horse, will tell the others in no uncertain terms that sharing’s not for him. His ears will pin right back. His head will toss to add a bit of drama and their advances will be met with his hind end, a clear signal saying it’s better if they stop.

In response, Merc will scuttle off. He is a peace lover after all. Not interested in fights. Ada will have tried to have at least a nibble, hopeful of perhaps being friends. And when Elvis tells her once more that this pile is definitely his, she will make the opening and closing motion with her mouth, that baby horses do, in the hope her age will grant her a free pass. Which, in this situation, never works.

We can sit and we can watch their gentle politics. We’ll probably quietly chastise Elvis, amid soft laughs. “Don’t be such a grump,’ we’ll say.

We might point to other piles of hay: ‘Over there’ we’ll tell them, ‘Don’t get mixed up in his stuff, he’s being mean’.

And then eventually, the tetris of the feed time will all settle, and conversation, both horse and human will all stop. And we’ll be left with the sound of air and birds and whatever particular words captures the sound of horses eating hay, that’s as calming as a heartbeat and a hug.

This last couple of weeks have been a little rough. I have had a flu that’s completely knocked me out. If I felt ok in the day, the coughing kept me up all night to the point where I was seeing stars and was good for little more than lying flat in bed. When a body is forced to lie still, it’s interesting to observe what swirls close to the edges of the skin. One day, two days, I feel I can get away with, but beyond that, I start to get concerned.

I have things to do, people to show up for. For those of you who are self-employed know, nothing outside of you stops even if you do. It’s a difficult conundrum. It’s easy to say, ‘you have to rest’- and I agree completely- but there are very real responsibilities and concerns of the day to day that are not made up or the product of mental drama or self-interested imagination. I am yet to reconcile all the sides and moving parts.

And yet, in amongst it all, I recognize my privilege and my blessings. I talk with people who are really doing it tough. Those who are caregiving or are needing care themselves. Those who feel overwhelmed by the state of the world, or who are stumped in their horsing life to the point where what’s not working feels utterly consuming. I hear their stories and wish that I could fix them all.

The offer to sit next to me, on the little mound of grass, at the top end of the paddock, is part of what I know is able to help. It’s the searching out of shards, of glimmers, of small happinesses.

When I think of the last little while, it’s the glimmers and the shards that have seen me thorough. Sitting and watching the horses eat hay. The new notebook I got with the hare on the front cover. All the lovely comments to an essay I wrote about frogs. My husband making me endless cups of tea and bringing me hot water bottles. A scarf I’m knitting (I’ve taught myself to knit). The lovely comments from people in JoyRide telling me it’s ok. The specific light that hits the pillow in my bedroom around mid-afternoon. A new book that turns out to be really good. An idea for a course that I’ll put out soon.

Glimmers, small happinesses, however you refer to them, are as important as water and food.

Sitting here this morning, and writing this to you, I am not without my concerns or my worries. But I can hear the Kākā, a New Zealand Mountain Parrott, arguing with each other in the trees. The rain that was heavy last night has stopped and I’m grateful for the stillness. I can see the Kōwhai tree out my window, who never fails to watch over me. Every day I trace the outline of her branches and her leaves.

And even though as I type, I have described these things as small, the little voice inside of me says that’s not true. It’s the noticing of such things that is, in fact, the everything.

So, although you may not be in a position to sit beside me, or for us to have a coffee and talk about our day, perhaps together we can look out for the shards and the glimmers knowing that someone else out there is doing the same.

We’re all in this together, after all.

Onwards,

 Jane

The word ‘mother’ covers many situations and complexities. We can be a mother to biological children. We can be mother to children not born to us. We can mother, never having given birth nor lived with a child. We can mother in the face of loss, or within a framework that was very different to the one that we may have once imagined, or perhaps hoped for.

To go through a pregnancy and birth is inherently a transformative experience, and one that our culture and society does not hold well. Despite the advances in so many areas of health care, pregnancy, and early motherhood- I would argue even well beyond that- is a vulnerable time for women’s health and wellbeing.

During pregnancy, I would look up the different stages that my body was going through only to have the period of gestation compared to a piece of fruit.

This week, your baby is a grape.

This week, a kiwi fruit.

Now, they are an orange.

There was little to no information about the true nature of the physical changes my body was going through, let alone the mental, the psychic and the spiritual. My body experienced pregnancy like an earthquake, a hurricane, a spitting volcano. Nowhere was this discussed or really mentioned.

I did not want to hear of bowls of fruit.

Statistics also show that women are poorly informed about the true nature of giving birth, which can result in a whole myriad of problems for our future physical wellbeing and leave us uninformed to make decisions about the process of giving birth. Our bodies are amazing, yes. But there is much to be said about the role of religion and a patriarchal culture that has placed much of the reality of what women face in the transition towards and within ‘mother’ behind a curtain of invisibility, isolation, and shame.

Especially when it comes to discussing parts of the body which might now be painful or experiencing dysfunction when they occur in places whose names we have been conditioned to not say out loud.

Why am I talking about this? The overwhelming majority of those I work with are women. If we were to break into groups the number of people in the equestrian community who are mothers, the numbers would be big. Huge in fact. And I know many of those women have not had an easy time.

Their bodies have undergone changes that make the transition back to riding and horsing hard, and because of everything I have mentioned above, embarrassing to talk about. I read that it’s ‘normal’ to tear in childbirth, to be stitched up. I can assure you, if you are one of those people, it being ‘normal’ does not ease the pain and difficulty of the actual event.

Of all the women in my antenatal group, I was the only one not to have a c-section. The only one.

None of this is a judgement- quite the opposite. Instead, it’s a call to recognise that an empathy and understanding for what women go through during pregnancy, childbirth and early motherhood is essential if we are to support mother’s back into the process of riding and getting back into the saddle, should that be the desire.

Physiologically, but also mentally and emotionally.

Matrescence brings a complete reconfiguration of identity.

For me, horses were a lifeline that I refused to give up. I was lucky to be supported in that. I know that many women aren’t. And while some are fortunate to ease into motherhood as a smooth transition, many more find it hard- for all the reasons and so much more that I haven’t mentioned or described.

This book that I have pictured, Matrescence, is brilliant. I highly recommend it.

And as trainers, male or female, I also recommend you add it to your list. This is not a female issue. It’s a human one. And we need bigger, wider conversations for both humans and horses that speak to the fullness of our real, lived, experience.

Onwards,

❤️ Jane

On navigating difficult conversations or,

not wasting energy on attempting to change the mind of people who aren’t ready for it or open to it.

Today, is a short one. I just wanted to flag that up to prove I’m capable of a writing brief post (which, ironically, is getting longer by the second).

Ready?

I never answer a question I wasn’t asked.

I can’t tell you (well, I’m telling you now) how much simpler this has made my life, especially when it comes to navigating online spaces.

In practice, it looks something like this:

If you weren’t specifically asked the question, don’t answer it.

And if you/we do offer advice, ‘constructive criticism’, or ‘give feedback’ when it wasn’t requested, then to ask ourselves, how do we benefit by doing so? Like really benefit. Is it really about the other person? Or is there something that we gain ourselves, a need that’s lurking underneath the surface.

Something to consider anyway, and I can tell you from experience, it’s definitely worth trying on for size.

Onwards,

❤️ Jane

PS. There is no always or never- sometimes it’s right to interject without request. But for the most part I’ve found the above to serves me very well!

On balance,

Or allowing the movement to organize the posture.

Last night, Giles and I were chattering in the kitchen talking about nothing in particular when I asked him how the waves had been that day. Giles is a keen surfer and while I understand very little about swell or how the wind direction affects the movement of the water, I hope that by way of osmosis I will learn a little more about the sea and its ways.

It’s interesting, he told me. I’ve been watching a martial arts guy who also surfs on YouTube, and he talked about things in a slightly different way to how many other people do. Something about what he mentioned- at least how he mentioned it- made sense to me. And so, I practiced for a while the movements that he talked about, and I noticed a really big difference when I was out there on the wave.

He described the process that he went through; how he had to look behind him to gauge the waves position. How that arced his body in a particular way. How the successful completion of the movement required a degree of anticipation, that meant not only coordinating with the movement of the water in that moment, but how it might move and behave many moments forward in space.

Oh, I said, you were following the balance line of the wave. That’s exactly what I teach when I am riding.

I stood up on the tiled floor and we talked about how, just like a horse, a wave has a centre of gravity, a balance line, or a line of energy that determines the waves direction and equilibrium. Successfully merging and matching the wave requires orienting your own centre to the line of dynamic energy moving through. The more successful you are at this, the more easily you flow together. To oppose the balance line of the wave means your balance point is off and the movement runs away with you. Or, perhaps, it’s more accurate to say you get further away from it.

In other words, you and the wave find yourself travelling in quite different directions.

In other words, a situation we would describe in surfing and in riding as ‘unideal’.

In other words, you are no longer standing upright against the wave. Or sitting on your horse. Whichever the case may be.

Understanding balance lines- the balance line of your horse and developing a felt sense of it as your orienting centre- is the holy grail of the biomechanics that I teach. Instead of micromanagement. Instead of contracting this muscle and releasing that. Instead of adjusting this ‘very slightly’, we focus on the movement of the horse and how their centreline- a literal moving, sliding structure in the body- travels and coordinates itself in space.

The possibilities for our horse in movement exist only within the range that they are balanced; our job as riders, then, is not only to facilitate balance in them in order that they can carry us without compromising themselves, but also to ensure that our balance point matches theirs; understanding where and how your horse’s centreline moves in space so you can coordinate together in movement.

Otherwise known as matching yourself alongside the body of the wave.

If you can understand the balance line and seek to follow it, riding becomes more about feel and less about force. The body organically and intuitively orients around the point that seeks to harmonise best with the movement, leaving you free to concentrate on the next best action to take for both of you.

Onwards,

❤️ Jane