Art Therapy

Sometimes, life gets very stressful. I'm a big believer in art therapy. And horse therapy.


In case you can't read it (it's supposed to be larger, but it won't fit on the page at it's full size) it reads lyrics from a Sing It Loud song. "I can't get myself over you" and then, "I'm over you." Photo-manipulation is a hobby for me, though not a talent.

First-Class Farms: Seventh Farm, St Paul, MN

As I go on a college hunt, I have the pleasure of getting acquainted (through the Internet) with many boarding stables and riding academies throughout the country. If I'm considering a particular college or area, one of the first things I do is head to GoogleMaps and run a search for nearby barns. On this hunt of mine, I've discovered many fabulous farms that I would never have come across or even heard about otherwise.


Today, I'd like to feature Seventh Farm in St. Paul, Minnesota.

What truly struck me about Seventh Farm was its dedication to horsemanship rather than simply to riding. Their mission is "to develop effective, independent and knowledgeable riders and horse people." They build from the ground up, with a four-week introduction to riding for beginners that is based on classical traditions. For one two-hour class each week, beginners are given a hands-on lesson in the saddle and on the ground covering everything from walking and trotting to horse psychology. In addition to these lessons, riders can attend social workshops to further their knowledge of horsemanship and form a bond with the horses.

For more advanced riders, there is a similar program that covers dressage and jumping basics, biomechanics for effective riding, stable management courses, and trail rides.

Such an extensive program is, I've learned from my search, rare in riding academies. But Seventh Farm wisely chooses to focus on the horses. "Our school is not just about riding horses," the website reads. "We believe you can not be a good rider if you do not know and understand the whole horse."

True words. And they seem to be effective ones, as well. Their site boasts several testimonials from truly satisfied riders and beautiful pictures of happy horses. And in the eyes of Flying Horses, that's what truly makes a First-Class Farm.

The Dating Game

Step right up, folks! Tonight's game night on Flying Horses!

I have explained that my horse and I are currently on a hiatus, and in the meantime, I get to mix it up and try out some other horses. For tonight's show, we have three contestants, and I'm going to let you as the audience decide which one I ride next! It's so exciting, I can hardly stand it! ;D

Let's introduce the lucky horses, shall we?

Behind door number one, we have... Sparky!

Known in the show ring as "Kamikaze", Sparky is a quirky little gelding measuring barely fifteen hands. He is a sorrel Quarter Horse known for his overzealous lead changes and striding that needs a little push. He's a great jumper with a rider that keeps him focused, but can easily get lazy with his jumps or settle into a poky pace. He requires a steady, easily-adjustable rider with iron calves and an intimidating-looking whip.

Behind door number two we have... Paris!

"Paris Lights" is a petite red chestnut mare of glossy coat and fine features. Paris's training is not completely polished yet, as is reflected in her sometimes skittish responses. She is a mare of sharp tongue and sensitive feelings who needs some encouragement over fences, although she can and will jump 3 feet on a good day. (Again, her training is a work in progress.) Her jumping has greatly benefited from her brief dressage training. She requires a rider who knows when to be gentle and when to be tough.

And our last bachelor of the evening! Behind door number three we have... Bombay!

Bombay is an ex-racehorse gelding who stands at least a hand above our follow contestants (literally, not figuratively). He can be exhilarating to ride, as he has a smooth, powerful jump that decides to show itself from time to time. He can also be a handful (i.e. the last time I rode him, I was flung into the metal fence [pictured above behind Sparky] of our arena when he panicked halfway through a jumper turn). He has a great heart, but he sometimes needs a reminder that he does have a brain as well.

And now that you've met our final contestant, it's time for the questions!

Question #1: What do you look for in an ideal rider?
Sparky: Someone who doesn't mind having to put some (okay, a lot) of effort in to push me to my potential, and certainly someone who doesn't mind sitting through a few little bucks now and then when I get excited.
Paris: I want a rider who can calm me down if I get a little freaked out and who'll let me follow Sparky over the scarier jumps. I also want a rider who's okay with not jumping too much because that gets to be more than I can handle.
Bombay: My ideal rider isn't afraid to go fast and can take control so that I don't have to. They're willing to work with my phobias and philias and give me a chance before judging me based on my past.

Question #2: What is the most appealing part of your personality?
Sparky: It'd have to be my charm, of course! And my easy-going nature.
Paris: My loyalty. When I find a rider I trust, I stick by their side.
Bombay: My love of fun and sense of adventure!

Question #3: If you were stranded in a deserted pasture, what would you do?
Sparky: Call at the top of my lungs for help! Anyone, anyone?? I CAN'T be alone out here! And even if I AM alone, at least I have the sound of my own voice to comfort me...
Paris: Find some decent shade, a good patch of grass, and eat a bit. No work to do? Count me in! I can exercise myself, thank you very much.
Bombay: Explore the land myself! If I liked the place, I could claim it as my own. If I didn't, I'd be bound to run into someone or find some way out.

Question #4: What is your life's motto?
Sparky: Don't do today what you can put off until tomorrow!
Paris: When in doubt, duck on out!
Bombay: Carpe diem, carpe noctem, carpe omnious. (Seize the day, seize the night, seize it all.)

And finally, our last question of the night folks! One more chance for our contestants to make a lasting impression...

Question #5: What is your idea of the perfect ride?
Sparky: Something nice and romantic... A lazy midnight canter on the beach with a trough full of apple cider waiting for us back at the barn. No need to rush or work too hard. Just you, me, and a pocketful of peppermints.
Paris: Dressage to music! I can relax into the beat and bend and flex and dance without worrying about jumping or other pesky horses being in the ring. I can be beautiful and the center of attention without having to stare down those big oxers!
Bombay: Probably something along the lines of a gymkhana. Lots of different little activities. Nothing I have to work too hard at, but can just have fun with and go for it! Still competitive, but without the stress and seriousness of a huge horse show. And plus, no snooty foreign warmbloods!

Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's all our time for questions! You've heard about the horses and seen them questioned intensely! Now it's time for you to make the decision: Which contestant will be the lucky horse? Is it Sparky, behind Door Number One? Paris, behind Door Number Two? Or Bombay, behind Door Number Three? Sign in and cast your votes now!

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Disclaimer: I'm equally capable of handling all these horses, and I don't have a preference as to who I ride, or there would be no need for our little game show! Go ahead and vote; it's all in good fun!

An Arm to Lean On: A Horse Story

A true story by Duaa Anwar of Cairo, Egypt

Some people say that horses kept on full livery never form strong ties with their owners. As an owner of a horse on full livery, I am writing this story in defense of all of us busy people who strive to provide the best accommodation for their horses.

I have always viewed and treated my horse as an individual. Always considered his point of view, always allowed him to express his feelings. After all, my horse is my friend, and on occasions, my psychiatrist.

On one particularly gloomy day, I felt I have lost all purpose for existence. The despair somehow left me longing to see my horse, who in time of crisis, is the last candle of hope. Unconsciously, I found myself driving to the stables.

Arriving in the early hours of the afternoon proved to be a good time for some privacy. The stables were deserted, except for the horses of course. Grooms were napping and the office was closed. No riders where there at that hour. I headed directly to my horse's stall, where I expected him to be hiding in the corner, ears drooping, half asleep.

I stood at the door and he came to me eagerly. The sheer joy in his eyes when he saw me had instantly put the world back into focus. Leaning against the stable door, I stroked and patted him. He was calm and content - perhaps too calm - because he rested his head on my arm. The entire weight of his head rested on my upper arm which was atop the stable door. Although his head was solid and painfully heavy, it lifted the weight off my heart. His muzzle was over my shoulder, snugly against my back.

I talked to him of my troubles. His ear never turned away from me... always listening. The words made no sense to him, but he was listening to my voice. He was still and quiet, as if to reassure me that he is indeed listening. The weight of his head was cutting off the circulation to my forearm, but I held him for as long as I could. When I shifted my arm slightly, he lifted his head for a moment, before bringing it down again over my shoulder.

Agony seeped out of my body as easily as rain washes the leaves of a tree. Grief was history. He did not retreat until I decided I had to leave. He was there for me, quietly listening, and, in a way, holding me. It takes a lot of heart from a person to listen to someone else's trouble, so you can imagine how deep the soul of horses are. Such gentle creatures horses can be.

Get off your high horse!

Note: I won't be able to post tomorrow, as I'll be on a retreat and away from any internet connections. I should be back in civilization by Friday, but I may be too tired and have too much to unpack to write then, either. So look for some new posts possibly Friday, but definitely Saturday.

Onto to the real post... I hate having posts that revolve solely around me, but this story was just too much for me NOT to share to the world.

Last week, my horse was high. (And to answer the question I've gotten every time I say that sentence... Yes, high as in drugs.) He's been put on this new medicine that is messing with his head, and halfway through our ride he started feel real good (drugs are known to do that). He completely galloped through a bending line and soared over a 2'3" oxer like it was four feet high. When I tried to halt him, he was backing up and tossing his head, and my trainer finally had enough. She made me calm him down, jump a final fence on him (which he took beautifully), and then quit for the night. She promised to talk to the barn owner about his meds and give him plenty of turnout.

Fast-forward to today, the first time I've been back to the barn to ride since then. They changed my horse (Blaze)'s dosage and let him run around in the paddocks, and supposedly he was back to normal. Of course, the moment I got him in the cross-ties I could tell he wasn't. He was antsy as I tacked him up, but that's sometimes just how he is. When I got into the arena and tried to mount, he wouldn't stand still. That's when I could tell he was really keyed up. He has much better manners than to move when someone's mounting. He immediately trotted off before I could get my other foot in the stirrup, but I settled myself and made him halt. He started backing up again and snorting like last week, but I just closed my leg and kept him moving, holding the reins so he couldn't trot or canter through the bit.

And then a large dump truck came rumbling onto the property. Of all days! Blaze is the closest thing to bombproof horse that I've ever seen. He doesn't spook. Ever. But he was not himself tonight and that truck sent him trembling. I just tried to keep him walking forward and talked to him to keep him calm, but it wasn't working. One stray noise from the clattering engine and he flipped, half-rearing, landing, and then giving a little buck. I wasn't going to sit on him when the truck that had spooked him was still growling away next to the arena, and I was halfway out the saddle at that point anyway, so I didn't fight to stay on. I let myself fall and managed to stick the landing on my feet in a fashion that any gymnast would be jealous of.

Meanwhile, the other people in the ring were halted on their horses, and one was even mounting up; no other horse was anywhere near as bothered by that truck, but Blaze was still on his toes. I held his reins and kept circling him, trying to get his mind off the truck, talking to him to distract him. At that point my trainer had approached the ring, and I laughingly told her, "Oh, you missed all the action!" But the real action hadn't even begun.

The truck finished unloading and then rumbled its way out of the parking lot, which was WAY too much for Blaze to handle. (What has happened to my Ole Reliable horse?) He flipped out again, reared up all the way (at which point I dropped the reins and backed away), gave a buck or two and took off at a headlong gallop around the arena.

The other riders had to execute some emergency dismounts as my horse did not mind running up the tails of every other horse in the ring. There was some few missed kicks, and it was almost comical as my trainer and I failed in our attempt to corral my runaway horse. He'd slow to a trot and then halt in a corner, we'd approach him, be inches away from grabbing him, and he'd take off again.

At one point, he halted next to another rider in the ring who was kind of rattled at that point, bless her soul, and instead of grabbing his reins as he started walking up to her, thought it was a good idea to say, "No, Blaze," and wave her hands toward him to shoo him away. And of course, with hands flying in his face, he took off again.

It took us a good fifteen minutes (maybe twenty) of him galloping around, halting in a corner, us almost catching him, and then him slipping by us again, before my trainer finally caught him. She was completely pissed off at the stunt and hacked him herself for a few minutes to get him to behave. And then she turned him back over to me.

The poor boy had thoroughly exhausted himself at this point, and he moved around the rail like it was any ordinary lesson, completely sane. He was yawning before we finished the warm-up. Too bad it was his fault he was so tired. We pushed him through the lesson, keeping the jumps small, the contact firm, and the pace fast. I pushed him over a regular course and then, when he thought he was finished, kept him running to repeat the course again. Sixteen fences at what I would loosely describe as a hand-gallop and he was dead tired by the end of lesson.

I felt almost bad for him, he looked so sleepy when I brought him back to the barn. But I don't think he'll pull that stunt with me again anytime soon. And I think we've proven that he needs to get off the drugs and get some more turn out.

Oh, life with a high horse... Never a dull moment, huh?

Shock in Slow Motion

I should think these pictures speak for themselves, if you look at her facial expressions.

The Story That Never Was: Part Seven

It is a stormy, stormy night. Perfect weather for story-telling. I thought I'd treat you with the end of The Story that Never Was. Here goes...

Need to catch up?
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
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"All horses deserve, at least once in their lives, to be loved by a little girl." (Author Unknown)

Jake was going downhill fast. He was a young, talented horse who was slowly being ruined: by Donna's ambition, by Shannon's incompetence, and by his own moody disposition.

Donna had plans for Carousel Farms. Her farm was the biggest and the best, and from there, it could only get bigger and better. Her reign was rough on all the school horses: she took more riders than the horses could handle, and she held them to no standards. Riders who hauled on their horses mouths or wielded crops like a fencer wields a sword were welcome in the barn so long as their checks didn't bounce. There were even students (grown girls, not children) who would sneak the beginner's pony, Captain, out of his stall and jump on him bareback and grab on to his halter. Even when Captain had to be retired due to back troubles (obviously resulting from 120 pound girls jumping on his back when the trainers weren't looking), these girls could be found hanging out with Donna and Shannon almost every day. And more importantly than all of this, Carousel Farms was just a very dynamic place. Horses came and went; the school horses were always being moved to different stalls; and there was always people everywhere: laughing, crying, singing, screaming. It takes a very particular kind of horse to deal with that environment.

Jake was not that kind of horse. He was still green, and he was put into three, sometimes four lessons a day in order to accommodate the growing clientele. He was not happy sitting through three hours of low-standard equitation lessons, and the constant changes around the barn did nothing to soothe his mood.

I talked to Shannon about leasing him. He was still a talented little horse, and he would throw his heart into every one of our lessons, even if it was plain to see that he would have preferred something other than hunters and equitation. He could act annoyed or irritated or bored with me, but at the end of the day, he would never let me down. He would snort a complaint or toss his head, but then I would reprimand him with my legs (Come on, let's go.) and he would carry himself like Adonis over our course. It was killing me to see him suffer through his work and through the pony parties Donna subjected him to. He wasn't cut out to be a school horse. I wanted to make it so that he didn't have to be one. But Shannon didn't consider my inquiry into a lease a serious one. She brushed it off with an, "Oh, I'll get you the information, but I think we need him in lessons."

I never got the information. I wish I had.

I distinctly remember my last lesson on Jake, because it was the first time that I could truly feel the difference between the horse he was now and the Super Star he had once been. His gaits were flat. His jumps were dull. He didn't put up a fight when the lesson dragged on ten minutes longer than normal. He didn't prick his ears up when I headed for the in-gate, and he didn't nicker at me when I offered him a peppermint. He didn't do much of anything. I could only look at him and thing, What happened? He had always been a surly horse, but he had always had a little bit of sparkle. What had happened to turn my sparkly little gelding into the morose recluse I led into his stall that day? I don't think I'll ever know the full story.

When I arrived for my next lesson, I was told that I would not be riding Jake. His stall was empty as I passed it on my way out to the ring, and my heart sank. My nerves were eased as I saw my gleaming chestnut Jake being held by Shannon in front of the in-gate. Shannon was talking to Donna, and as I approached I got the gist of their conversation: Jake's lesson had not gone well. He had been acting up all day: giving small bucks, running through the bit, flashing his teeth at the other horses. Donna's temper was high that day, and her words came loud and fast: This was ridiculous; she hadn't paid for him only to act this way. And then, voice thundering, she swooped closer to Shannon, sideswiping Jake and coming around behind him.

Jake saw an opportunity to release his frustration and get the better of Donna and took it. He tucked his haunches in, aimed, and then swiftly launched a kick at the owner of Carousel Farm.

It was like pulling a fire alarm. The reaction was instant and overpowering. "I am done with this horse!" Donna screamed. "Done! Jake is gone!"

I never once dreamed that she would act on that threat, nor that she would act so quickly. The next time I came to Carousel Farm, I stopped short in front of Jake's stall. There was a horse in it; he looked tauntingly similar to Jake: a taller, less compact version. He was part Quarter Horse with a dusty red chestnut coat, a white black, and two white stockings. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought it was Jake. And then I realized that it wasn't.

In twenty-four hours, Donna had called the dealer where Jake had come from and arranged to have him sent back. No one thought to call me and see if I wanted him (I would have taken him in a heartbeat). After all, I was just a kid. To them, I knew nothing about owning a horse.

But I like to think I know more about the nature of horses than Donna did. Or at least the nature of Jake. I once referenced in a post that there is "a princess buried inside every broodmare." I believe there was a prince buried not too deep within Jake. I felt it the moment I first laid eyes on him, and I continued to feel it throughout our time together. Sometimes, all it takes is the right girl working with the right horse to bring out the best in both. Jake gave me my foundation for working with real horses, not the mindless school horse drones kept at Carousel Farm. He also taught me how to handle green horses, and, from Shannon and Donna, how not to handle green horses. He showed me a part of myself that I never knew existed. From him, I gained the confidence of a real rider and the courage to find some place different than Carousel Farms, some place where I could truly work with horses, not just watch as other people took them away from me.

Instead of telling the story about a bond with a school horse that ultimately came to nothing, I should be telling you about how I bought my first horse, Jake, and about our adventures in finding a discipline that truly suited him. I should have stories about our training, our showing, our search for a good boarding barn. But that's not how life works.

I found my happy ending, at a new barn with a more suitable trainer. I hope Jake found his, too. Rumor has it that he ended up in retraining with Martin Klein at Benchmark Farm, but that might not be true. I wish I could find out what happened to him. I wish I could have found him under better circumstances and made him mine. I wish I could have truly appreciated everything he taught me before he was taken away. But sometimes, you just have to cut your losses and take fate for what its worth.

If it hadn't been for Jake and our Story that Never Was, I wouldn't be the woman or the equestrian that I am today. And that's worth more than all the horses in the world.

The End.

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This post is dedicated to all the riders out there struggling to find themselves, that they may meet a horse who touches them as much as Jake has touched me.