Nothing is as explanatory of human sexuality as a broodmare. Because horses don’t have the usual American complexes about social modesty (what do you expect from a creature that runs around naked all the time?), and because they don’t have the same self-protective walls as people, their behavior is unashamedly obvious. As with everything, an extreme example highlights the subtly of a subject, and the peculiarities of human sexuality become embarrassingly spotlighted as I observe Nic and her two new boyfriends.
A broodmare’s entire purpose in life, the very essence of her identity, is about foaling, and, by extrapolation, that particular event that must occur to ensure there’s a reason for a foaling in the first place. Nicole is the Equus caballus equivalent of a gum-chewing, glitter-wearing, just-stops-short-of-g-string-hot-pants, stiletto-strapped, Hollywood Boulevard club girl, except she’s even more obvious in her intent. As a broodmare-come-dressage horse, Nic naturally tends to forget herself in order to heed that urgent call of the wild—yes, sex is constantly on her brain, evidenced by the poor males who are beside themselves from pheromone-ish delight.
Unfortunately for her admirers, the mare doesn’t quite reciprocate, and instead manifests that subtle cocktail of sentiments that only an American female can pull off: triumphant frigidity swirled with earthy curiosity. Only a woman can successfully stir up intrigues of the Marriage of Figaro variety; only a woman can be as ruthless as Caligula when it comes to passion. Nicole accomplishes both with the unparalleled dexterity of a samurai in heat.
The mare taunts her boyfriends, siren-like, unhesitating—nuzzling them, seducing them through validation, touching noses and blowing into their nostrils (the equine equivalent of kissing), only to wheel around, indignant at the intimacy, executing their masculine bravery Vlad the Impaler-style. For extra emphasis, so her boyfriends know she means business, mister, she adds an extra kick to the walls of her stall, like a can-can dancer on crack.
Rejected, and with horsey egos bruised, her suitors relent, only to fall victim of the 3-second-long equine memory, and begin the process all over again. Rinse and repeat as needed.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
In Which Nicole Manifests Her Destiny: May 10, 2008
Nothing about the United States of America is as overwhelming as the different options that prosperity begets. In a country where the only real sacred cow is the First Amendment, a single cohesive force just doesn’t exist. For every opinion expressed, you’ll hear a corollary dissent as well, which isn’t exactly a conducive breeding ground for cohesive thought.
Americans, citizens of a country with a history of under 250 years (shorter than the House of Plantagenet ruled England) and warmed by the embers of Mother Constitution, are in the unique position of having to invent overarching American ideals—ideals of gender, justice, inalienable rights, moral absolutes, self-worth, take your pick—rewriting and reinventing as desired an endlessly-reincarnating Playbill for the Western Stage. A country with no past, where the defining hallmark is that one can start anew, means the future is wide-open for those who wish to Manifest their Destiny.
Medieval Europe had the Virgin Mary to unite individuals to a common cause, India had Gandhi, and so forth, but I’m pretty sure the last time an overwhelming societal goal pulsed a rumba in the collective American heart was around the time of the Boston Tea Party, and we weren’t even Americans then. At a utopian best, Americans today can expect, on a theoretical level, to have a cohesive thought for each individual microcosm of our society. Let’s be realistic, though—no two Americans’ thoughts really coincide; our collective thoughts fan out, like bleeding watercolors, like octopus ink in the sea. Even the Mormon church, which is a religion of American invention, has its internal squabbles, splintering every so often.
As a nation chock full of free thinkers, Americans extrapolate in their own unique ways the secrets of life, in some sort of Rebel Yell or Ghetto Magic, finding Grace in even the most crooked of stairways. I, along with thousands of other Americans, of course, have found Grace on the back of a horse, riding up towards heaven.
Today’s exegesis centers on the Book of Canter Pirouette, that most collected of canter exercises, which I learned this week on the schoolmaster I’ve been riding. The rhythm of the movement pulsates like Starry Night stuck in honey, the electricity of collection—strength made vivid by captivity—as dynamic to the dressage rider as the cross to Medieval Christians. Common sense dictates I would feel a very collected canter, but the amount of loft in the gait was unexpected. I kept using my inside rein too much, losing the travers component of the pirouette, and instead doing a volte.
The purpose of schooling the movement, aside from learning the movement itself, is to illustrate how the horse comes through from behind and into the bridle, and how the rider needs to position themselves to catch and recycle that energy so that the horse becomes an amalgam of power and restraint—the elusive Holy Grail of lower-level dressage.
As a high priestess in the Cult of Plain Language, I spend most of my day attempting to understand complex legal, scientific, and IT concepts, breaking down those concepts to their skeletal frame, and then writing about the same concepts in language accessible to the person with a 6th grade education. Because of this, it’s in my nature to intimately analyze concepts I come across—once you define a concept, you earn a certain measure of ownership over the idea.
That being said, understanding this information about the amount of control required for a pirouette helps with training Nic. The extreme example, in this case the pirouette, better exhibits the idea of how to coax better balance from Nic on a much smaller scale; the required degree of balance goes up and down as the rider asks for more collection. Once I understand how to get a schooled horse to put more weight behind, I can help Nic start to do the same.
Nic’s canter is something these new trainers want to improve. Her canter is too flat and needs more jump, until it’s like a rear, hop, and a jump. It’s hard work for both me and her. Nic has to hold herself, and stay on her hindend more. She gets better every day, though, and now her canter is starting to become soft and rhythmic. There still isn’t much power to it, but as her strength builds, the power will be easier to add.
I feel like I’m starting to get my horse back as she recovers from the confusion of the clinic. I had managed to stop her inverting and pulling before moving her again, but the clinic caused that habit to resurface. She didn’t resist connecting to the bit today, a trait that’s been missing the past few rides.
Americans, citizens of a country with a history of under 250 years (shorter than the House of Plantagenet ruled England) and warmed by the embers of Mother Constitution, are in the unique position of having to invent overarching American ideals—ideals of gender, justice, inalienable rights, moral absolutes, self-worth, take your pick—rewriting and reinventing as desired an endlessly-reincarnating Playbill for the Western Stage. A country with no past, where the defining hallmark is that one can start anew, means the future is wide-open for those who wish to Manifest their Destiny.
Medieval Europe had the Virgin Mary to unite individuals to a common cause, India had Gandhi, and so forth, but I’m pretty sure the last time an overwhelming societal goal pulsed a rumba in the collective American heart was around the time of the Boston Tea Party, and we weren’t even Americans then. At a utopian best, Americans today can expect, on a theoretical level, to have a cohesive thought for each individual microcosm of our society. Let’s be realistic, though—no two Americans’ thoughts really coincide; our collective thoughts fan out, like bleeding watercolors, like octopus ink in the sea. Even the Mormon church, which is a religion of American invention, has its internal squabbles, splintering every so often.
As a nation chock full of free thinkers, Americans extrapolate in their own unique ways the secrets of life, in some sort of Rebel Yell or Ghetto Magic, finding Grace in even the most crooked of stairways. I, along with thousands of other Americans, of course, have found Grace on the back of a horse, riding up towards heaven.
Today’s exegesis centers on the Book of Canter Pirouette, that most collected of canter exercises, which I learned this week on the schoolmaster I’ve been riding. The rhythm of the movement pulsates like Starry Night stuck in honey, the electricity of collection—strength made vivid by captivity—as dynamic to the dressage rider as the cross to Medieval Christians. Common sense dictates I would feel a very collected canter, but the amount of loft in the gait was unexpected. I kept using my inside rein too much, losing the travers component of the pirouette, and instead doing a volte.
The purpose of schooling the movement, aside from learning the movement itself, is to illustrate how the horse comes through from behind and into the bridle, and how the rider needs to position themselves to catch and recycle that energy so that the horse becomes an amalgam of power and restraint—the elusive Holy Grail of lower-level dressage.
As a high priestess in the Cult of Plain Language, I spend most of my day attempting to understand complex legal, scientific, and IT concepts, breaking down those concepts to their skeletal frame, and then writing about the same concepts in language accessible to the person with a 6th grade education. Because of this, it’s in my nature to intimately analyze concepts I come across—once you define a concept, you earn a certain measure of ownership over the idea.
That being said, understanding this information about the amount of control required for a pirouette helps with training Nic. The extreme example, in this case the pirouette, better exhibits the idea of how to coax better balance from Nic on a much smaller scale; the required degree of balance goes up and down as the rider asks for more collection. Once I understand how to get a schooled horse to put more weight behind, I can help Nic start to do the same.
Nic’s canter is something these new trainers want to improve. Her canter is too flat and needs more jump, until it’s like a rear, hop, and a jump. It’s hard work for both me and her. Nic has to hold herself, and stay on her hindend more. She gets better every day, though, and now her canter is starting to become soft and rhythmic. There still isn’t much power to it, but as her strength builds, the power will be easier to add.
I feel like I’m starting to get my horse back as she recovers from the confusion of the clinic. I had managed to stop her inverting and pulling before moving her again, but the clinic caused that habit to resurface. She didn’t resist connecting to the bit today, a trait that’s been missing the past few rides.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Nicole, Henry Miller, and Istanbul: May 2, 2008
Henry Miller once wrote: “A year ago, six months ago, I thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me.” He was describing his state of mind at a low point in his life, and how he let go of his literary pretensions, and just focused on his own writing. Out of that frame of mind came Tropic of Cancer, one of the most original works of the 20th century.
Now, I don’t know a lot about being an artist, but I think what Miller suggests in his statement is that at some point you stop thinking about what you want to be, or about the trappings of accomplishment, and just get down to work. Over time you find yourself so involved in your work that you no longer think about what you’re doing, but rather just work, and work, and work, until it scrambles your brain and then—Desire, expectation, concern, they become ash. Just grey matter, scattered to the Santa Ana winds. From that cogitative, and frankly lonely, Nirvana comes you—you are your work, your work is you, and the energy just goes round and round in a blender until the two can’t be unscrambled. You simultaneously forget your work, and can’t forget it, because your efforts have become so internalized they become a matter of identity.
I think, therefore I am? No, René, I work, therefore I am.
These days I’m so dissatisfied with the state of dressage in America. My past few posts have been about this same subject, but bear with me through this phase because I’m having a hard time coming to terms with the sad realization that to get anywhere in dressage requires a rider to be extremely mentally independent. Sui generis being the American condition, Nic and I have found several times that self-invention seems to be the safest yellow brick road to success.
I learned as a kid the skills necessary to achieve success in an athletic venue, and have achieved high levels in other sports before I took up dressage, but the type of mental toughness required in dressage is different. In both figure skating and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu the mores in each sport was such that the student could trust that the trainer had the student’s best interests in mind, or at least wasn’t imparting information that was half-assed or wholly self-promoting. Like Theodora of Constantinople on the night Justinian almost abdicated as emperor, the American dressage rider’s gots to grow a pair and maintain a strong sense of identity in the face of overwhelming pressure to do otherwise.
Honestly, though, the level of skill and theoretical knowledge required in both figure skating and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is simply not comparable to that of dressage. The theory and finesse is much more involved in dressage, and the basics can be understood and taught to the student on so many levels. Maybe that’s because all dressage really is about is refinement of the basics. In figure skating, there’s only so many ways to teach a jump, and if you suck at it, as long as you land it, that’s effectively all that matters. There isn’t the same building on basics from an intellectual standpoint – to go from a double to a triple, you just add an extra rotation. You can’t have the same relaxed approach to dressage and expect to get anywhere.
It’s part of the human condition, to shed beliefs like metaphorical snakeskin: when “everything that was” falls away. Somehow, with all this, comes an inconsolable sense of loss. I’ve found that I have to keep my agenda in sharp focus and constantly assess the information I’m given, testing the information for purity, weighing it on the scales of common sense like a trader at the Grand Bazaar. My knowledge base is constantly expanding, causing fissures in the system to become more blatant.
Nic and I went to another clinic this week, and I believe it was an unmitigated disaster. Postmodern literary theory espouses that everything—ideas, beliefs, emotions, and yes, teachings—is applicable in the moment, but not necessarily at any other point in time, and boy did this clinic illustrate that idea. The irony is that this clinician has been helpful with her, but advice that helped so much in the past, when Nic was stiff, is now passé—Nic is no longer stiff and resistant. We have the very basics—contact, submission, basic swung—covered. We are turning our horizons to gait and muscle development now, and this clinic was a step back for us. Nic came back sore, tense, and lacking self-carriage. There isn’t the same desire to build energy into the bridle. The training we’ve been doing with her is undone, and I’m frustrated.
Now, I don’t know a lot about being an artist, but I think what Miller suggests in his statement is that at some point you stop thinking about what you want to be, or about the trappings of accomplishment, and just get down to work. Over time you find yourself so involved in your work that you no longer think about what you’re doing, but rather just work, and work, and work, until it scrambles your brain and then—Desire, expectation, concern, they become ash. Just grey matter, scattered to the Santa Ana winds. From that cogitative, and frankly lonely, Nirvana comes you—you are your work, your work is you, and the energy just goes round and round in a blender until the two can’t be unscrambled. You simultaneously forget your work, and can’t forget it, because your efforts have become so internalized they become a matter of identity.
I think, therefore I am? No, René, I work, therefore I am.
These days I’m so dissatisfied with the state of dressage in America. My past few posts have been about this same subject, but bear with me through this phase because I’m having a hard time coming to terms with the sad realization that to get anywhere in dressage requires a rider to be extremely mentally independent. Sui generis being the American condition, Nic and I have found several times that self-invention seems to be the safest yellow brick road to success.
I learned as a kid the skills necessary to achieve success in an athletic venue, and have achieved high levels in other sports before I took up dressage, but the type of mental toughness required in dressage is different. In both figure skating and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu the mores in each sport was such that the student could trust that the trainer had the student’s best interests in mind, or at least wasn’t imparting information that was half-assed or wholly self-promoting. Like Theodora of Constantinople on the night Justinian almost abdicated as emperor, the American dressage rider’s gots to grow a pair and maintain a strong sense of identity in the face of overwhelming pressure to do otherwise.
Honestly, though, the level of skill and theoretical knowledge required in both figure skating and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is simply not comparable to that of dressage. The theory and finesse is much more involved in dressage, and the basics can be understood and taught to the student on so many levels. Maybe that’s because all dressage really is about is refinement of the basics. In figure skating, there’s only so many ways to teach a jump, and if you suck at it, as long as you land it, that’s effectively all that matters. There isn’t the same building on basics from an intellectual standpoint – to go from a double to a triple, you just add an extra rotation. You can’t have the same relaxed approach to dressage and expect to get anywhere.
It’s part of the human condition, to shed beliefs like metaphorical snakeskin: when “everything that was” falls away. Somehow, with all this, comes an inconsolable sense of loss. I’ve found that I have to keep my agenda in sharp focus and constantly assess the information I’m given, testing the information for purity, weighing it on the scales of common sense like a trader at the Grand Bazaar. My knowledge base is constantly expanding, causing fissures in the system to become more blatant.
Nic and I went to another clinic this week, and I believe it was an unmitigated disaster. Postmodern literary theory espouses that everything—ideas, beliefs, emotions, and yes, teachings—is applicable in the moment, but not necessarily at any other point in time, and boy did this clinic illustrate that idea. The irony is that this clinician has been helpful with her, but advice that helped so much in the past, when Nic was stiff, is now passé—Nic is no longer stiff and resistant. We have the very basics—contact, submission, basic swung—covered. We are turning our horizons to gait and muscle development now, and this clinic was a step back for us. Nic came back sore, tense, and lacking self-carriage. There isn’t the same desire to build energy into the bridle. The training we’ve been doing with her is undone, and I’m frustrated.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Well, We're Movin' on Up Part II: April 23, 2008
“‘Well? Shall we go?’
‘Yes, let’s go.’
[They do not move.]”
- Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot
Well, buttercups, I've moved Nic again. Yes, this is our 3rd barn in the past 12 months. And yes, children, it's almost a year to the day since my last trainer change. I hope this isn't becoming a pattern, a perpetual spring cleaning of sorts.
I've written in the past about certain watershed moments in my dressage education - those singular events that force enlightenment in such a profound manner that time cracks its shell, and when the arena footing settles, I'm left with the realization that I can't go back to the way things were previously. A new phase is born and the other one's dead.
Last spring, after firing Trainer and taking those few lessons with Napalm, I experienced one of these watershed moments. Nic's willing acceptance of the bit, and the consequent reduction in stiffness, was like an air traffic controller waving red panels aiding a pilot to land the plane - something you just can't ignore. I knew a corner had been turned, and in good conscience I could not return to the way things were before, even if I had wanted to.
In dressage, a good trainer is known as "Classical with a capital 'C'" and a bad trainer is known as "all they do is force the horse's head down." The difference, although profound, is usually subtle, until you know that which you can't un-know.
Yes, I'm being deliberately esoteric; I have no clue how to relate what has prompted this latest move. One of the things I struggle with regarding this blog is how to relate the calamity of rather dramatic and stupidly annoying events in such a way that's amusing, while protecting the identities of the parties in question. It's beyond the purposes of this blog to simply bitch about this person or that person, and is too adolescent for me to consider.
Also, the dynamics of the dressage world, and the rate at which knowledge tends to unfold itself to me, is too fast-paced to assume that my opinions about people will remain solid from one moment to the next. The trainer who appears to conjure enlightenment will, like a magic trick, reveal themselves to approach dressage from a different theoretical base than I do. And again, and again, and again, I’m left to sort things out on my own.
So, it's impossible for me to commit to writing anything about real-life individuals, save myself and Nic. Doing so would merely present the reader with a litany of caricatures, rather than an involved discussion of Nic's training. I suppose one of the pitfalls of enlightenment is the evolutionary aspect to it; an idea that seems sturdy and immovable as a fortress at the moment is, in fact, disposable and jello-like the next moment, especially for someone in their novitiate, such as myself. Iconoclasm is too much a hallmark of my dressage experience for me to commit to a singular, permanent, opinion.
I suppose the simplest explanation is that the place to which I moved Nic teaches dressage using the same theoretical base that I try to practice, and the change in Nic prevents me from going backwards. The most important moment I felt in the past couple weeks, thanks to the schoolmaster lessons, is the level of connection and rideability that develops, of the horse's own volition, when the rider encourages enough hind end action from the horse. I believe these schoolmaster lessons are the first time in my riding experience that the level of power necessary to produce a truly through horse has been demanded. I've always been encouraged to use the reins, to either supple her, bend her, or slow her down, more with Nic than both she and I have been comfortable with. When she is truly through and pushing from behind, I don't need to use the reins in the same way.
The sun has set, the moon has set, and, yes, even those distant centers of light, the stars, have set. High tide has come and gone, yet I’m still marooned with my thoughts. I can’t do this alone; I need a context to guide me. I suppose it's just time for me to move on. It's not my style to remain adrift in the muddy pretext of pretend, spinning my wheels; I want to learn to train my horse, told how to improve, and be demanded of excellence. If it's not happening in one place, like a game of chess, damn straight I'm going to determine my next move. In the quest for knowledge, if I've hit a dead end, I can either stagnate or move forward, right?
‘Yes, let’s go.’
[They do not move.]”
- Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot
Well, buttercups, I've moved Nic again. Yes, this is our 3rd barn in the past 12 months. And yes, children, it's almost a year to the day since my last trainer change. I hope this isn't becoming a pattern, a perpetual spring cleaning of sorts.
I've written in the past about certain watershed moments in my dressage education - those singular events that force enlightenment in such a profound manner that time cracks its shell, and when the arena footing settles, I'm left with the realization that I can't go back to the way things were previously. A new phase is born and the other one's dead.
Last spring, after firing Trainer and taking those few lessons with Napalm, I experienced one of these watershed moments. Nic's willing acceptance of the bit, and the consequent reduction in stiffness, was like an air traffic controller waving red panels aiding a pilot to land the plane - something you just can't ignore. I knew a corner had been turned, and in good conscience I could not return to the way things were before, even if I had wanted to.
In dressage, a good trainer is known as "Classical with a capital 'C'" and a bad trainer is known as "all they do is force the horse's head down." The difference, although profound, is usually subtle, until you know that which you can't un-know.
Yes, I'm being deliberately esoteric; I have no clue how to relate what has prompted this latest move. One of the things I struggle with regarding this blog is how to relate the calamity of rather dramatic and stupidly annoying events in such a way that's amusing, while protecting the identities of the parties in question. It's beyond the purposes of this blog to simply bitch about this person or that person, and is too adolescent for me to consider.
Also, the dynamics of the dressage world, and the rate at which knowledge tends to unfold itself to me, is too fast-paced to assume that my opinions about people will remain solid from one moment to the next. The trainer who appears to conjure enlightenment will, like a magic trick, reveal themselves to approach dressage from a different theoretical base than I do. And again, and again, and again, I’m left to sort things out on my own.
So, it's impossible for me to commit to writing anything about real-life individuals, save myself and Nic. Doing so would merely present the reader with a litany of caricatures, rather than an involved discussion of Nic's training. I suppose one of the pitfalls of enlightenment is the evolutionary aspect to it; an idea that seems sturdy and immovable as a fortress at the moment is, in fact, disposable and jello-like the next moment, especially for someone in their novitiate, such as myself. Iconoclasm is too much a hallmark of my dressage experience for me to commit to a singular, permanent, opinion.
I suppose the simplest explanation is that the place to which I moved Nic teaches dressage using the same theoretical base that I try to practice, and the change in Nic prevents me from going backwards. The most important moment I felt in the past couple weeks, thanks to the schoolmaster lessons, is the level of connection and rideability that develops, of the horse's own volition, when the rider encourages enough hind end action from the horse. I believe these schoolmaster lessons are the first time in my riding experience that the level of power necessary to produce a truly through horse has been demanded. I've always been encouraged to use the reins, to either supple her, bend her, or slow her down, more with Nic than both she and I have been comfortable with. When she is truly through and pushing from behind, I don't need to use the reins in the same way.
The sun has set, the moon has set, and, yes, even those distant centers of light, the stars, have set. High tide has come and gone, yet I’m still marooned with my thoughts. I can’t do this alone; I need a context to guide me. I suppose it's just time for me to move on. It's not my style to remain adrift in the muddy pretext of pretend, spinning my wheels; I want to learn to train my horse, told how to improve, and be demanded of excellence. If it's not happening in one place, like a game of chess, damn straight I'm going to determine my next move. In the quest for knowledge, if I've hit a dead end, I can either stagnate or move forward, right?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The Dark Ages of Dressage: April 17, 2008
Tomorrow I will cart Nic yet again to another trainer. Not to move, just for a lesson. I'm tired of dragging the mare from trainer to trainer. I gave up on trainers last December when it became apparent the best advice I'd received since buying her in 2006 was from Walter Zettl. Since then, I've been training by my wits, since my wits otherwise came to an end with professionals. I'm sure if I'd received decent help since the get go that my horse would be further along than she is, but I have yet to come across a program that is anything but counterproductive.
I don't know what it is about America; these united states are the land of opportunity, of dreams, but as far as dressage goes, that mentality has diluted the sport into a gulag of half-baked ideas. Actually, I do know what it is about America. Let me expound upon this.
Oscar Wilde once said "America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between." Decadence is the unintended result of unprecedented prosperity (remember the Roman Empire?), and whether that old queen is correct or not, one must admit that the level of prosperity in America has driven the average citizen to assume a sense of undoubted self-righteousness, and I'm certainly not excluded. Extreme confidence is as an American virtue as apple pie. The problem with self-righteousness is it leaves little room for self-questioning and analysis, further impeding advancement, and ultimately, prosperity. Rome wasn't built in a day, but it sure as hell was sacked in a day, thanks to a rotten core. The confidence balloon can only grow so big before you either redesign it or it bursts.
In the land where you can be anything you want to be as long as you click your heels together 3 times and whisper "there's no place like home," the barriers to entry into the dressage arena are dismally low. Add into that mixture a general poverty of education about the correct way to train a dressage horse, and you have students like me who can only point to an idea and think "that's not right" but with no light pointing to what IS right. Or, perhaps more importantly, how to create something that is right. We're left, so to speak, understanding that the shadows on the wall are not reality, but with no clue what reality is and where the opening to the damn cave is. And America being America, of course very few trainers will admit to even themselves that they're wrong or misguided, self-righteousness at its essence.
Like Europe during the dark ages, as soon as we try to improve ourselves and raise our standard of education, we get clubbed by the damn barbarians again (in this case, bad training), and are forced to lower our standards to "survival mode," and sort all this crap out ourselves. I would say that moving Nic from a boarding barn to a training barn has raised my training standards to a certain degree; certainly I would not have the same horse today if I had stayed at a boarding barn. But this still isn't enough for me; ignorance is an annoying cross to bear. There is still too much darkness and not enough light.
Ummm....so I guess I'm feeling a little frustrated about having no real helping hand with training my horse. I'm hoping I can come out of this "dark ages" of dressage I've been in. I've started getting some better understanding of contact since starting these schoolmaster lessons, and exactly what it feels like when a horse is through. This understanding has helped to improve Nic with her own throughness. We have a lot more work to do at the canter, but the trot has begun to improve.
I don't know what it is about America; these united states are the land of opportunity, of dreams, but as far as dressage goes, that mentality has diluted the sport into a gulag of half-baked ideas. Actually, I do know what it is about America. Let me expound upon this.
Oscar Wilde once said "America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between." Decadence is the unintended result of unprecedented prosperity (remember the Roman Empire?), and whether that old queen is correct or not, one must admit that the level of prosperity in America has driven the average citizen to assume a sense of undoubted self-righteousness, and I'm certainly not excluded. Extreme confidence is as an American virtue as apple pie. The problem with self-righteousness is it leaves little room for self-questioning and analysis, further impeding advancement, and ultimately, prosperity. Rome wasn't built in a day, but it sure as hell was sacked in a day, thanks to a rotten core. The confidence balloon can only grow so big before you either redesign it or it bursts.
In the land where you can be anything you want to be as long as you click your heels together 3 times and whisper "there's no place like home," the barriers to entry into the dressage arena are dismally low. Add into that mixture a general poverty of education about the correct way to train a dressage horse, and you have students like me who can only point to an idea and think "that's not right" but with no light pointing to what IS right. Or, perhaps more importantly, how to create something that is right. We're left, so to speak, understanding that the shadows on the wall are not reality, but with no clue what reality is and where the opening to the damn cave is. And America being America, of course very few trainers will admit to even themselves that they're wrong or misguided, self-righteousness at its essence.
Like Europe during the dark ages, as soon as we try to improve ourselves and raise our standard of education, we get clubbed by the damn barbarians again (in this case, bad training), and are forced to lower our standards to "survival mode," and sort all this crap out ourselves. I would say that moving Nic from a boarding barn to a training barn has raised my training standards to a certain degree; certainly I would not have the same horse today if I had stayed at a boarding barn. But this still isn't enough for me; ignorance is an annoying cross to bear. There is still too much darkness and not enough light.
Ummm....so I guess I'm feeling a little frustrated about having no real helping hand with training my horse. I'm hoping I can come out of this "dark ages" of dressage I've been in. I've started getting some better understanding of contact since starting these schoolmaster lessons, and exactly what it feels like when a horse is through. This understanding has helped to improve Nic with her own throughness. We have a lot more work to do at the canter, but the trot has begun to improve.
Monday, March 31, 2008
The Manic-Depressive, Indecisive Dressage Rider: March 31, 2008
I don’t know what the deal is with this horse. Suffice to say, I don’t have a simple horse. She’s as complex as a spiderweb, and about as sticky too. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and it makes me look like a manic-depressive, indecisive idiot.
Suddenly, she’s doing great as a dressage horse. Because her natural inclination is to pull the rider around the arena, and, let’s face it, I’m a dressage rider, I school her in dressage between the days Special K jumps her.
I should mention that I got her a new saddle. It’s a sad little Wintec dressage saddle, but it’s actually been somewhat of a miracle worker. I know some people that have gotten their USDF silver medals using a Wintec, so I’m guessing they can’t be that bad. Either way, for Nicole, it’s been about as useful as an orthopedic shoe. As explained to me by 2 different massage therapists and a saddle fitter, the Neidersuss hits her back in such a way that it causes her to invert. Since the Neidersuss doesn’t really fit me either, away it goes.
The change was instantaneous; she stopped inverting at the canter, and her trot-canter transitions have become, most days, rounder. She is also more willing to bend; she has stopped resisting the bit in leg yields and half passes.
Remember when I was tearing my hair out about her crappy canter? I actually got irritated yesterday because I couldn’t get good canter-walk transitions (walk-canter is ok). I had to remind myself that even 4 months ago I was ready to throw myself off the nearest cherry blossom tree because of her canter. The crappy canter seems to be a thing of the past, for the most part.
Additionally, I’ve found a barn with a Grand Prix schoolmaster for lessons, about 10 min away from Nicole’s barn. I’m trying to take 2-3 lessons a week. I’m still looking to lease horse that I can compete (higher than Nicole can), but in the mean time, I like the people at the Grand Prix barn, and I like the horse. Maybe they can help me with Nicole, but I’m not sure Nicole can be helped at this point.
Suddenly, she’s doing great as a dressage horse. Because her natural inclination is to pull the rider around the arena, and, let’s face it, I’m a dressage rider, I school her in dressage between the days Special K jumps her.
I should mention that I got her a new saddle. It’s a sad little Wintec dressage saddle, but it’s actually been somewhat of a miracle worker. I know some people that have gotten their USDF silver medals using a Wintec, so I’m guessing they can’t be that bad. Either way, for Nicole, it’s been about as useful as an orthopedic shoe. As explained to me by 2 different massage therapists and a saddle fitter, the Neidersuss hits her back in such a way that it causes her to invert. Since the Neidersuss doesn’t really fit me either, away it goes.
The change was instantaneous; she stopped inverting at the canter, and her trot-canter transitions have become, most days, rounder. She is also more willing to bend; she has stopped resisting the bit in leg yields and half passes.
Remember when I was tearing my hair out about her crappy canter? I actually got irritated yesterday because I couldn’t get good canter-walk transitions (walk-canter is ok). I had to remind myself that even 4 months ago I was ready to throw myself off the nearest cherry blossom tree because of her canter. The crappy canter seems to be a thing of the past, for the most part.
Additionally, I’ve found a barn with a Grand Prix schoolmaster for lessons, about 10 min away from Nicole’s barn. I’m trying to take 2-3 lessons a week. I’m still looking to lease horse that I can compete (higher than Nicole can), but in the mean time, I like the people at the Grand Prix barn, and I like the horse. Maybe they can help me with Nicole, but I’m not sure Nicole can be helped at this point.
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